But
the Ranger was away somewhere, riding his lonely trails, and they did not
tarry.
Just above the Station, they left the main road to follow the way that
leads to the Morton Ranch in the mouth of Alder Canyon--a small side
canyon leading steeply up to a low gap in the main range. Beyond Morton's,
there is only a narrow trail. Three hundred yards above the ranch corral,
where the road ends and the trail begins, the buildings of the
mountaineer's home were lost to view. Except for the narrow winding path
that they must follow single file, there was no sign of human life.
For three weeks, they knew no roads other than those lonely, mountain
trails. At times, they walked under dark pines where the ground was
thickly carpeted with the dead, brown needles and the air was redolent
with the odor of the majestic trees; or made their camps at night, feeding
their blazing fires with the pitchy knots and cones. At other times, they
found their way through thickets of manzanita and buckthorn, along the
mountain's flank; or, winding zigzag down some narrow canyon wall, made
themselves at home under the slender, small-trunked alders; and added to
the stores that Croesus packed, many a lusty trout from the tumbling, icy
torrent.
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