“Got your compass?” was Harry’s next question.
“Yes; but the sun would give us our direction in any event. The camp must lie over that ridge to the east.”
“Then we came under part of the hill and were brought by that river down into the valley here.”
“That’s what. It seems funny to think of all we’ve been through since we left camp this morning, doesn’t it? I wish we could have brought back poor old White-eye, though.”
“So do I. We’ll have to get another pony some place, I guess.”
Talking thus, the two boys began to climb the hill under whose rugged surface they had traveled by that strange subterranean route, bored or shaken out there when the world was in its infancy. It was a strange thought that theirs were the first human feet that, almost beyond a doubt, had ever trod those gloomy rifts beneath the earth’s surface. But being boys, they did not waste much time on speculations of this kind. Instead, they munched what remained of their chocolate, a sad, pulpy mess, and cheered themselves as they trudged along by thoughts of a camp fire and a hot supper.
They did not make very rapid progress. Although Harry’s ankle was much improved, yet it gave him pain as he walked, and from time to time they were compelled to sit down and rest on a rock or a log. Both boys still carried their rifles by the bandoliers, and an examination had shown that the water had not injured the almost waterproof locks. But the weapons, although lightweight, felt as heavy as lead on their tired backs as they toiled up the rugged steeps.
“Well,” remarked Harry as they paused, not far from the top of the ridge which they had crossed that morning, “camping in the Canadian Rockies isn’t all fun, is it?”
“Galloping grasshoppers, no!” was the fervent rejoinder. “If this is what the professor calls getting experience, I’d rather accumulate mine in less strenuous fashion.”