“Who owns these trees?” asked Spider.
“Your Uncle Sam,” Norman called back.
“I’m glad of that. I hope they’re never cut down. I wish everybody in America could see them, and know what trees are!”
“A lot of people in America would think they were dead before they could get here,” Uncle Billy laughed. “We are some ways from civilization, Spider.”
At noon they came to a natural meadow, and pastured the horses for two hours, while they themselves ate lunch. Then they pushed on. Late in the afternoon, when the boys were getting saddle sore and weary again, and everybody was hot and sweaty, Norman suddenly turned up the side of the cañon, by a dim trail through the bushes (there were few trees on this slope, due to an old fire). The trail was very steep, the horses sweated and panted, the pack horses had to be tugged and driven. For an hour they climbed, with frequent rests for breath, until the forests lay below them and the tumbled cañons, and they came into an open pasture near sunset time, a pasture full of glorious red and blue wild flowers and rich grass. They crossed this toward the east, still climbing, and suddenly came up over a crest into a second pasture, which was even fuller of flowers, and was the top of the mountain they had been climbing. But that wasn’t what made them pull up their horses and shout.
What made them do that was what they saw apparently only two or three miles eastward—the great white pyramid of Mount Jefferson, covered with cold, glittering snow, rising up and up against the sky, its summit needle flushed pink with sunset! It was a beautiful sight, but it was a tremendous sight, too. The mountain looked immense, terrific.
Bennie sobered after his first shout.
“Do you mean to say we are going to climb that?” he demanded.
“Surely,” his uncle smiled.
Bennie, for once, made no reply whatever.