The other shook his head and seemed to change his mind in the very midst of the gesture.

“Why not?” he asked himself.  “You’ll get enough of it inside of a day.  And then you’ll find out that they’s some things about as bad as death—­or Cartwright.  Come on, kid!”

16

It was a weary ride that brought them to the end of that day and to a camping place.  It seemed to Jig that the world was made up of nothing but the ups and downs of that mountain trail.  Now, as the sun went down, they came out on a flat shoulder of the mountain.  Far below them lay Sour Creek, long lost in the shadow of premature night which filled the valley.

“Here we are, fixed up as comfortable as can be,” said Sinclair cheerily.  “There’s water, and there’s wood aplenty.  What could a gent ask for more?  And here’s my country!”

For a moment his expression softened as he looked over the black peaks stepping away to the north.  Now he pointed out a grove of trees, and on the other side of the little plateau was heard the murmur of a feeble spring.

Riley swung down easily from the saddle, but when Jig dismounted his knees buckled with weariness, and he slipped down on a rock.  He was unheeded for a moment by the cowpuncher, who was removing from his saddle the quarters of a deer which he had shot at the foot of the mountain.  When this task was ended, a stern voice brought Jig to his feet.

“What’s all this?  How come?  Going to let that hoss stand there all night with his saddle on?  Hurry up!”

“All right,” replied the schoolteacher, but his voice quaked with weariness, and the cinch knot, drawn taut by the powerful hand of Jerry Bent, refused to loosen.  He struggled with it until his fingers ached, and his panicky breath came in gasps of nervous excitement.

Presently he was aware of the tall, dark form of Sinclair behind him, his saddle slung across his arm.

“By guns,” muttered Sinclair, “it ain’t possible!  Not enough muscle to untie a knot?  It’s a good thing that your father can’t see the sort of a son that he turned out.  Lemme at that!”

Under his strong fingers the knot gave by magic.

“Now yank that saddle off and put it yonder with mine.”

Jig pulled back the saddle, but when the full weight jerked down on him he staggered, and he began to drag the heavy load.

“Hey,” cut in the voice of the tyrant, “want to spoil that saddle, kid?  Lift it, can’t you?”

Gaspar obeyed with a start and, having placed it in the required position, turned and waited guiltily.

“Time you was learning something about camping out,” declared the cowpuncher, “and I’ll teach you.  Take this ax and gimme some wood, pronto!”

He handed over a short ax, heavy-headed and small of haft.

“That bush yonder!  That’s dead, or dead enough for us.”

Plainly Jig was in awe of that ax.  He carried it well out from his side, as if he feared the least touch against his leg might mean a cut.  Of all this, Riley Sinclair was aware with a gradually darkening expression.  He had been partly won to Jig that day, but his better opinion of the schoolteacher was being fast undermined.