We went on as
much as a mile and met another man, to whom we put the same
question. "Three miles," he answered, with great decision.
"That creek seems to be retreating," said Jack, after the man
had gone on. "We've got to hurry and catch it, or it will run
clean into Deadwood and crawl down a gold mine."
It was growing dark. We forged ahead for another mile, and by
this time it was quite as dark as it was going to be, with a
cloudy sky, and mountains and pines shutting out half of that. I
was walking ahead With the lantern, and came to a place where the
trail divided.
"The road forks here," I called. "Which do you suppose is
right?"
"Which seems to be the most travelled?" asked Jack.
"Can't see any difference," I replied. "We'll have to leave
it to the instinct of the horses."
"Yes, I'd like to put myself in the grasp of Old Blacky's
instinct. The old scoundrel would go wrong if he knew which was
right."
"Well," I returned, "come on and see which way he turns, and
then go the other way." (Jack always declared that the old fellow
understood what I said.
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