Mercy looked in the direction. Her eyes were more angry than anxious, yet anxiety was her principal feeling.
"I hope to goodness it is. Devil's Hill. A nice name. That's where the camp is, isn't it? I wish you'd hurry on."
The teamster spat over the dashboard. A grim smile crept into his eyes. His passenger had worried him with troublesome questions all the journey, and he had long since given up cursing his boss for sending him on the job.
"'Tain't no use," he said shortly. Then he explained. "Y' see, it 'ud be easy droppin' over the side of this. Guess you ain't yearnin' fer glory that way?"
"We'll never get in at this pace," the woman cried impatiently.
But the teamster was losing patience, too. Suddenly he became very polite, and his pale blue eyes smiled mischievously down upon his horses' backs.
"Guess we don't need to hurry a heap, ma'm," he said. "Y' see, in these hills you never can tell. Now we're headin' fer that yer canyon. Maybe the trail ends right ther'."
"Good gracious, man, then what are we going to do?"
"Do? Why, y' see, ma'm, we'll have to break a fresh trail--if that dogone holler ain't one o' them bottomless muskegs," he added thoughtfully.
He flicked his whip and spat again. His passenger's voice rose to a sharp staccato.
"Then for goodness' sake why go on?" she demanded.
"Wal, y' see, you can't never tell till you get ther' in these hills. Maybe that canyon is a river, an' if so the entrance to it's nigh sure a muskeg. A bottomless muskeg. You seen 'em, ain't you? No? Wal, they're swamps, an' if we get into one, why, I guess ther's jest Hail Columby, or some other fool thing waitin' for us at the bottom. Still ther' mayn't be no muskeg. As I sez, you never can tell, tho' ther' most gener'ly is. Mebbe that's jest a blank wall without no trail. Mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an' more. Mebbe agin the trail peters out 'fore we get ther'. That's the way in these yer hills, ma'm; you never can tell if you get lost. An' gittin' lost is so mighty easy. Course we ain't likely to starve till we've eat up these yer dogone ol' hosses. Never eaten hoss? No? 'Tain't so bad. Course water's easy, if you don't light on one o' them fever swamps. Mountain fever's pretty bad. Still, I don't guess we'll git worried that way, ma'm. I'd sure say you're pretty tough fer mountain fever to git a holt of. It's the time that's the wust. It might take us weeks gittin' out,--once you git lost proper. But even so I don't guess ther's nothin' wuss than timber wolves to worry us. They're mean. Y' see they're nigh allus starvin'--or guess they are. B'ars don't count a heap, less you kind o' run into 'em at breedin' season. Le's see, this is August. No, 'tain't breedin' season." He sighed as if relieved. Then he stirred quickly and glanced round, his face perfectly serious. "Guess you got a gun? It's allus good to hev a gun round. You never ken tell in these yer hills--when you git lost proper."