“For sure. They go, an’ never come back,” agreed Banes.
And, with a surly nod which took in the entire group, he gave his reins a jerk, in obedience to which his brown and white-patched horse began to pound swiftly toward the gate.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE SADDLE
Once out of sight of the police barracks Larry Burnham began to question the wisdom of his course in accompanying the Ramblers to the Northwest Territories. It was a very different matter, he reflected, to sit in an easy chair and read about the kind of experiences they were having than it was to be an actual participant in them. Every bone and muscle in his big frame voiced a protest to the strain he had put on them the day before. Then, too, they had had so many difficulties in finding the way that the warnings of Teddy Banes began to be forced unpleasantly on his mind.
Suppose they did get lost? Suppose their canteens were emptied while they were in the midst of a wild and trackless country far from any streams or lakes?—what then? And, worst of all, suppose ill-fortune did throw them in the path of smugglers or other dangerous characters?
The big blond football player didn’t like to think about these things. But, in spite of his efforts, he often found his mind going over and over such unpleasant possibilities.
“It strikes me as foolish business,” he murmured. “Then, Tom Clifton always jumping on me is a trifle more’n I care to stand.”
The sound of a horse’s hoofs rising above the steady patter of the cavalcade caused him to look around.
Teddy Banes was rapidly overtaking them. With a six-shooter at his belt, a rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle, and the fringe of his buckskin coat flapping about, he seemed, in Larry Burnham’s eyes at least, to typify the country.
His gaze followed the half-breed as he swung toward the head of the column, and he could not help admiring the superb horsemanship which every movement of his lithe body expressed.