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Updated: May 26, 2025
"As coarse as this?" The Sour-dough nodded, and Lighter laughed. "There's a fox's mask," said the Colonel at the bottom of the table, pointing a triangular bit out. "Let me look at it a minute," begged the Boy. "Hand it round," whispered Schiff. It was real. It was gold. Their fingers tingled under the first contact. This was the beginning. The rude bit of metal bred a glorious confidence.
I never want to see a sagebush again as long as I live, or feel the crunch of gravel under my feet. I expect to die in French-heeled pumps and embroidered silk stockings and the finest, silliest silk things ever put in a show window to tempt the soul of a woman. But it took just two weeks and three days to drive Casey back to his sour-dough can."
He had to boot Burt to drive him out for the horses. Riggs followed him. Shady Jones did nothing except grumble. Wilson, by common consent, always made the sour-dough bread, and he was slow about it this morning. Anson and Moze did the rest of the work, without alacrity. The girl did not appear. "Is she dead?" growled Anson. "No, she ain't," replied Wilson, looking up.
If there's one thing a sour-dough can do it's sure walk." Once, Smoke lighted a match and glanced at his watch. He never repeated it, for so quick was the bite of the frost on his bared hands, that half an hour passed before they were again comfortable. "Four o'clock," he said, as he pulled on his mittens, "and we've already passed three hundred."
"Well a " The General looked round. "Travelin' depends on the weather." Dillon helped him out. "Exactly. Depends on the weather," echoed the General. "You don't get an old Sour-dough like Dillon to travel at forty degrees." "How are you to know?" whispered Schiff. "Tie a little bottle o' quick to your sled," answered Dillon. "Bottle o' what?" asked the Boy.
But he hadn't the price of a Ford, and Casey abhors debt; so he reminded himself cheerfully that many a millionaire would still be poor if he had turned up his nose at burros, sour-dough cans and the business end of pick and shovel, and made the deal. At that, he was better off than most prospectors, he told himself on the night of his purchase. He had the mule, William, to ride.
Their fare was monotonous: sour-dough bread, bacon, beans, and an occasional dish of rice cooked along with a handful of prunes. Fresh meat they failed to obtain. There was an unwonted absence of animal life. At rare intervals they chanced upon the trail of a snowshoe rabbit or an ermine; but in the main it seemed that all life had fled the land.
Cash was mixing a batch of sour-dough bread into loaves, and he did not say anything at all when Bud came in and stood beside the stove, warming his hands and glowering around the room. He merely looked up, and then went on with his bread making. Bud was not a pretty sight.
He had met Glen, had talked with her, looked into her eyes, and felt the firm pressure of her hand. Fate was kind to him, he reasoned, and it augured well for the future. He was tired and hungry when he reached his little tent on the bank of the creek. A supper of broiled lamb, sour-dough bread, stewed dried fruit, and tea greatly refreshed him.
Thus we progressed the length of their commercial centre, the incidents varying but little. "Hello, Sour-dough, you old shellback! When did you come off the trail?" "Just got in. My lands! but it's good to be back. Billy, shake hands with my friend Colonel Ruggles." I mean to say, the persons were not all named "Billy," that being used only by way of illustration.
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