They went out together. Tug was careful to walk with Black between him and the cabin as long as it was in sight.
The wind had died completely, so that the air was no longer a white smother. Travel was easy, for the cold had crusted the top of the snow. They worked their way out of the gulch, crossed an edge of the forest reserve, and passed the cabin of the homesteader Howard. Not far from this, Black turned into his own place.
The range rider kicked off his webs and replenished the fire. While he made supper, Hollister sat on the floor before the glowing piñon knots and dried his skis. When they were thoroughly dry, he waxed them well, rubbing in the wax with a cork.
“Come an’ get it,” Black called presently.
They sat down to a meal of ham, potatoes, biscuits, plenty of gravy, and coffee. Tug did himself well. He had worked hard enough in the drifts to justify a man-size hunger.
Their talk rambled in the casual fashion of haphazard conversation. It touched on Jake Prowers and Cig, rather sketchily, for Black did not care to discuss the men with whom he was still allied, no matter what his private opinion of them might be. It included the tunnel and the chances of success of the Sweetwater Dam project, this last a matter upon which they differed. Don had spent his life in the saddle. He stuck doggedly to the contention that, since water will not run uphill, the whole enterprise was “dawg-goned foolishness.”
Hollister gave up, shrugging his shoulders. “All right with me. A man convinced against his will, you know. Trouble with you is that you don’t want the Flat Tops irrigated, so you won’t let yourself believe they can be.”
“The Government engineers said they couldn’t be watered, didn’t they? Well, their say-so goes with me all right.”
“They were wrong, but you needn’t believe it till you see water in the ditches on Flat Top.”
“I won’t.”