thick and worn to his shoulders, and his gray eyes were forever taking inventories as he swung his head from side to side. Lander smiled at recollecting some tall stories Bridger was fond of telling.
"Getting ready to go out, Mister Bridger?" politely asked Lander as Bridger shot him a sharp glance and nodded curtly.
"Lander of the A. F. C.? I remember you. Your people would mighty well like to put a snag in my way."
"I wouldn't. I always wish you luck," was the honest reply.
Bridger smiled good-naturedly.
"Then I don't mind saying we're gitting away almost at once. An' a young, strapping feller like you oughter be doing something better'n sticking round this place an' standing behind a counter. Why don't you git Parker to send you up-country where you can show your mettle?"
Lander was almost inclined to resent the tone and question, for Bridger was only twenty-seven years old and not much his senior. Bridger, however, spoke as a man of vast experience talking to a child.
