“Do you think you can do anything, Mr. Jones?” asked Ralph, as the odd-looking stranger slipped off his sorry-appearing steed.
“Say, Sonny, I’m plain Bitter Crik to my friends. I’m Mister Jones to them that don’t like me, see? So far as gittin’ Mountain Jim out’n that hole, it’ll be hard luck if I kain’t do it. Bitter Crik’s got gold out’n tougher places nor that, you kin bet your last red. Lucky I came along this way, too. You see I’ve bin prospectin’ all through here, but it’s a rotten country. I’m going back to the States and ship to Alasky, when I git out’n the Rockies.”
Talking thus, Bitter Creek, who looked so ferocious, but proved so good-natured, examined the rock from all sides. As he carried on his investigations he hummed to himself like a man in deep thought.
At length he straightened up and hailed Jim.
“I’ll get you out’n here, Jim,” he said.
“All right, old man, wish you would. These cubs smell like a shoe factory on fire. I ain’t particular, but I know a heap of smells that’s sweeter, including skunk.”
Bitter Creek turned to Ralph.
“Know what I’m goin’ ter do, Sonny?” he asked.
Ralph shook his head.
“Well, see here. That rock rests on this little terrace or ledge, don’t it?”