"Neighbors? To folks on a mountain ten miles off and three thousand feet up! And how are we going to find the way?"
"Hell!" said Jackson with unconscious and colloquial profanity, "where a gel can climb, I can. An' what's a little space in Arizony?"
Sheridan laughed but he was paying close attention. Some lines from Kipling's "Explorer" occupied his mind. They seemed pat to the occasion:
One everlasting whisper, day and night repeated—so;
'Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the ranges—
Something lost behind the ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!
'"Lost and waiting for you. Go.'" He repeated the words aloud.
"Huh?" queried Jackson. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, Red. I'm going to turn in. Good-night."
"Goodnight." Jackson left the verandah, the red glow of his cigarette glowing in the dark. It was stuck in the corner of his lips and his mouth was twisted in a confidential grin.
"'Lost an' waitin' for you?' Now what do you know about that?" he asked himself as he walked towards the bunk-house. "The Boss has struck a romantic streak. I hope it runs to pay-dirt. Me, I'm for the Big One, the one that plays the fiddle."
