While Bill manipulated the makings, I examined the prospects. This was that kind of a wash; no doubt of it!
"How far is the nearest crossing?" I asked, returning.
"About eight feet," said he.
My mind, panic-stricken, flew to several things—that bottle (I regret that I failed to record that by test its contents had proved genuine), the cornered rock we had so blithely charged, other evidences of Bill's casual nature. My heart sank.
"You ain't going to tackle that wash!" I cried.
"I shore am," said Bill.
I examined Bill. He meant it.
"How far to the nearest ranch?"
"'Bout ten mile."
I went and sat on a rock. It was one of those rainbow remnants of a bygone past; but my interest in curios had waned.