behind him. Though Pete Olsen cursed mightily and even offered physical opposition, the trick was repeated with him, so that he was bound fast to one end of the fir. In stubborn silence, though with a face gone a burning red, Tom Hardy allowed himself to be tied to his end of the pole. Through the whole procedure Turk Wilson on his rock never ceased swaying back and forth in a paroxysm of delight. From that hour on, so long as he lived, he would give unstintedly of his admiration to Bill Steele. And of his loyalty.
"Just a minute, boys," grinned Steele, whose good humour had come back with an episode which appealed to it. "Turk and I have no use for your baggage and no wish to steal it. Roll their blankets, Turk."
So blankets were rolled, strapped to the pole between the harnessed men, made into two packs, a rifle in the heart of each. And then at last did Steele say lightly:
"On your way, boys, if you want to get in before dark."
"Else a wil' cat might eat you up!" suggested Turk gravely. "You look that helpless."
And, with no desire to prolong the moment, Pete Olsen and Johnnie Thorp and Tom Hardy, their faces flaming, took up their grotesque way down among the big trees, headed back toward the Little Giant mine.
"Since they ain't over comfortable that away," mused the ecstatic Turk, "they'll travel right along, won't they? An' when they come trapsin' into camp like that, an' the boys get a sight of them. … Lord, Lordy, Bill Steele! When them three gents come again there's goin' to be murder!"
