"Ken, I've heard of this place," said Dick. "How's that for a spring?
Twenty yards wide, and no telling how deep! This is snow-water straight
from the peaks. We're not a thousand feet below the snow-line."
"I can tell that. Look at those Jwari pines," I replied, pointing up over
the wall. A rugged slope rose above our camp-site, and it was covered with
a tangled mass of stunted pines. Many of them were twisted and misshapen;
some were half dead and bleached white at the tops. "It's my first sight of
such trees," I went on, "but I've studied about them. Up here it's not lack
of moisture that stunts and retards their growth. It's fighting the
elements--cold, storm-winds, snowslides. I suppose not one in a thousand
seedlings takes root and survives. But the forest fights hard to live."
"Well, Ken, we may as well sit back now and talk forestry till Buell skins
all he wants of Penetier," said Dick. "It's really a fine camping-spot.
Plenty of deer up here and bear, too."
"Dick, couldn't we escape?" I whispered.
"We're not likely to have a chance. But I say, Ken, how did you happen to
turn up? I thought you were going to hop on the first train for home."
"Dick, you had another think coming. I couldn't go home. I'll have a great
time yet--I'm having it now."
"Yes, that lump on your head looks like it," replied Dick, with a laugh.
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