We were working the country just north of White Divide, when the foreman started me home with a message for Perry Potter—­and I was to get back as soon as possible with the answer.  Now, here’s where I got gay.

As I said, we were north of White Divide, and the home ranch was south, and to go around either end of that string of hills meant an extra sixty miles to cover each way—­a hundred and twenty for the round trip.  Directly in the way of the proverbial crow’s flight lay King’s Highway, which—­if I got through—­would put me at the ranch the first day, and back at camp the second; and I rather guessed that would surprise our worthy foreman not a little.  I didn’t see why it couldn’t be done; surely old King wouldn’t murder a man just for riding through that pass—­that would be bloody-minded indeed!

And if I failed—­why, I could go around, and no one would be wise to the fact that I had tried it.  I headed straight for the pass, which yawned invitingly, with two bare peaks for the jaws, not over six miles away.  It was against orders, for Perry Potter had given the boys to understand that they were not to go that way, and that they were to leave King and his stronghold strictly alone; but I didn’t worry about that.  When I was fairly in the mouth of the pass, I got down and looked to the cinch, and then rode boldly forward, like a soldier riding up to the cannon’s mouth with a smile on his face.  Oh, I wasted plenty of admiration on one Ellis Carleton about that time, and rehearsed the bold, biting speech I meant to deliver at old King’s very door.

So far it was easy sailing.  There was a hard-beaten road, and the hills seemed standing back and holding aside their skirts for a free passing.  The sun lay warm on their green slopes, and one could fairly smell the grass growing.  In the hollows were worlds of blue flowers, with patches here and there a royal purple.  I stopped and gathered a handful and stuck them in my buttonhole and under my hatband.  I don’t know when I have felt so thoroughly satisfied with said Ellis Carleton—­of whom I am overfond of speaking—­I even mimicked the meadow-larks, until they watched me with heads tilted, not knowing what to make of such an impertinent fellow.

King’s Highway was glorious; I didn’t wonder that dad thought it worth fighting over, and as I went on, farther and farther down this lane made by nature for easy passing, I could see what an immense advantage it would be to take herds through that way.  I could see why the Bay State men cursed King when they took the rough trail around the end of White Divide.