Sandy rested one foot on the edge of the sled. Waymart glued his eyes on the Camp far below. From various projecting stovepipes volumes of smoke were curling straight up in the windless air. From the tunnel of the Mountain Company almost opposite them came a succession of blasts which stirred the echoes between Dundee and Crosby. The Mountain Company were no respecters of Sunday. They were also working day and night in view of the near shut-down of the works.
But Ross’s gaze was seeking to penetrate further toward the source of Wood River. "Any one living beyond there?" he asked.
Sandy grinned. "Elk, mountain-sheep, coyotes, bears, and timber wolves."
"Nope. There ain’t a man livin’ ’twixt here and the Yellowstone Park–now. Last summer a few prospectors sort of strolled up Wood River a few dozen miles, but they hiked it out, I tell ye, when snow come."
"I wish," Ross said impulsively, "that I could go over there exploring."
Waymart lifted his eyes the fraction of a moment, and encountered Sandy’s. A peculiar expression passed between them. Then Waymart’s gaze fell again on the Camp, and Sandy replied carelessly to Ross:
"After you git the work done in your tunnel better strike some of these trails, but not in winter. They ain’t safe, especially for a tenderfoot."
"But in the summer," returned Ross absently, "I don’t expect to be here."
"Oh–that so?" and Sandy gave the sled a careless push.