did. Because, in that case, they might have seen, at no great distance

to the north of where they had made their hazardous and heart-breaking ascent of the mountain, a perfectly good trail leading up and over and down to the railroad town of Natrolia on the other side.

Also, they might have seen, camping in an outpost grove of the timber beside this good trail, and only a little way from the summit of the pass over which it led, three men, one of whom was poking up the coals of the camp-fire with the end of a crutch, to the better cooking of a panful of bacon slices, saying, as he poked: “It’s all right, I tell yuh! They’ll make f’r the Shotgun camp after more grub, and we can stock up at Natrolia and beat ’em back to the Buttes by two good days, at least. Yuh can’t lose me in this neck o’ woods, Tom Dowling. If yuh wasn’t solid bone from the neck up, yuh’d have found that out long ago. Artill’ry? Nix, they won’t load up with no more shootin’-irons at Shotgun. ’At’s one thing old man Shanklin at the Shotgun Mine don’t let nobody sell on his reservation.”