CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE Missourian and Jim camped on the edge of the timber. So little of the day was remaining to them after they left the hill that they had been forced to stop here; but they were in the saddle again with the first pale glimmer of light that shot across the plain.
“We'll tuck along out of heah in pretty considerable of a hurry, Jim,” said the Missourian.
They crossed the narrow bottom and entered the mountains; but before these quite closed about them, moved by common impulse, they turned for a last look at the hill.
“I certainly am proud to see the end of that!” observed the Missourian as he faced ahead once more.
“You bet I wouldn't care to loaf around there none; most any place'd suit me better,” and Jim took a long, deep breath.
“I tell you, Mr. Orphan, daylight's a thundering fine thing, and I'm going to hanker for it for twenty-four hours at a stretch from now on for right smart of a spell. What sleep I took last night I took in jerks; and what, between seeing Indians and finding dead men, there was no manner of comfort in it.”
“I was some that way myself,” admitted Jim.