“By spades! are you as bad as thet?... Let's see. It's the twenty-third of March.”
“March! Well, I'm beat. I've lost my reckonin'—an' a lot more, maybe.”
“Thar!” declared John, slapping the mustang. “You can jest hang up here till my next trip. Milt, how 're your hosses?”
“Wintered fine.”
“Wal, thet's good. We'll need two big, strong hosses right off.”
“What for?” queried Dale, sharply. He dropped a stick of wood and straightened up from the camp-fire.
“You're goin' to ride down to Pine with me—thet's what for.”
Familiarly then came back to Dale the quiet, intent suggestiveness of the Beemans in moments foreboding trial.
At this certain assurance of John's, too significant to be doubted, Dale's thought of Pine gave slow birth to a strange sensation, as if he had been dead and was vibrating back to life.
“Tell what you got to tell!” he broke out.