The fires outside were never permitted to die down, the flames always leaped up from great beds of coals, and warmth and the comforts that follow were diffused everywhere.  The lads, when they were not working on the houses, mended their saddles and bridles or their clothes, and when they had nothing else to do they sang war songs or the sentimental ballads of home.  It was a fine place for singing—­Warner described the acoustics of the valley as perfect—­and the ridges and gorges gave back the greatest series of echoes any of them had ever heard.

“If this place didn’t have a name already,” said Pennington, “I’d call it Echo Cove, and the echoes are flattering, too.  Whenever George sings his voice always comes back in highly improved tones, something that we can stand very well.”

“My voice may not be as mellow as Mario’s,” said Warner calmly, “but my technique is perfect.  Music is chiefly an affair of mathematics, as everybody knows, or at least it is eighty per cent, the rest being voice, a mere gift of birth.  So, as I am unassailable in mathematics, I’m a much better singer than the common and vulgar lot who merely have voice.”

“That being the case,” said Pennington, “you should sing for yourself only and admire your own wonderful technique.”

“I never sing unless I’m asked to do so,” said Warner, with his old invincible calm, “and then the competent few who have made an exhaustive study of this most complex science appreciate my achievement.  As I said, I should consider it a mark of cheapness if I pleased the low, vulgar and common herd.”

“With that iron face and satisfied mind of yours you ought to go far, George,” said Pennington.

“Everything is arranged already.  I will go far,” said Warner in even tones.

“I wonder what’s happening outside in the big valley,” said Dick.

“Whatever it is it’s happening without us,” said Warner.  “But I fancy that General Sheridan will be more uneasy about us than we are about him.  We know what we have done, that our task is finished, but for all he knows we may have been trapped and destroyed.”

“But Shepard or the sergeant will get through to him.”

“Not for three or four days anyhow.  Not even men on foot can travel fast on a glassy sheet of ice.  Every time I look at it on the mountain it seems to grow smoother.  If I were standing on top of that ridge and were to slip I’d come like a catapult clear into the camp.”

“Nothing could tempt me to go up there now,” said Dick.

“Maybe not, nor me either, but as I live somebody is on top of that ridge now.”

Dick’s eyes followed his pointing finger, saw a black dot on the utmost summit, and then he snatched up his glasses.

“It’s Slade, his very self!” he exclaimed in excitement.  “I’d know that hat anywhere.  Now, how under the sun did he come there!”

“It’s more important to know why he has come,” said Warner, using his own glasses.  “I see him clearly and there is no doubt that it’s the same robber, traitor and assassin who, unfortunately, escaped when we shot his horde to pieces.”