“So thoughtful of you,” said Hike. “You’re a good young un, Pood’. I got twice as scared as you.”
“Sure. That was why my teeth was chattering so. I was so scared you’d get scareder. Le’s hike.”
“Right,” remarked Hike, and they mounted and rode on. They were pretty quiet for a mile, and there were no races. At the end of it, Poodle called:
“Hike.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Say—I was awful scared.”
“So was I,” Hike grinned back, and they both laughed.
Before dusk, they reached the peak at the head of the canyon, and looked down on the other side of the San Francisquito range of mountains. A hundred little valleys stretched in all directions. There were no signs of human life. Many of these valleys had never been visited by any white man except some wandering prospector looking for gold mines. One of the ravines led to a valley at least a mile wide, flat and grassy, with a comfortable brook flowing through it.
“Gee, that’s a great country down there,” observed Poodle. “We’ll explore it. Jiminy, this is great—feels like we were the first white men in America.” Tethering his horse, he stood on the edge of an arroyo leading down from the peak.
“What d’you say to the first white men getting some wood before it’s too dark?” murmured Hike, rooting out a big log.