“Well, ra-ther,” answered Bob, springing up beside Jed Warren.
Tom Clifton’s sturdy little broncho was soon struggling along under the combined weight of the “Doctor” and Cranny. Progress was necessarily slow; but, at length, they were all gathered around the crackling flames.
Although the summit of old Eagles’ Peak reared itself, solemn and grand, against a star-studded sky, a high ridge shut from view the signal fire built on its spur.
The boys were tired that night and soon turned in, sleeping soundly until the first gray streaks in the eastern sky heralded the approach of another day. They were aroused by the gruff voice of Pete Sanderson, who was already up, and cooking breakfast over a pile of red-hot embers.
“Pitch in, younkers, an’ git yer grub,” he commanded. “Mebbe them thar fellers ain’t got none, an’ the old Eagle has a chanct ter laugh ag’in.”
“Bob”—Dave Brandon yawned and rubbed his eyes—“really, it isn’t safe to leave the ‘Ogden II’ unguarded; now, even though it is a great sacrifice, you may borrow my pony, while I——”
“Ha, ha!” snickered Cranny. “And who will be obligin’ enough to lend me his bronc’?”
“Maybe——” began Tom.
“It’s all settled,” announced Cranny, complacently. “Thanks, Tom, old boy.”
Five minutes later, the departing horsemen waved an adieu to the two volunteer guardians of the “Ogden II.”