And the off horse stepped on the wagon tongue.”
A little way down the hill Grant called a halt He had discovered on the light dusting of overnight snow the tracks of a big bear, and for the moment everything else was forgotten. Bear-hunting to him was of more immediate interest than gold-hunting, and but for the restraining hand of Buell Hampton the ardent young sportsman would have started on the trail.
“Let’s stop a while,” he pleaded. “Just look at those pads. A great big cinnamon bear—a regular whale.”
“No, no,” said the Major decisively, again glancing at the sky. “We must press on.”
“I’d like a hug all right,” laughed Roderick, “but not from a cinnamon bear in a snowdrift.”
“Gee, but I’m sorry I left my dogs at Dillon,” remarked Grant regretfully. “The last thing I said to Scotty Meisch was to look after the dogs even if the printing press burned. There’s no friend like a good dog, Major.”
“Rather a doubtful compliment,” replied Buell Hampton with a smile.
“Present company always excepted,” laughed the editor adroitly. “Well, well; we must let Mr. Bruin go this time. Lead on, Macduff, lead on.”
And again as he fell into Indian file he sang his song.
The lilt and the words of that song, the picture of the stalwart figure in the pride of young manhood carolling gaily while marching along through the brushwood and down the timbered hillside, were des-tined never to fade from the memory of Roderick Warfield. With a sob in his heart he would recall the scene many and many a time in the days to come.