“A jolly hard tug ahead of us,” remarked Sam Randall to Tim Lovell.
“You bet there is,” answered Tim. “It’s mighty lucky Pete and Jed are along. They know all the trails and short cuts; so we won’t find ourselves pocketed in some ravine or gorge.”
“We don’t let nature make sport of us like that,” grinned Sam. “Guess ‘Old Eagle’ isn’t the only joker around these parts.”
The cow-punchers, like generals in command, led the advance, while the five boys, at times riding almost abreast, at others strung out in single file, followed them over ridges, and around impenetrable masses of vegetation, or through the aisles of whispering pine forests. The early morning light sent a rosy glow climbing up the tree trunks or trailing over the ground; insects chanted; the songs of birds sounded above the trampling and crashing hoof-beats—all nature seemed to be full of brightness and serenity.
“Cracky; isn’t this fine!” called out Dick.
“Corking!” said Cranny. “Maybe those chaps won’t be glad to see us, eh?”
“You bet! Guess they aren’t used to such high livin’,” chuckled Tim.
Old Eagles’ Peak was evidently a great deal further off than it appeared. After an hour’s steady march, the rugged heights still looked discouragingly distant.
“Oh, for the ‘Ogden II’ again, Cranny!” sang out Bob.
“It certainly does spoil a chap for traveling like a snail,” grumbled the big lad, wiping his perspiring face.