"I don't see any sheep," said John, after scanning; the country in every direction.
Abe looked up, but held his stubby forefinger pressed firmly on the last word he was deciphering, as if to make sure of its safety.
"Oh, they're twenty-five miles down the creek now," he answered. "We only keep them here in the winter. We'll go there to-morrow; it's too late now."
By the time the ranchman had finished the letter the sun was nearing the mountain crest and the boys' appetites assured them it was time to eat. In the shack a low fire was burning, which blazed cheerfully when John added an armful of dry twigs and brush. While the boy was mending the fire, Abe went to one corner of the cabin and from a tall pole which stood there let down part of a sheep's quarter.
"Why do you keep it up there?" asked Ben, who now noticed it for the first time.
"No flies up there," explained Abe. "Meat keeps in this climate till it dries up if the flies don't get at it."
The boys went out and sat on the door-step to wait till the meal was cooked, for though they were more tired than they realized, they had the greatest curiosity to see everything connected with this new home.
After sitting silent a while, their heads resting on the door-jamb, their eyes on the crest of the mountain where the sun shone with its last departing glory, John turned toward his brother.
"Those mountains are great. We didn't have—Say, Mr. Miller, what's this?" he asked excitedly, interrupting himself and pointing, first to some bullet-holes in the logs and then at a blood stain on the block below.