Canteens were filled at the creek, and saddle bags repacked. The horses seemed fresh and mettlesome—quite ready for the journey before them.
“No good, hurry too fast,” remarked Thunderbolt. “Reach Castle this afternoon.”
“I’ll be mighty glad to see it,” commented Dave. “All men who have ideas above the ordinary should be respected.”
“They certainly made Walt Allen pay a jolly dear price for his originality,” remarked Sam Randall, leaping into the saddle.
With Tom Clifton at the head the seven riders picked their way through the woods, which were sweetly scented with nature’s perfumes. The dew of early morning glistened like diamonds on leaves and grasses, and through the openings in the trees came bright shafts of sunlight.
At a convenient place the creek was forded; then, sweeping out into the open, they saw before them once more vast monotonous stretches covered with waving bunch grass.
“If it was only a bit cooler I’d like to race the crowd,” said Tom. “Slow traveling never suited me.”
“White boy ride well,” commented Thunderbolt—“just like Indian brave.”
“A chap who has been in the saddle as much as I have couldn’t help riding well,” said Tom, modestly. “There’s nothing like a life in the open to bring out what’s in a fellow. A little later, Larry, you’ll thank us for letting you come along.”
“Will I?” said Larry.