“An' this is it?”
“You know as much about it as me, an' we all know Smoke's got something salted down somewheres. Or else for what did he pay Sanderson the twenty-five thousand? Not for this mangy town-site, that's sure an' certain.”
A chorus of cries affirmed Saltman's judgment.
“Well, what are we goin' to do now?” someone queried dolefully.
“Me for one for breakfast,” Wild Water Charley said cheerfully. “You led us up a blind alley this time, Bill.”
“I tell you I didn't,” Saltman objected. “Smoke led us. An' just the same, what about them twenty-five thousand?”
At half-past eight, when daylight had grown strong, Shorty carefully opened the door and peered out. “Shucks,” he exclaimed. “They-all's hiked back to Dawson. I thought they was goin' to camp here.”
“Don't worry; they'll come sneaking back,” Smoke reassured him. “If I don't miss my guess you'll see half Dawson over here before we're done with it. Now jump in and lend me a hand. We've got work to do.”
“Aw, for Heaven's sake put me on,” Shorty complained, when, at the end of an hour, he surveyed the result of their toil—a windlass in the corner of the cabin, with an endless rope that ran around double logrollers.
Smoke turned it with a minimum of effort, and the rope slipped and creaked. “Now, Shorty, you go outside and tell me what it sounds like.”