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A far-off rumble sounded as we loafed there. We looked up, and realized how deep the gulch was, for the rumble was of a train passing over, and it seemed like a toy.

"Gee, ain't it cute!" said Slim. "It's like a kid's play train."

"Well, this isn't going to Vancouver," said Hank.

"We ain't going to Vancouver," said Slim.

"Figure of speech," Hank explained.

The intense heat of the hours around noon was over, and so, having munched a lunch that we had got from the Chinese cook at the camp, we washed it down with water from the narrow little brook, climbed the precipitous bank, and trudged on, Hank talking, as we drew near to Ashcroft, of the old six-in-hand mailcoach that started from there into the Cariboo country. Had I seen Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show? Yes. Well, it was just the same sort of coach as the old Black Hills coach he had in his show, the old Deadwood stage. He was interrupted by Slim.

"What about quitting hiking here?" said he. "Your talk about a six-in-hand makes my feet ache."