“Mother,” he turned to Mrs. Thornton, who was still seated at the breakfast table, “why is Uncle Joe so positive about it being a mistake for me to take this trip?  Either he just wants to show his authority or he has some special reason.  According to his talk, there isn’t a more dangerous place on this earth of ours than around an old prospector’s cabin.  Rats!  I don’t believe a word of it.  It’s all bosh and, as far as cabins go, how could disease live in an old, open mountain shanty?  Anyhow, you might go for weeks in the mountains without even seeing a cabin.  He thinks I’m a child and haven’t any judgment of my own.  My!  I’m glad he isn’t my father.  He’s just a blamed old hypocrite, that’s what I think about him, anyway.”

“Well, you won’t be going if it stays so stormy, will you?” asked his mother.

“No, but it’s going to clear up, mother; this is just a little summer shower—­we weren’t counting on starting until after dinner, though, anyway,” replied Willis.  Toward noon the clouds broke and melted away as if by magic.  Their lifting was like the raising of some majestic curtain on a wonderful stage.  The moisture from the recent storm still glistened on every twig and leaf, and the fresh-bathed air was as clear as crystal.  The summit of Pike’s Peak was decked in a new covering of snow which sparkled like beautiful gems.  The robins chirped gayly as they fed on the worms that had come to the surface during the night’s rain.

Was there ever such a happy crowd of fellows’ setting forth on any expedition?  High boots, slouch hats, soft shirts, a rifle, a shotgun, two cameras, and a plenteous supply of food.  Each fellow was equipped with a haversack, in which were his eating tools and other necessary articles, such as bachelor buttons, cartridges, films, and other things.  They carried their frying-pans, small buckets, and tincups suspended from their belts.  The handles of their safety axes extended from hip-pockets, making their pockets bulge suspiciously.

Mr. Allen took the lead through Stratton Park, and headed for the short cut that joined the old Stage Road just as it sneaked around the base of Cheyenne Mountain on its way to the top of the Continental Divide; then downward through mountain passes and clinging close to canyon walls until it reached that most wonderful of all gold camps, the Cripple Creek District.

“It’s just two o’clock,” said Chuck, in answer to an inquiry as to the time.  “And we will have to do some rapid walking if we are to get on top of Cheyenne Mountain to-night.  We ought to make three miles an hour from here to the old road house.  We’ll have to rest there a little and have a drink from Daddy Wright’s spring.  That’s the best spring in the Rocky Mountains, I do believe.”