had fished once, succeeding in breaking a number of expensive gut leaders and high-grade flies in the brush along the stream. The remainder of the time he had lain in camp, wishing he hadn't come. Fortunately the two weeks were nearly over.
The guide brought his wandering mind back to the disaster of his liquor. "I know where you can buy quart—take place that one I spilled," the Indian said.
Hugh's face brightened. "Lead me to it."
"Just over ridge. Sheep camp there—only one this part of mountains. Herder'll have extra quart or two."
Hugh looked at his watch. "We can get over and back by dark?"
"Maybe soon after. Going to be pretty dusky right away."
The man spoke true. The twilight was falling over Smoky Land. The sun was set, the tall pines seemed to darken above them, the dusk grew and deepened between the distant trunks. The immeasurable silence of the mountain night, broken by such little sounds as only accentuate the hush, was deepening about them.
Hugh had no answer at first. For once no words were at his lips, and it was a good and portentous sign. He stood listening. Perhaps because the visit of the camp-robber had been an impulse to his imagination, perhaps only because the effect of his last drink was dying within him,
