They left the swamp by the west road
and followed the trail until they found the men. To the Angel it seemed
complete charm. In the shadiest spot on the west side of the line, at
the edge of the swamp and very close Freckles' room, they were
cutting bushes and clearing space for a big tent for the men's
sleeping-quarters, another for a dining-hall, and a board shack for the
cook. The teamsters were unloading, the horses were cropping leaves from
the bushes, while each man was doing his part toward the construction of
the new Limberlost quarters.
Freckles helped the Angel climb on a wagonload of canvas in the shade.
She removed her leggings, wiped her heated face, and glowed with
happiness and interest.
The gang had been sifted carefully. McLean now felt that there was not a
man in it who was not trustworthy.
They all had heard of the Angel's plucky ride for Freckles' relief;
several of them had been in the rescue party. Others, new since that
time, had heard the tale rehearsed in its every aspect around the
smudge-fires at night.
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