“Not specially. Stay and eat with us. We've got elk meat.”
“That's what I'm after for camp,” said McLean. “All of us is out on a hunt to-day—except him.”
“How many are yu' now?”
“The whole six.”
“Makin' money?”
“Oh, some days the gold washes out good in the pan, and others it's that fine it'll float off without settlin'.”
“So Hank ain't huntin' to-day?”
“Huntin'! We left him layin' out in that clump o'brush below their cabin. Been drinkin' all night.”
The Virginian broke off a piece of the Hoodoo mud-rock from the weird eroded pillar that we stood beside. He threw it into a bank of last year's snow. We all watched it as if it were important. Up through the mountain silence pierced the long quivering whistle of a bull-elk. It was like an unearthly singer practising an unearthly scale.
“First time she heard that,” said McLean, “she was scared.”