“Son, if you’ll ride slow, mebbe I can make my mule keep up.”
I turns in my saddle, grabs that old sign and tears it off the tree,
after which I throws it into the brush. Then I turns back to the old
man.
“I ain’t in no hurry, ’cause I know I’ll never get there anyway,”
says I.
“Where?” he asks.
“Alaska.”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 3, 1921
issue of Adventure magazine.]