Clearly the rider had returned. Bob had hunted deer enough to
recognize that the track had been made within the last twenty-four
hours.
At Sycamore Flats he was treated to further surprises. Martin, of whom
he bought his supplies, at first greeted him with customary joviality.
"Hullo! hullo!" he cried; "quite a stranger! Out in camp, eh?"
"Yes," said Bob, "they've got us working for a change."
"Where you located?"
"We're estimating timber up in the Basin," replied Bob.
The silence that followed was so intense that Bob looked up from the bag
he was tying. He met Martin's eyes fixed on him.
"The Basin," repeated Martin slowly, at last. "Since when?"
"About ten days."
"We! Who's we?"
"Elliott and I," answered Bob, surprised. "Why?"
Martin's gaze shifted. He plainly hesitated for a next remark.
"How'd you like it there?" he asked lamely, at length. "I thought none
of you fellows ever went there."
"Fine timber," answered Bob, cheerfully. "We don't usually. Somebody
does though. California John told me that trail was old and out of use;
but it's been used a lot. Who gets up there?"
"The boys drive in some cattle occasionally," replied Martin, with an
effort.
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