“By golly, I’ll strike out afoot and hunt him up, if he don’t heave in sight mighty suddent,” threatened Slim passionately, after a long, dismal silence.  “By golly, he’ll wisht I hadn’t, too.”

Cal looked up from studying pensively his patent leathers.  “Go on, Slim, and round him up.  This is sure getting hilarious—­a fine way to spend the Fourth!”

“Maybe that festive bunch that held up the Lewistown Bank, day before yesterday, came along and laid the hawk away on the hillside so they could help themselves to fresh horses,” hazarded Jack Bates, in the hope that Happy Jack would seize the opening to prophesy a new disaster.

“I betche that’s what’s happened, all right,” said Happy, rising to the bait.  “I betche yuh won’t see no horses t’day—­ner no night-hawk, neither.”

The Happy Family looked at one another and grinned.

“Who’ll stir the lemonade and help pass the sandwiches?” asked Pink, sadly.  “Who’ll push, when the school-ma’am wants to swing?  Or Len Adams? or—­”

“Oh, saw off!” Weary implored.  “We can think up troubles enough, Cadwolloper, without any help from you.”

“Well, I guess your troubles are about over, cully—­I can hear ’em coming.”  Pink picked up his rope and started for the horse corral as the belated cavvy came jingling around the nose of the nearest hill.  The Happy Family brightened perceptibly; after all, they could be at the picnic by noon—­if they hurried.  Their thoughts flew to the crowd—­and to the girls in frilly dresses—­under the pine trees in a certain canyon just where the Bear Paws reach lazily out to shake hands with the prairie land.

Up on the high level, with the sun hot against their right cheeks and a lazy breeze flipping neckerchief ends against their smiling lips, the world seemed very good, and a jolly place to live in, and there was no such thing as trouble anywhere.  Even Happy Jack was betrayed into expecting much pleasure and no misfortune, and whistled while he rode.

Five miles slipped behind them easily—­so easily that their horses perked ears and tugged hard against the bits.  The next five were rougher, for they had left the trail and struck out across a rough bit of barrenness on a short cut to the ford in Sheep Coulee.  All the little gullies and washouts were swept clean and smooth with the storm, and the grass roots showed white where the soil had washed away.  They hoped the rain had not reached to the mountains and spoiled the picnic grounds, and wondered what time the girls would have dinner ready.

So they rode down the steep trail into Sheep Coulee, galloped a quarter mile and stopped, amazed, at the ford.  The creek was running bank full; more, it was churning along like a mill-race, yellow with the clay it carried and necked with great patches of dirty foam.

“I guess here’s where we don’t cross,” said Weary, whistling mild dismay.

“Now, wouldn’t that jostle yuh?” asked Pink, of no one in particular.