But with the government seal attached to their holdings, they
took it leisurely, the stampeders sliding past them in a steady stream.
Midway, Del chanced to look behind. St. Vincent was in sight, footing
it at a lively pace, the regulation stampeding pack on his shoulders.
The trail made a sharp bend at that place, and with the exception of
the three of them no one was in sight.
"Don't speak to me. Don't recognize me," Del cautioned sharply, as he
spoke, buttoning his nose-strap across his face, which served to quite
hide his identity. "There's a water-hole over there. Get down on your
belly and make a blind at gettin' a drink. Then go on by your lonely
to the claims; I've business of my own to handle. And for the love of
your bother don't say a word to me or to the skunk. Don't let 'm see
your face."
Corliss obeyed wonderingly, stepping aside from the beaten path, lying
down in the snow, and dipping into the water-hole with an empty
condensed milk-can. Bishop bent on one knee and stooped as though
fastening his moccasin. Just as St. Vincent came up with him he
finished tying the knot, and started forward with the feverish haste of
a man trying to make up for lost time.
"I say, hold on, my man," the correspondent called out to him.
Bishop shot a hurried glance at him and pressed on. St. Vincent broke
into a run till they were side by side again.
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