After that they climbed up into a more open country, clothed with interlaced manzanita bushes and buck brush and thickets of young balsam fir.  Here, said Hank Brown, was good bear country.  And a little farther on he pulled up and pointed down to the dust of the trail, where he said a bear had crossed that morning.  Jack saw the imprint of what looked like two ill-shaped short feet of a man walking barefooted—­or perhaps two crude hands pressed into the dirt—­and was thrilled into forgetfulness of his trouble.

Before they had gone another mile, he had bought Hank’s rifle and all the cartridges he happened to have with him.  He paid as much as a new rifle would have cost, but he did not know that—­though he did know that he had scarcely enough money left in his pocket to jingle when the transaction was completed.  He carried the rifle across the saddle in front of him and fingered the butt pridefully while his eyes went glancing here and there hopefully, looking for the bear that had crossed the trail that morning.  The mere possession of the rifle bent his mood toward adventure rather than concealment.  He did not think now of the lookout station as a refuge so much as a snug lair in the heart of a wonderful hunting ground.

He wanted to hear more about the bear and deer which Hank Brown had shot on these slopes.  But Hank was no longer in the mood for recounting his adventures.  Hank was congratulating himself upon selling that rifle, which had lately shown a tendency to jam if he worked the lever too fast; and was trying to decide just what make and calibre of rifle he would buy with the money now in his pocket; and he was grinning in his sleeve at the ease with which he had “stung” this young tenderfoot, who was unsuspectingly going up against a proposition which Hank, with all his love for the wild, would never attempt of his own free will.

At first sight, the odd little glass observatory, perched upon the very tip-top of all the wilderness around, fascinated Jack.  He had never credited himself with a streak of idealism, nor even with an imagination, yet his pulse quickened when they topped the last steep slope and stood upon the peak of the world—­this immediate, sunlit world.

The unconcealed joy on the face of the lookout when they arrived did not mean anything at all to him.  He stood taking great breaths of the light, heady air that seemed to lift him above everything he had ever known and to place him a close neighbor of the clouds.

“This is great!” he said over and over, baring his head to the keen breeze that blew straight out of the violet tinted distance.  “Believe me, fellows, this is simply great!”

Whereupon the fireman who had spent two weeks there looked at him and grinned.

“You can have it,” he said with a queer inflection.  “Mount Lassen’s blowing off steam again.  Look at her over there!  She’s sure on the peck, last day or so—­you can have her for company.  I donate her along with the sun-parlor and the oil stove and the telescope and the view.  And I wish you all kinds of luck.  How soon you going back, Hank?  I guess I better be showing this fellow how to use the chart; maybe you’d like something to eat.  I’m all packed and ready to hit the trail, myself.”