Dick liked mountains, and the peak looked beautiful against the red and yellow bars of the western horizon.
“Have you ever been over there?” he said to Pennington and Warner.
“No; but a lot of our scouts have,” replied Pennington. “It's just a mountain and nothing more. Funny how all those peaks and ridges crop up suddenly around here out of what seems meant to have been a level country.”
“I like it better because it isn't level,” said Dick. “I'm afraid George and I wouldn't care much for your prairie country which just rolls on forever, almost without trees and clear running streams.”
“You would care for it,” said Pennington stoutly. “You'd miss at first the clear rivers and creeks, but then the spell of it would take hold of you. The air you breathe isn't like the air you breathe anywhere else.”
“We've got some air of our own in Vermont that we could brag about, if we wanted to,” said Warner, defiantly.
“It's good, but not as good as ours. And then the vast distances, the great spaces take hold of you. And there's the sky so high and so clear. When you come away from the great plains you feel cooped up anywhere else.”
Pennington spoke with enthusiasm, his nostrils dilating and his eyes flashing. Dick was impressed.
“When the war's over I'm going out there to see your plains,” he said.
“Then you're coming to see me!” exclaimed Pennington, with all the impulsive warmth of youth. “And George here is coming with you. I won't show you any mountains like the one over there, but boys, west of the Platte River, when I was with my father and some other men I watched for three days a buffalo herd passing. The herd was going north and all the time it stretched so far from east to west that it sank under each horizon. There must have been millions of them. Don't you think that was something worth seeing?”