ut we can't fly as the birds do."

"We ought to make thirty-five miles easily enough."

"We could on a level. But you must remember we have several hills to
climb and half a dozen water courses to ford. I imagine, too, you will
get tired of the saddle before nightfall."

"Oh, I can stand it," laughed Noel Urner, "thanks to my experience in
the riding schools in New York and my frequent exercises in Central
Park."

"A big difference between Central Park and this, eh? I would like to see
the park some time," returned Allen.

On they went, taking advantage of the early morning while the sun was
still low. The level stretch was passed and then they came to a
good-sized brook. Beyond was a belt of timber and the first of the
hills.

They watered the horses and took a drink themselves, and pushed on
without stopping further. Allen knew they must keep on the move if they
expected to reach Daddy Wampole's crossroads ranch before the evening
shadows fell.

On through the forest of spruce and hemlock, with here and there a tall
cottonwood, they spurred their horses. The foot of the hill was soon
reached, and up they toiled.

"A grand country," murmured Noel Urner.

"And big room for improvements," returned Allen, grimly. "It will take a
deal of labor to put this land in shape for use."

"We never realize what the pioneers had to contend with when they first
settled this country until we see things as they are here. To cut down
forests, level the land, build houses and barns, and fix roads--it's an
immense amount of labor, truly."

At noon they halted near the top of a second hill, and here started up
just enough of a fire to boil themselves a pot of coffee. They had
brought jerked meat and crackers from home and made a comfortable, if
not luxurious meal. In twenty minutes they were again on the way, the
horses in the meantime having also been fed.

"Daddy Wampole's ranch is our post office," explained Allen, as they
rode along side by side. "The mail comes down from Deadwood once a week.
It's not very extensive and Wampole usually puts everything in a soap
box and lets every comer pick out whatever belongs to him."

Noel laughed. "I've heard of such doings before," he said. "I suppose he
has another box of letters to be mailed."

"Exactly."

"It's not a very safe way to do. Letters might easily be stolen or taken
by mistake. Who knows but what some communication from your uncle was
carried off by another?"