The girl laughed. “You’re still a tenderfoot to think a wolf wouldn’t know better than that. Wish he didn’t! It would mean the saving of a half dozen calves this winter.” She flashed out her long-barreled 264 automatic pistol and knocked a cone from the tree above Blake’s head with a swiftly aimed shot.
Blake caught the cone as it fell and looked at the bullet hole through its center. “Unless that was an accident, I should call it some shooting,” he remarked.
“Accident!” she called back. “Stand sideways and see what happens to your cigar.”
“No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it. Just lit this one, and I’ve only a few left. By by, Tommy! Don’t let the wolves eat mamma and the poor little cowlady!”
He picked up the level and started off at a swinging stride. Ashton followed several paces behind. His face was sullen and heavy, but in their merriment over Blake’s banter, the ladies failed to observe his expression.
They rested for a while longer. Then, after venturing down for another awed look into the abyss, they rode along, parallel with the stupendous rift, to the place selected for the new camp. As Gowan had brought up the tent in one of the first packs, the ladies pitched it on the level top of the ridge.
“This is real camping!” delightedly exclaimed Genevieve, as they set to gathering leafy twigs for bedding and dry branches for fuel. “How I wish we could stay all night!”
“We can, if you wish,” replied Isobel.
“Our men often sleep out in the open, this time of year. We shall take the tent for ourselves. Won’t it be fun! But will Thomas be all right?”