There won't be no questions asked, none whatever. As long as
you set and look at the scenery, you won't come to no harm; but the
minute you make even a bluff at gettin' funny--even if yore sorry the
next minute--I'll shoot. And don't you never forget and try to get
nearer to me than three paces. Don't forget that! I don't rightly want
to hurt you; but I'd just as leave shoot you as anybody else."
To this view of the situation Bob gave the expected assent.
The next three days were ones of routine. Saleratus Bill spent his time
rolling brown-paper cigarettes at a spot that commanded both trails. Bob
was instructed to keep in sight. He early discovered the cheering fact
that trout were to be had in the glass-green pools; and so spent hours
awkwardly manipulating an improvised willow pole equipped with the short
line and the Brown Hackle without which no mountaineer ever travels the
Sierras. His bound elbows and the crudity of his tackle lost him many
fish. Still, he caught enough for food; and his mind was busy.
Canvassing the possibilities, Bob could not but admit that Saleratus
Bill knew his job.
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