“And we’ll sound like a procession of junkmen when we pass by,” grumbled his chum. “Talk about shooting game! Why, unless all the game is stone deaf, we won’t get within shot of a crippled mine rat!” “No. I’ll pack this outfit so the tinware won’t rattle,” laughed Chet. “And we couldn’t take a burro. That would delay us. We want to be comfortable when we camp. After a long day’s ride, you’ll be the first one to call for a square meal.” “Say! how long’s the trip going to take?” demanded Dig. “We’ll be back by the time school opens next fall, I suppose?” “Don’t be so ridiculous,” responded Chet. “It’s a rough trail, and if we go right on with no delays, but for sleep and meals, it will take all of three days.” “Whew! my Poke can do it in a day and a half.” “But why rush like that?” cried Chet. “We want some fun, don’t we? This is no horse-race, I hope! And father says we can take our own time—especially coming back.” “I know what you’re thinking about, Chet Havens!” cried his chum, in response. “You’re thinking of those buffaloes.” “Well! and if I am?” “Huh!” grunted Dig. “If any buffaloes ever see us with all this tinware and stuff aboard they’ll hike out for the north and never stop running till they reach the Arctic Circle!” Chet only laughed at him. He showed Dig how to pack the cooking utensils and the like in his blanket-roll so that they would not rattle. When they set out right after breakfast the next morning the compass of their outfit did not seem so great as Digby supposed it would. Chet carried in an inside pocket of his woollen outing shirt the deeds in duplicate which he was to get Mr. John Morrisy to sign. The old prospector who had never sold his interest in the Crayton claim was a queer, illiterate character, well known about Grub Stake. Mr. Havens had instructed Chet just how to proceed with the business in hand, and the boy was quite sure he could do it all without a hitch. The money to be passed in exchange for Mr. Morrisy’s signature was already on deposit with the Wells Fargo Company in Grub Stake; and of course Chet had no expectation of losing the deeds. The horses were in fine fettle, and so were the boys, when they rode out of Silver Run. Each of the chums carried a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder and under his arm, the muzzle pointing down his bootleg. And you may be sure they were not loaded so that the hammer rested on a cartridge. The boys had long before been instructed as to the danger of that piece of carelessness. They were well supplied with loaded shells, for the day of the muzzle-loading rifles, with the cumbersome shot-pouch and powder-horn was long past. Their revolvers were loaded, too, and each boy wore a keen hunting-knife in a sheath. They expected to kill most of the meat they ate on the trail. Canned beans did not greatly appeal to the trail boys; especially when they were sure there must be plenty of small game along the way.