Not long after, the trooper rose with the remark that he must “mush along.” The party intended moving on, too, so they rode with him till their trails parted. The last they saw of Trooper Carthew was his broad back as his horse surmounted a brow of the trail and disappeared. He turned in his saddle and waved, and then was gone.
It was a new experience to the boys and it was long before they forgot his story, but such men are met with frequently in the wild places. Real heroes, worthy of world recognition, die fighting a good fight, without hope of reward or praise beyond that bestowed by their mates.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
AFTER MOUNTAIN GOATS.
The two days following were unmarked by any special incident. Jimmie rode with the boys, becoming stronger and lighter-hearted every day. And yet they noticed a curious thing about the waif. Whenever the mysterious man was spoken of he grew somber and silent. It was as if some link existed between himself and this wanderer of the mountains. The boys put this down to the fact that possibly Jimmie felt that, like himself, this outcast of the hills was friendless and alone.
It was on the evening of the second day that they made camp beside one of those beautiful little lakes that nestle in the bosom of the mighty Rockies. Across the sheet of blue water the color of turquoise, a ridge rose steeply from the very water’s edge. The pines on it were thinner than usual, and appeared singularly free from underbrush. Far above the lake the smooth ascent broke off abruptly, and there appeared to be beyond it a rocky plateau intervening between it and the farther wall of rock and snow that piled upward till it seemed to brush the sky.
While they were making camp Persimmons was gazing about and suddenly he drew Ralph’s attention to some moving objects on the snow-covered crest above the plateau. Mountain Jim was appealed to and decided that the objects were mountain goats.
“A big herd of them, too,” he declared.