In
August the desert herbage has lost what little succulence it ever
possessed, and the gleanings are scarce worth the walking after.
"They're pretty thin," Cash observed speculatively, as though
be was measuring them mentally for some particular need.
"We'd have to grain 'em heavy till we struck better feed. And
pack light." Bud answered his thought.
"The question is, where shall we head for, Bud? Have you any
particular idea?" Cash looked slightingly down at the assayer's
report. "Such as she is, we've done all we can do to the Burro
Lode, for a year at least," he said. "The assessment work is all
done--or will be when we muck out after that last shot. The
claim is filed--I don't know what more we can do right away.
Do you?"
"Sure thing," grinned Bud. "We can get outa here and go some
place where it's green."
"Yeah." Cash meditated, absently eyeing the burros. "Where it's
green." He looked at the near hills, and at the desert, and at
the dreary march of the starved animals. "It's a long way to
green. country," he said.
They looked at the burros.
"They're tough little devils," Bud observed hopefully. "We
could take it easy, traveling when it's coolest. And by packing
light, and graining the whole bunch--"
"Yeah.
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