The fog split and blew away, and the brilliant sunlight changed the forest.
The frost began to melt, and the air was full of mist. We climbed and
climbed--out of the stately yellow-pine zone, up among the gnarled and
blasted spruces, over and around strips of weathered stone. Once I saw a
cold, white snow-peak. It was hard enough for me to carry my rifle and keep
up with the hunter without talking. Besides, Hiram had answered me rather
shortly, and I thought it best to keep silent. From time to time he stopped
to listen. Then when he turned to go down the slope be trod carefully, and
cautioned me not to loosen stones, and he went slower and yet slower. From
this I made sure we were not far from the springhole.
"Thar's the canyon," he whispered, stopping to point below, where a black,
irregular line marked the gorge. "I haven't heerd a thing, an' we're close.
Mebbe they're asleep. Mebbe most of them are trallin' you, an' I hope so.
Now, don't you put your hand or foot on anythin' thet'll make a noise."
Then he slipped off, and it was wonderful to see how noiselessly he
stepped, and how he moved between trees and dead branches without a sound.
I managed pretty well, yet more than once a rattling stone or a broken
branch stopped Hiram short and made him lift a warning hand.
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