pared to sleep on the ground, or were going to
talk rheumatism every time she found a place to camp, she would thank us
to remember that we had really asked ourselves.

But she grew more cheerful finally and seemed to be glad to talk over
the details of the trip with somebody. She said it was a pity we had not
had some practice with firearms, for we would each have to take a
weapon, the mountains being full of outlaws, more than likely. Neither
Aggie nor I could use a gun at all, but, as Tish observed, we could pot
at trees and fenceposts along the road by way of practice.

When I suggested that the sight of three women of our age--we are all
well on toward fifty; Aggie insists that she is younger than I am, but
we were in the same infant class in Sunday-school--three women of our
age "potting" at fences was hardly dignified, Tish merely shrugged her
shoulders.

She asked us not to let Charlie Sands learn of the trip. He would be
sure to be fussy and want to send a man along, and that would spoil it
all.

What with the secrecy, and the guns and everything, I dare say we were
like a lot of small boys getting ready to run away out West and kill
Indians. In fact, Tish said it reminded her of the time, years ago, when
Charlie Sands and some other boys had run away, with all the carving
knives and razors they could gather together, and were found a week
later in a cave in the mountains twenty miles or so from town.

Tish showed us her sleeping-bag, which was felt outside and her old
white fur rug within. Aggie planned hers immediately on the same lines,
with her fur coat as a lining; but I had mine made of oilcloth outside,
my rheumatism having warned me that we were going to have rain. I was
right about the rain.

I had an old army revolver that had belonged to my father, and of course
Tish had her coal-cellar rifle, but Aggie had nothing more dangerous
than a bayonet from the Mexican War. This being too heavy to carry, and
dull--being only possible as a weapon by bringing the handle down on
one's opponent's head--Aggie was forced to buy a revolver.

The man in the shop tried to sell her a small pearl-handled one, but she
would not look at it. She bought one of the sort that goes on shooting
as long as one holds a finger on the trigger--a snub-nosed thing that
looked as deadly as it was. She was in terror of it from the moment she
got it home, and during most of the trip it was packed in excelsior,
with the barrel s