The trail was easy, his horses were as fat as was good for
them. In two hours of riding at his usual trail pace he came
upon another stream which he knew must be Sunk Creek grown a
little wider and deeper in its journey down the valley. He
forded that with a great splashing, climbed the farther bank,
followed a stubby, rocky bit of road that wound through dense
willow and cottonwood growth, came out into a humpy meadow
full of ant hills, gopher holes and soggy wet places where
the water grass grew, crossed that and followed the road
around a brushy ridge and found himself squarely confronting
Little Lost.
There could be no mistake, for "Little Lost Post Office" was
unevenly painted on the high cross-bar of the gate that stood
wide open and permanently warped with long sagging. There was
a hitch-rail outside the gate, and Bud took the hint and left
his horses there. From the wisps of fresh hay strewn along
the road, Bud knew that haying had begun at Little Lost.
There were at least four cabins and a somewhat pretentious,
story-and-a-half log house with vines reaching vainly to the
high window sills, and coarse lace curtains. One of these
curtains moved slightly, and Bud's sharp eyes detected the
movement and knew that his arrival was observed in spite of
the emptiness of the yard.
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