"I told you so," said Mac; "that's Montana Bill's rifle. I sold it him myself. He's the only man up here that carries a Sharp."
He rose, and went down to the water's edge. "Halloa!" he shouted, in his turn, and in the quietness of the windless air I heard it faintly repeated in distant echoes.
"Is that you, Mac?" said the mysterious voice.
"You bet it is!" answered my partner, in a tone that ought to have been heard on the Arrow Lake.
"Bully old boy!" said Bill faintly, as it seemed. "Do you know me?"
"Aye, I reckon I know old Montana's bellow!" roared Mac.
"Then I'll see you in the morning, pard!" came the voice again, after which there was silence, broken only by the faint lap of the water on the shingle, as it slipped past, and the snort of our pony as he blew the snow out of his nostrils, vainly seeking for a tuft of grass.
We rose at earliest dawn, and saw Montana Bill slowly coming over the level. He sat down while Mac and I built a raft, and fashioned a couple of rude paddles with the ax.
"Is the pony coming across, Mac?" I asked.
"We'll try it, but it's his own lookout," said he; "if he won't come easy we shan't drag him, for we shall hev to paddle to do it ourselves."