"Hey, Jim, where are we going to make camp?" It was his brother Jo's genial voice.
"Not until we can strike water," replied Jim. "No more dry camps for me."
"I don't think much of the coast range, or the Sierras, either." It was Juarez Hoskins' well-remembered voice, with its rather low, deep tones.
"Give me the Rockies every time."
Juarez was nothing if not loyal to his mountains.
"I don't think any of the mountains are much to brag of."
It is hardly necessary to say that it is Tom Darlington who is now speaking, for the discerning reader is pretty well acquainted with his style by this time.
"There's always something to look out for," continued Tom, "if it isn't Indians it's rattlesnakes, and you have got to choose between a cloudburst or no water at all. Give me the East every time."
"You make me exhausted talking about the East," said Jim. "Why didn't you stay there when you were there? I had just as soon take a chance with a rattlesnake as with an ice cream soda."
"Tom would like to play Indian," cut in Jo, "with turkey feathers sticking up from a red flannel band around his head. And creeping upon a flock of sheep pretending that they are antelope and that cows are real live bears."