The intelligent creature appeared to understand for, weary messenger that he was, he threw himself down beside the fire and fell fast asleep.
The instant the door opened, he was on his feet, ready to lead the way back over that long weary trail to the cabin he had left, and then on and on, who could tell how much farther? until they came upon his young master. Such is the humble devotion of a faithful dog.
“Ginger, old boy,” the gray-bearded prospector rumbled, as he turned his team into the trail, “I figured I’d come onto that pitchblende today, regular velvety black stuff and heavy, heavy as gold, the real stuff, and radium, radium aplenty. But when a pal of ours is in distress, that’s a different matter. Success? Well now, that can wait until to-morrow.” So they hit the long, long trail.
* * * * * * * *
But Curlie Carson and his mechanic Jerry—what had happened to them? They had slept the night through and with the dawning of a bright new day were eager to be on their way.
“I’d give a penny to know why that chap lives way up here back of beyond,” Curlie said to Jerry, as they prepared to warm up their motor.
“Don’t you know?”
“No. Do you?”
“Absolutely. He’s a trapper. Scattered all over this country, these trappers are.”
“Then he’s not connected with the ‘Gray Streak?’”