Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew together in a frown.
"He said ye c'd make ut in two days?" he inquired.
"Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light with that rangy team is not such an awful pull."
"An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye camped comin' in?"
"Yes."
Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was passing in his mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the grub-shack.
When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting.
"At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground."
"I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch."
"A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play hell makin' foorty moiles on a crutch in th' winter—no mather how good th' thrail was broke."