CHAPTER XXI

THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING

They were up before sunrise following along a rock trail against the face of a mountain through the morning mists, when they turned a sharp crag and came suddenly on one of those flower slopes bevelled out of the forests by snow or ice.  The slant sunlight met their faces, and the mists were lifting in a curtain, with a riffle of wind that ran through the grasses like the ripple of waves to the touch of unseen feet.  The slope lay literally a field of gold, spikes and umbels of gold—­the gold of yellow midsummer light dyed in the asters and sunflowers and great flowered gaillardias and golden rod, with an odor of dried grasses or mint or cloves.

“By George,” cried Wayland, “you’d not believe it!  Only seven weeks; look!”

Matthews looked but apparently did not see.

“Don’t you see?  It’s the place where the snow slide slumped down!”

“But where in the name o’ conscience is all yon snow; and where’s th’ bodies, Wayland?”

“Washed down to the bottom of the Lake Behind the Peak by this time; or you may find a great rock pile at the foot of the slope.”

“A’m thinkin’ they’ll lie quiet till the crack o’ doom, Wayland; but, but do y’ no’ see a tent back in yon larches across th’ slide, man, where the thing knocked us both sprawlin’?”

“By George, yes, I do!  Wonder if they’re homesteading this next?  It’s off the N. F.”

They put their ponies to an easy lope across the slope and came on a tepee tent with the flap laced tight and no sign of life, but a horse lazily floundering up beside a large fallen log, an empty whiskey bottle on the log, and a man’s boot leg protruding from beneath the tent skirt.

“A’m wonderin’ if there’s a leg in that boot, Wayland.”

“It’s the sheriff’s horse,” said Wayland.

“It is, is it?  And this is off y’r Forest Range; an’ y’r not responsible for what A may be tempted to do?”

The old frontiersman literally avalanched off his broncho and made a dash at the tent flap, frapping it loudly with the flat of his hand.

“Here you—­anybody inside?”

No response came from the owner of the leg.

“Here you, waken up.”  Matthews caught hold of the leg and pulled and pulled.  There was a splutter of snorts, and, ‘what in Hell’s,’ and the fat girth of an apple-shaped body ripped the tent pegging free and came out under the tepee skirt followed by another leg, and two oozy hands flabbily clawing at the grass roots to stop the unusual exit.  One hand held a flat flask and the air became flavored with the second-hand fumes of a whiskey cask.  The sheriff rolled over after the manner of apple-shaped bodies and sat up on the end of his spine rubbing his eyes.  Then, he recollected the dignity of his office and got groggily to his feet, steadying himself