An hour later they reached the bed of a dried up creek fringed on either side by bushes and scrawny willows. And here Teddy Banes forgot his usual surly manner long enough to show them many evidences of ancient buffalo trails.
“Too bad they nearly wiped the poor creatures out,” said Tom.
“I guess you mean it’s too bad they didn’t let a few herds remain to be targets for the rifles of the Rambler Club,” said Larry, sourly. “How much further have we to go, Banes?”
“Many miles,” responded the half-breed. “We have just begin.”
“This is certainly the country of long distances,” said Sam Randall, smiling in spite of himself as he noticed the unhappy expression which flitted across Larry’s face.
The creek bottom, often overgrown with sage-brush, wound its tortuous course in a westerly direction toward another line of hills. From the nostrils and shaggy coats of the horses rose clouds of steam; and, as they did not wish to push the animals too hard, the aspect of the ridges changed with exasperating slowness.
Finally, however, they entered another gap, through which the former water route became strewn with rocks, decaying branches and other obstructions. All this necessitated slow traveling—a slowness which sorely taxed Larry Burnham’s patience. And every now and then a rather indiscreet remark of Tom’s served to further add to his troubled feelings.
“Yes, sir, I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered, disgustedly. “The first chance I get I’ll clear out an’ leave this bunch to keep up the chase all by themselves.”
And Bob, who surmised from Larry’s expression the state of his feelings, thought to console him.
“It isn’t going to be as bad as this always,” he said.