“Look!” he whispered.
Burnnel and Emery were squatting in front of the fire, indolently smoking their pipes, while MacGregor’s wife busied herself in gathering wood, laying out the camp utensils and in other ways making herself generally useful.
“Lazy brutes!” sneered Sandy. “They don’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Do you suppose they’ll attempt to ford the river this afternoon?”
“Yes, I think so. In spite of their indolence now, they’re anxious to get on.”
“No use staying here,” Sandy spoke again. “We’d better get back to our ponies. We’ll bring them over to the top of the ridge, where I think they’ll be safe enough. There’s little danger that those lazy beggars will climb the slope again.”
In returning to their horses, they chose to circle around the outlaws’ camp, went down to the bank of the river and moved slowly along, conscious of a cool breeze and the close proximity of the water. They were hot and tired and the water looked inviting. Close to the bank it was clear as liquid glass. Here and there were the shadows of whitefish and Northern trout. At the bottom of the river was white sand. Every few yards or so, projecting up through this white sand, were smooth, brownish-colored rocks that were surrounded by innumerable tiny eddies.
In the interest of the moment, the boys almost forgot the grim business in which they were engaged. Both had an overwhelming desire to linger here. It was a peaceful, quiet spot. Sandy turned and smiled upon his chum.
“That water,” he remarked, “looks cool.”
He wiped his perspiring brow.
“I know what you’re thinking,” laughed Dick. “You’d like to strip and plunge in, wouldn’t you? I wish we could.”