“See them bits of white cloth alongside the trail?” Ike called back.
“I had not noticed them. I see them now,” answered Hippy.
“Them’s markers that Mrs. Gray prob’bly dropped to show us the way. Thet’s a real gal, Lieutenant.”
Hippy marveled in silence.
Day was breaking when they reached the top, and, looking back, Hippy found himself wondering how they ever made it, for the mountain they had climbed looked to Lieutenant Wingate to be straight up and down.
Ike Fairweather again dismounted, was searching the ground, running back and forth, covering wider and wider stretches of rock and earth, continuously combing his whiskers with his fingers, and perspiring freely. Ike finally returned to his companion, his chagrin reflected in his face.
“What’s the matter, Ike?” asked Hippy in a cheerful voice, a tone that, at the moment, did not reflect his real feelings.
“Matter? I’m plumb locoed, Lieutenant. I’ve lost the trail, an’ I don’t know where to look for it. It’s a mighty big place up here, an’ mebby we find the track an’ mebby we don’t. Leastwise, I’m sorry for the gals who, I’ll bet, are lookin’ their eyes out for us.”
“You are excited, Ike. Sit down, consult your whiskers and perhaps you may find an idea or something in them,” suggested Hippy gravely.
Ike promptly adopted his companion’s suggestion, and for the next several minutes gave himself up to reflection, punctuated with an occasional throaty growl.