CHAPTER I
THE FIRST ARRIVAL
“But suppose they shouldn’t come.”
“Son, when I wuz out in Colorady, in a place we called Devil’s Pass, I gut a grizzly backed up agin’ a ledge one day ’n’ heving ony one bullet ’twas a case uv me or him, as yer might say. My pardner, Simon Gurthy, who likewise didn’t hev no bullets, ’count uv bein’ stripped b’ the Injins, he says, ‘S’posin’ ye don’t fetch him.’ ’N’ I says, ‘S’posin’ I do.’”
Jeb Rushmore, with methodical accuracy, spat at a sapling near by.
“And did you?” asked his listener.
Jeb spat again with leisurely deliberation. “’N’ I did,” said he.
“You always hit, don’t you, Jeb?”
“Purty near.”
The boy edged along the log on which they were sitting and looked up admiringly into the wrinkled, weatherbeaten face. A smile which did not altogether penetrate through the drooping gray mustache was visible enough in the twinkling eyes and drew the wrinkles about them like sun rays.
“They’ll come,” said he.