"Dave'll now have a bit o' history to write for his journal," sighed Tim—"The Ramblers crossing Mount Wanatoma."
"And just to think! We're stuck here for the night," growled Dick, with a glance at the tired bronchos. "Those poor little beasts deserve a real medal," he added. "They tried hard enough."
"We'll have one made from the very first gold we strike," remarked Jack, sarcastically, disregarding Tim's angry glance.
Disconsolately, they hunted about for a camping site, and found one near by. A fire was soon built, and supper cooked.
Twilight, and then night seemed to close down upon them with astonishing swiftness. Not a star peeped forth. A blustery wind moaned between the trees, carrying with it a suggestion of winter gales.
"We'll be snowed up," Jack again predicted, gloomily.
"An' I don't care if we are," snapped Tim.
"S'pose if it blizzards it'll be all my fault, too," mumbled Jack.
The night seemed long and dismal. Almost benumbed with cold, the early dawn found them astir again, and the journey was resumed with all possible speed.
Their voices held an eager note which told of excitement but partially repressed. Before the sun set again they would know their fate.