"The incident points a moral," I returned. "Don't attempt to pet every cat that purrs."
[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
Last drop in the canteen
BY PYE POD.
The lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.
Rocky Mountain canaries were singing their lullabys and Bridget (the clock) had just called eleven o'clock when the house of St. Joer loomed in the darkness. A hush was upon it and all the out-buildings. Though nobody greeted me, still I knew where I was by the odd-looking arch over the corral gate. Mr. St. Joer was at the soiree in Tooele, and had made me promise to tarry with him a night before braving the desert; so we camped in the corral. We were awakened early by the genial ranchman, and escorted in to breakfast with him and a guest, a young man from Salt Lake City, who had just ridden horseback from Granite Mountain, where he had been inspecting some lead mines.
It was a treat for me to sit again at a meal not cooked by myself; all four of us ate with genuine relish. The stranger was about thirty, of light complexion, tall and slender, and was dressed in a nobby riding-suit, with leather leggings and spurs.
"If you take the Granite Mt. trail to Redding Springs," suggested my host, turning to the young engineer for his indorsement—"but no, that's too risky," he corrected.
"Save forty miles and more," commented the engineer. "I can give the Professor a diagram of the desert and all the trails to Fedora Spring in Granite Mt.; the trail from there to Redding is not confusing, I understand."