Hank watched the stage off with a scowl, and then departed from his usual custom of cautious speech, where possible customers were concerned.
"Guess that feller must ’a’ hailed from som’ers beside Wyoming," he grumbled. "Now, a Wyoming chap would ’a’ paid his bill, or if he was on the hog’s back, he’d owned up and passed his promise. But that there maverick never even said, ’Thank ye,’ to you or me; and here you’re knocked out of three weeks’ work along of him, to say nothin’ of the work day and night you’ve put in on ’im. Well, good riddance; ’tain’t no ways likely we’ll set eyes on ’im again."
CHAPTER V
A MAN WHO NEEDED BRACING UP
The road to Miners’ Camp from Meeteetse, forty-five miles long, follows the Grey Bull to its junction with Wood River. Thence it wanders along through miles of fertile ranch lands; then, rising among the black foot-hills, up, up, it winds across the precipitous face of Jo-Jo Hill, and plunges among the snow-crowned Shoshones, crowded nearer and yet nearer to Wood River until finally there is but room for the narrow track and the narrow stream at the bottom of the deep cañon.
This was the road which Ross traveled the day following Weston’s departure for Cody, and traveled in increasing discomfort. The further they advanced among the mountains, the colder it became, until, finally, Ross was obliged to desert the high seat beside Bill Travers, the driver, and seek shelter inside the stage, but not until he had learned from Bill that there was no hotel in Miners’ Camp.
In talking with Hank he had taken it for granted that there was a lodging house of some description and so had asked no questions on the subject.
"I pack my grub along," Bill assured him carelessly, "’n’ roll up in a bunk in a shack that some one ’r other has left. If you’ve packed yer bed along, stay with me to-night. There’s the floor," hospitably, "and I guess I can rustle grub enough fer both. Anyhow, there’s two eatin’-houses where you could fill up."
At five in the afternoon the stage crawled through the dusk over a yielding bridge built of hemlock saplings creaking under their coating of ice and snow, and stopped in front of a shack out of whose open door glinted a welcome light. Another light appeared high up on the side of the mountain.
"Hold up there, Bill," was the shout which had brought the stage to a standstill. "Got a cold, hungry young chap inside there, name of Grant? Wishin’ Wilson went through yesterday and said he’d be along with you to-day."