The boys were not up as early the next morning as they had anticipated. In the first place, it was somewhat dull and overcast, and in the second they were naturally tired after their exciting adventures of the preceding day and night. The first person to hail them as they left the dining room where they had partaken of a hearty breakfast was Cal Gifford. The stage driver drew them aside and informed them in an irate voice that on account of the stage having been held up the day before, he had been notified by telegraph early that morning that his services would be no longer required by the Lariat Stage Company.
"What are you going to do?" asked Nat, after he had extended his sympathies to the indignant Cal.
"Wall, I've got a little mine up north of here that I think I'll go and take a look at," said Cal.
"How far north?" asked Nat interestedly.
"Oh, 'bout two hundred miles. I'm all packed ready ter go, but I cain't git a horse."
He indicated a battered roll of blankets and a canteen lying on the porch. Surmounting this pile of his possessions was an old rifle—that is, in pattern and design, but its woodwork gleamed, its barrel was scrupulously polished, and its mechanism well oiled. Like most good woodsmen and mountaineers, Cal kept good care of his weapons, knowing that sometimes a man's life may depend on his rifle or revolver.
"Can't get a horse?" echoed Nat. "Why, I should think there would be no trouble about that."
"Wall, thar wouldn't hev bin, but thet little Dutchman bought a nag this mornin' and started off ter take picters on his lonesome."
"I guess you mean he hired one, don't you?" asked Joe.