“Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best,” said Dick, who deeply appreciated the colonel’s confidence.  He wasted no time in words, but went at once to Sergeant Whitley, who was ready in five minutes.  Warner, who heard of the mission, was disappointed because he was not going too.  But he was philosophical.

“I’ve made a close calculation,” he said, “and I have demonstrated to my own satisfaction that our opportunities are sixty per cent energy and ability, twenty per cent manners, and twenty per cent chance.  In this case chance, which made the Colonel better acquainted with you than with me, was in your favor.  We won’t discuss the other eighty per cent, because this twenty is enough.  Besides it looks pretty cold on the mountains, and its fine here in the village.  But luck with you, Dick.”

He gave his comrade’s hand a strong grasp and walked away toward the little square of the village, where the troops were encamped for the present.  Dick sprang upon a horse which Bill Petty was holding for him.  Whitley was already up, and the three rode swiftly toward a blue line which marked a cleft between two ridges.  Dick first observed their guide.  Bill Petty was a short but very stout man, clad in a suit of home-made blue jeans, the trousers of which were thrust into high boots with red tops.  A heavy shawl of dark red was wrapped around his shoulders, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat a red woolen comforter covered his ears, cheeks, and chin.  His thick hair and a thick beard clothing his entire face were a flaming red.  The whole effect of the man was somewhat startling, but when he saw Dick looking at him in curiosity his mouth opened wide in a grin of extreme good nature.

“I guess you think I’m right red,” he said.  “Well, I am, an’ as you see I always dress to suit my complexion.  Guess I’ll warm up the road some on a winter day like this.”

“Would you mind my callin’ you Red Blaze?” asked Sergeant Whitley gravely.

“Not-a-tall!  Not-a-tall!  I’d like it.  I guess it’s sorter pictorial an’ ’maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names ‘cordin’ to their qualities.  People ‘round here are pretty plain, an’ they’ve never called me nothin’ but Bill.  Red Blaze she is.”

“An’ Blaze for short.  Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that we’re goin’ to ride on?”

“Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question.  As it’s the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain’t quite come in the lowlands, an’ as it’s rained a lot in the last week, I reckon you’ll find it bad.  Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road to thar knees, but I guess they won’t sink up to thar bodies.  They may stumble an’ throw us, but as we’ll hit in soft mud it ain’t likely to hurt us.  It may rain hard, ‘cause I see clouds heapin’ up thar in the west.  An’ if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over the road, on which we could slip an’