‘Don’t you ever draw a vacation at your store?’
Elbert laughed. ‘I’ve only been there a few weeks.’
‘I’d hate to cause any disaster in the leather business—’
‘How do you mean?’
The other’s voice became husky with strain. ‘I was thinkin’ as a starter, possibly, you might come over to my claim on your vacation.’
It began to appear more and more feasible as they talked. Directions opened right here at the Plaza. Elbert was told that an old friend and mining partner of Mr. Leadley’s—Mort Cotton, now a cattleman, the same to whom the saddle had been shipped—would meet him at San Forenso and drive him up as far as the road went on the way to the mine.
‘That’s at Slim Stake Camp,’ Mr. Leadley added. ‘From there you just keep on hikin’ up the canyon trail till you come to White Stone Flats, where I’ll be watchin’ for you—’
It sounded somewhat complicated to Elbert. ‘But suppose I should miss the trail?’ he said.
‘I can’t see how you could, unless you got headstrong—’
‘But how am I to know when I get to White Stone Flats?’