Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the
keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some
apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog,
but he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like
a son. But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were
thankful for the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have
stiffened on the reins.
Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because the
wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were
growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind
was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims
lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a
cutting blast.
"Told you we might have trouble," called Petty, cheerfully, "but if you
ride right on through trouble you'll leave trouble behind. Nor this
ain't nothin' either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of
the pass. Cur'us what a pow'ful lot human bein's kin stand when they
make up their minds to it."
"Are the horses well shod?" asked Whitley.
"Best shod in the world, 'cause I done it myself. That's my trade,
blacksmith, an' I'm a good one if I do say it. I heard before we
started that you had been a soldier in the west. I s'pose that you had
to look mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn't afford to be
ridin' a hoss made lame by bad shoein' when ten thousand yellin' Sioux
or Blackfeet was after him.
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