“You folks’ll find it a little crowded, but the camp is high and fine,” volunteered Mr. Fairweather.
“Where is your wagon?” asked Lieutenant Wingate.
“’Bout a hundred yards further along the trail. Not room enough for it hereabouts, an’ I can’t drag it up the hill where the horses are. I reckon thet after this I’ll have the horses in pistol shot of me all the time.”
“Either that or we shall have to post a guard over the animals every night,” said Grace. “Please show us where to take our ponies,” she requested.
A “tote path,” a narrow path used principally by foot travelers, led up the mountain side, winding through cacti and scrub cottonwoods for more than a hundred yards, and up this narrow, crooked path the Overland Riders led their saddle ponies, finally emerging on a narrow mesa or tableland, bordered with scraggly cottonwoods that found their moisture in a nearby mountain stream.
The camp of the Overton girls had been pitched by this stream, fresh water close at hand being a vital thing to outdoor camps.
Hippy Wingate tied his pony to a tree, and, stepping to the edge of the mesa, waved a hand toward the black abyss beyond and below them.
“The yawning chasm!” he exclaimed, and sat down.
“That is the most fascinating speech you ever made, Lieutenant Wingate,” observed Miss Briggs.
“Eh? That so? Why?”