“Marion Lake before dark!” Norman answered. “No lunch.”
Dumplin’ groaned.
“It’ll help you reduce, Dump,” Bennie taunted. “Gidup, Dobbin! Oh, gee, where’s poor little Jeff?” And he began to whistle.
Jeff appeared with a loud yelp from the side of the stream, where he had evidently been cooling himself. Shaking off the water, he dashed ahead of the procession of sixteen horses, barking madly, and the march for Jefferson began.
The trail lay through a thick yellow pine forest. This was a United States government forest, so that the fire had been kept out and the little pines were everywhere coming up under the old ones, much to Spider’s delight. But the trail itself was dry and dusty, and their noses soon smarted, their throats were dry. With the loaded pack horses, they could not trot, but plodded on in single file, the dust rising in clouds behind them.
They had been traveling perhaps an hour when Norman, riding ahead, suddenly pulled up his horse, and Bennie, just behind him, saw him sniff.
“What’s the matter?” the scout asked.
“I smell smoke,” Norman answered. Then he looked at the dust cloud behind to see which way it was moving.
“We are going into the wind. Must be ahead,” he said. “You come on with me. Let your uncle lead the train.”
He kicked his horse and dashed up the trail. Bennie kicked his horse, and dashed after him, not at all sure that he could keep his saddle. Strangely enough, though, he found it easier to gallop than to trot, and found himself falling into the motion of the horse.