In view of Larry’s general character the former theory seemed the more probable. He was not one to conquer difficulties with ease; nor did he possess any great amount of resourcefulness. The most courageous thing he had ever done was, probably, actually to undertake this long journey alone.
“It shows that being with us has done Larry a whole lot of good,” he said, aloud. “Why, I believe at first he’d have been scared enough to blubber if the crowd had ever got out of his sight.”
He remounted, and, riding at a good clip, soon saw the hills dropping low behind him, while the line of scrubby trees by the river assumed strength and color with each passing minute.
Every now and again he called with all his force, hoping that in a place where sounds carry such astonishing distances, his cries might possibly reach the other’s ears.
No responses, however, were carried back on the breeze.
Now he could see the river plainly, tinted by the hues of the sky overhead.
He quickly cantered across the space which lay between, and on drawing rein upon the grass-covered bank gave vent to an exclamation of surprise. The river was far wider than he had expected.
“Huh! I’ll bet Larry Burnham never crossed this,” he cried, decisively; “no, sir—never in the world. He can’t swim. This is certainly a pretty how-de-do.”
His investigations in either direction did not reveal enough change in the width of the stream to cause him to alter his opinion.
“Of course there isn’t a bit of use in crossing,” he exclaimed aloud. “What’s to be done? By Jove, I’ll camp right here.”