Dad had had him for ten years, and trusted him a million miles farther than he would trust anybody else--for Crawford could no more lie than could the multiplication-table; if he said dad was "critically ill," that settled it; dad was.

I used to tell Barney MacTague, when he thought it queer that I knew so little about dad's affairs, that dad was a fireproof safe, and Crawford was the combination lock.

But perhaps it was the other way around; at any rate, they understood each other perfectly, and no other living man understood either.
The darkness flowed down over the land and hid the farther hills; the sky-line crept closer until White Divide seemed the boundary of the world, and all beyond its tumbled shade was untried mystery.

Frosty, a shadowy figure rising and falling regularly beside me, turned his face and spoke again: "We ought to make Pochette's Crossing by daylight, or a little after--with luck," he said.

"We'll have to get horses from him to go on with; these will be all in, when we get that far." "We'll try and sneak through the pass," I answered, putting unpleasant thoughts resolutely behind me.