Jones and the Trail
"Why, this isn't a trail!" I cried. "Can't you see it's just fresh tracks made since morning? This will take you to the fire, and that's about all. Your trail is miles to the north of here."
For the moment he was crushed. It was now too late to think of going back; a short cut was impossible on account of the nature of the country. Finally I gave him a direction which would cut another trail—not where he had intended to go, but at least leading to horse feed. Then I bade him farewell, and rode on to the fire.
We Put Them Right
Long after dark, when hunting for the place the boys had camped, I met that deluded outfit moving supperless, homeless, lost, like ghosts in the glow of the fire line. Jones was cross and snapped at me when I asked him if he wasn't seeing a good deal of country. But I looked at the tired faces of the other members of the party, and my heart relented, and I headed them for a meadow.
"How far beyond is Squaw Dome?" asked Jones as he started.
"Sixteen miles—about," said I.
"About eight hours the way you and I travel, then," said he.
"About eight weeks the way you travel," amended a Ranger standing near.
Two days later a shakemaker came to help us fight fire.