“Maybe it will, arter while. Git to hustlin’, lads. A bite o’ grub won’t do nobody a bit o’ harm.”
Even Dave Brandon skirmished around, and soon the sound of hatchets hacking and chopping away echoed through the darkening forest. A pleasant scent of pine and other vegetation was borne on the wind, which rushed along with scarcely a lull in its monotonous chanting. A great part of Dave’s much prized and comfortable seat was reduced to kindling wood while the stout boy was away gathering brush.
Behind the shelter of a moss-covered boulder, Pete Sanderson started a fire, while several of the others opened saddle-bags, and from their capacious depths took bacon, crackers and cheese, and great quantities of corn-pones.
Jed Warren assumed the duties of chef, with none wishing to dispute his authority.
It was pleasant to loll about and sniff an appetizing odor of things cooking, and to see the big coffee-pot fiercely fuming and sputtering on a bed of hot coals. But the lads did not feel in any humor to enjoy it.
The fire threw out a ruddy glow, one minute picking from obscurity the stamping bronchos, and the next dropping them back into gloom.
“Well, I didn’t have a chance to read the letter from Willie that Jed brought,” remarked Cranny, suddenly. “Guess I’ll do it now.”
“I only hope he’s safe somewhere,” murmured Tom. “That little chap has some mighty good points in him.”
“I reckon as how he’s found out by this time that it ain’t nateral ter fly,” said Pete, straightening his tall, gaunt form. “How many times hev I told ye it weren’t never intended?”
“Something less’n a thousand, I guess,” mumbled Cranny, holding Willie’s missive up to the light.