concern
for the future. If a dry, open winter followed, success was assured; if
the reverse, was it right to try out the very souls of these waifs in a
wintry crucible?

The foremen and their men left early in the afternoon. On reaching a
divide, which gave the party of horsemen a last glimpse of the Beaver,
the cavalcade halted for a parting look.

"Isn't it a pretty range?" said Forrest, gazing far beyond the hazy
valley. "I wish we knew if those boys can stick out the winter."

"Stick? We'll make them stick!" said Priest, in a tone as decisive as if
his own flesh and blood had been insulted.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LINES OF INTRENCHMENT

The boys watched the cavalcade until it faded away in the swells of the
plain. At each recurring departure of their friends, in spite of all
bravado to the contrary, a pall of loneliness crept into the hearts of
the waifs. Theirs had been a cheerless boyhood; shifted about from
pillar to post, with poverty their one sure companion, they had tasted
of the wormwood in advance of their years. Toys such as other lads
played with for an hour and cast aside were unknown in their lives, and
only the poor substitute for hoop, horse, or gun had been theirs. In the
struggle for existence, human affection was almost denied them. A happy
home they had never known, and the one memory of their childhood worthy
of remembrance was the love of a mother, which arose like a lily in the
mire of their lives, shedding its fragrance more fully as its loss
was realized.

Joel was the more sensitive of the brothers. Forrest had fully discussed
the coming winter with the older lad, and as an incentive to
watchfulness had openly expressed doubt of the ability of the boys to
battle with the elements. The conversation was depressing, and on the
departure of the men, the boys resumed the discussion of the matter
at issue.

"Mr. Quince thinks we can't hold these cattle," said Joel, watching the
receding horsemen. "He's afraid a storm will catch us several miles out
and cut us off from reaching the corral. Well, it will be my fault if
it does."

Dell made a boastful remark, but the older boy only intensified his gaze
at the fading cavalcade. A vision of his youthful sufferings flashed
through his mind, and a mist, closely akin to tears, dimmed his eyes. He
had learned the lesson that poverty teaches, unaware that the storm
which rocks also roots the oak, but unable to make the comparison or
draw the