So he dropped.
It was two days after that when Buddy shuffled into a mining
camp on the ridge just north of Douglas Pass. He was still on
his feet, but they dragged like an old man's. He had walked
twenty-five miles in two nights, going carefully, in fear of
Indians. The first five miles he had waded along the shore of
the creek, he said, in case they might pick up his tracks at
the dugout and try to follow him. He had hidden himself like
a rabbit in the brush through the day, and he had not dared
shoot any meat, wherefore he had not eaten anything.
"I ain't as hungry as I was at first," He grinned
tremulously. "But I guess I better--eat. I don' want--to lose
the--habit--" Then he went slack and a man swearing to hide
his pity picked him up in his arms and carried him into the
tent.
CHAPTER SIX: THE YOUNG EAGLE MUST FLY
"You're of age," said Bob Birnie, sucking hard at his pipe.
"You've had your schooling as your mother wished that you
should have it. You've got the music in your head and your
fingers and your toes, and that's as your mother wished that
you should have.
"Your mother would have you be all for music, and make tunes
out of your own head. She tells me that you have made tunes
and written them down on paper, and that there are those who
would buy them and print copies to sell, with your name at
the top of the page.
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