“I planned to do it in a couple of days,” Reynolds declared.

“I s’pose ye did.  But things don’t allus turn out as ye plan, ’specially if ye undertake to cross the Golden Crest.  Ye see, things happen thar quick as lightnin’ sometimes, an’ if yer lucky enough to git off alive, the patchin’-up process might take a long time.  See?”

“I see,” Reynolds replied, as he took the sketch from the improvised easel, “I have a number of patches on my body already, so a few more won’t make much difference.”

CHAPTER IX

THE OUTER TRAIL

A profound silence lay over Big Draw mining camp as Frontier Samson and Tom Reynolds slipped quietly away among the hills.  The sun had not yet lifted itself above the horizon, but the speediness of its coming was heralded in the eastern sky, and the tallest mountain peaks had already caught the first shafts of its virgin glory.  The valleys were still robed in semi-darkness, and the two wayfarers seemed like mere spectres as they sped forward.

“My, this is great!” Reynolds exclaimed as he at length stopped to readjust his pack.  “I believe I should live to be a hundred or over if I could breathe air like this all the time.  It’s a fine tonic.”

“It sure is,” Samson agreed, as he laid aside his rifle and pulled out his pipe.  “Not much like the smell of yer city streets, whar ye swaller hundreds of disease germs every second.”

“Have you ever lived there?” Reynolds asked, curious to learn something of the old man’s history.

“Long enough to know what they’re like.  I’ve poked me nose into a good many cities, an’ they’re all the same, to my way of thinkin’.  It’s a wonder to me why so many people live in sich places, crowded, together like sheep, when thar’s all this, an’ millions of places like it, whar ye kin breathe the air as the Lord made it, an’ not fouled by the work of human bein’s.”

“You are very fond of this wild life, I see,” Reynolds replied.  “Have you lived here many years?”

The prospector threw aside his burnt match, gave his pack an extra hitch, picked up his rifle and moved forward.

“Guess we’d better git on,” he said.  “Thar’s a little brook we want to reach in time fer dinner.  Ye don’t find much water in these valleys.”

Reynolds moved along by his companion’s side, wondering why he did not answer his question.  It was not until they were eating their dinner by the side of the brook did Samson vouchsafe any information.

“Ye asked me if I’ve been long in this country,” he began.  “My reply may seem strange to you, but it’s true.  Judgin’ by years, I’ve been here a long time, but, accordin’ to life, only a little while.  I uster reckon things by years, but I don’t do that any longer.”

“No?” Reynolds looked quizzically at his companion.