"In the first place, the fact that our articles were scattered along the path before they reached the tree; and, secondly, the wagon pole and the wheel were strong enough to hold the yaks against the tree if they had been moving along at their usual gait."
"Well, I am thankful that we have the wagon, even though the yaks are gone," said George, as he crawled into it. He peered out and continued in a surprised tone: "Where do you suppose the pistols are? Did you leave yours in the box, Harry?"
"Yes; on the right side. Yours were there at the time. I saw all of them."
"They are not here now, and it is likely they have been lost with some of the other things." Harry was up in an instant.
"Where is the ammunition?"
"It was all in the bottom of the box."
It did not seem at all likely that the pistols or the ammunition could fall out of the box. It is true other things had fallen along the way, but this seemed to be such an unlikely occurrence that they could scarcely credit it.
The provisions were safe, and you may be sure that Angel was not only petted, but he received a good share of the delicious sweet.
It was now nearing night, and they were fully ten miles from home. Ten miles is not a long tramp, but to travelers like ours, already weary with their trudging and with the excitements of the day, it was concluded to camp in the wagon for the night, and then proceed home early in the morning. To take the wagon would be an impossibility.
They really learned to love the patient yaks. For fully five months they had been daily companions, and were now so well trained that some discouragement was felt at being compelled again to break in others. They had an ample supply of good material in the herd to pick from, but it took time and patience to develop such a team as had been lost.