The Rambler Club
                           in the Mountains

                        BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

                               AUTHOR OF

                       "THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
                   "THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP"
                                 ETC.

                      THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
                             PHILADELPHIA
                                 MCMX

                               COPYRIGHT
                                1910 BY
                               THE PENN
                              PUBLISHING
                                COMPANY




                             Introduction


In pursuance of his intention to write stories full of lively,
wholesome adventure for boys, the author presents "The Rambler Club in
the Mountains," following "The Rambler Club Afloat," and "The Rambler
Club's Winter Camp."

The five boys leave their home in Wisconsin and journey to the
far-away state of Oregon. There, in the mountain wilderness, among the
haunts of big game, they meet with plenty of exciting adventures; and
Dick Travers, the "official photographer," succeeds in making some
remarkable snap-shots.

"Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin, who are harboring fancied
grievances, unintentionally bring the boys into great peril. Their
thrilling experience, however, enables them to solve the mystery in the
fate of Howard Fenton, who has been carried through the gorge of Canyon
River.

The Ramblers find all their courage and endurance called into play,
but prove again that they are made of the right stuff.

In spite of all they have gone through, the boys have not lost their
love for roughing it, and they look forward with pleasure to other
adventures with rifle and rod, some of which are recounted in "The
Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."

                                                   W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.




                               Contents


                           I. UP TO THE LAKE

                          II. HOWARD FENTON

                         III. ON THE "DAUNTLESS"

                          IV. THE ISLAND CAMP

                           V. OUT IN THE STORM

                          VI. THE NATIONAL GAME

                         VII. FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER

                        VIII. THE INTRUDER

                          IX. AN EXCURSION

                           X. HOWARD IN DANGER

                          XI. "LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"

                         XII. DOWN THE GORGE

                        XIII. HANK MERWIN'S CABIN

                         XIV. A BEACON LIGHT

                          XV. DICK'S MOOSE

                         XVI. TACKLING "OLD EPHRAIM"

                        XVII. ON THE MOUNTAIN

                       XVIII. THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE

                         XIX. ABOVE THE CLOUDS

                          XX. BOB'S WILDCAT

                         XXI. DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE

                        XXII. CHASING "LITTLE BILL"

                       XXIII. CANYON RIVER

                        XXIV. "YOU SAVED MY LIFE!"

                         XXV. "HELLO, BOB SOMERS!"

                        XXVI. ACROSS THE CURRENT

                       XXVII. UP THE CLIFFS

                      XXVIII. ALL TOGETHER




                             Illustrations


                     A BOY STEPPED FORWARD

                     THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE

                     "THE 'DAUNTLESS' IS IN THE GORGE"

                     "HE'S DONE FOR"

                     DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT




                   The Rambler Club in the Mountains




                               CHAPTER I

                            UP TO THE LAKE


"Well, boys, here we are at last!"

Bob Somers, with a smile of satisfaction on his healthy, sunburned
face, uttered these words, as he stood, surrounded by his fellow
members of the Rambler Club, at a small railroad station in Oregon.
To their left, above a line of trees, columns of brownish smoke and
jets of dazzling white steam shot up, each moment changing position
and showing how fast the train from which they had just alighted was
speeding on its way over the iron rails.

About them was a rich and fertile valley overlooked by a range of
rugged mountains, several of whose summits, crowned with snow, gleamed
brightly against the sky. It was a wild and beautiful prospect that met
the Ramblers' gaze, and their eyes sparkled.

"Well, here we are at last!" repeated "Captain Bob," seating himself
upon a trunk. "What do you think of it, Chubby?"

Stout, good-natured Dave Brandon, fanning his face vigorously, paused
for an instant, turned slowly around until his eyes had taken in the
entire scene, and then replied, "Simply grand, Bob. My, but won't I
make some great sketches!"

"Chub--artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But
don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."

"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em,"
grinned little Tom Clifton--"real exciting sport, that."

"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully.
"It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle
said----"

"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom
Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and----"

"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.

"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.

"Cinnamon--that's it--knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom,
with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which
curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that
stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."

"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial
frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare
suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel
uncommonly tired--and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a
square meal."

A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the
door.

"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he
remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell,
jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.

Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master,
reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he
connected; "but he'll be here all right--don't worry yourselves--there!"

He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction
with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object
which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and
apparently moving at a snail's pace.

"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.

"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I
wish he would hurry."

"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the
station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some
party was a-going to have the place this summer."

"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us
there."

Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the
boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally
resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip
came over the still air.

In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple
grays, rattled briskly along.

"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave
Brandon, resuming a standing posture.

To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his
horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.

"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.

"Mornin', Jed--mornin', gents!"

The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group
critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.

In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose,
a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown
were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted
that he wore an extremely sour expression.

"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular
party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."

"I see 'em--my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of
truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay
here all your lives, ain't yer?"

"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.

"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give
you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."

But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself
on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.

"Them nags has to take a rest," he announced, calmly. "Beats me, Jed,
why any one should want to come out here. Only wish I had 'nuff coin to
git away."

The station-master laughed.

"'Tain't the first time you've said so, Bill," he observed, dryly.

"An' won't be the last, nuther. I ain't never had no chance. Jack
Bender went off to Portland, an' I hear tell he's makin' lots of money.
I'm smart as him, any day."

"Big Bill's" restless eyes fixed themselves on the other's face, and,
as if expecting that his statement might be challenged, he paused.

Then, as silence ensued, Bob Somers spoke up. "How long will it take us
to reach the village?" he asked.

"If the old rattleboard don't git throw'd down the precipice, about
five hours."

"What precipice?" asked Tom Clifton, with an uneasy look.

"Over at Blinker's Pass--a clean drop of three hundred feet, 'most
straight as the walls of this here shanty, eh, Jed?"

"Whew! Anything ever happen there?" asked Tom.

"Four year ago next June, a hoss slipped, took over his mate, an' as
neat a trap as you ever laid yer eyes on was busted into a thousand
pieces."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Tom, breathlessly, "wasn't that awful! Driver
go over, too?"

"Jest managed to jump an' save hisself."

"Are your horses liable to stumble?" Tom's voice was slightly
tremulous, and he glanced sharply at the four dapple grays.

"All hosses is," was the unsatisfactory reply, "but I cant be a-talkin'
here all day--give us a hand, Jed--no, we don't want no help." He
waved aside the boys, seized hold of a box, and, within a few minutes,
assisted by the station-master, had stowed away the baggage upon the
top of the vehicle.

"Lucky we ain't got no other passengers to-day," he grumbled, as he
passed an enormous red handkerchief across his perspiring forehead.
"Fetch out the mail-bag, Jed, an' we'll git. Somebody can ride up with
me, if he wants to."

"I will," said Bob Somers, quickly.

In a jiffy, he had climbed up to the seat.

"Awful selfish, I know, fellows," he said, smilingly, "and----"

But his further speech was cut short by "Big Bill," who dropped heavily
beside him and picked up the lines.

"Git up, there! Whoa--steady, boy, steady--so long, Jed." His long,
snake-like whip twisted and writhed through the air, cracking like a
volley of pistol-shots; the leaders plunged forward, and, in a moment,
a cloud of dust again arose, and the little station was veiled behind
the flying particles.

The dapple grays, at an even trot, pounded over the yellow road, past
white farmhouses, green fields and orchards loaded with fruit, toward
the tree-covered mountains which loomed up straight ahead.

"This is a dandy country," cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "Must
be all kinds of game out here. Say, are there many visitors at the
village?"

"Ever since people got the idea that it was a good health resort,
we've had 'em--that is now an' then," responded the driver, skilfully
flipping the off-horse on the ear, "but I only wish I could git away."

Bob smiled. "Any young fellows around?" he asked--"enough to make up a
baseball nine? It would be jolly good fun to have a game."

"I ain't got no time for such foolishness," growled "Big Bill,"
flipping the other horse with equal skill. "There's young fellers
around, of course. Did you ever see a place without 'em? An' I ain't
a-sayin' that they're all they should be, neither."

"Some people from New York here, aren't there?"

"How did you know?" queried Dugan, with a look of surprise.

"Oh, my uncle told me something about 'em. Said they were good sort,
and all that."

"Guess you're talkin' 'bout Fenton an' his son, Howard," responded
Dugan, frowning until the lines on either side of his nose had deepened
into ruts. "They're staying at the hotel. A good sort, you say? Well,
I haven't much use for 'em. Neither one never throw'd no coin in my
way. Whoa, you brute! If that little feller inside sees old 'Peggy'
a-stumblin' like that, he'll be scared enough to git out--an' walk."

Dugan's sour expression relaxed, and he laughed loudly.

The road led across a rolling valley, and Bob Somers drew an
involuntary breath of admiration as the ever-changing panorama opened
out before him. Rugged forms on the mountains gradually grew more
distinct, until the rocky sides of frowning precipices could be clearly
seen.

"Pretty heavily timbered," observed Bob, with a glance aloft. "Great
Scott, that mountain we're coming to is a whopper, all right."

"'Tain't nothin' to some," replied Dugan, "but I reckon when we git to
Blinkers Pass you'll want to climb inside--most of 'em does."

"Not I," laughed Bob. "Only wish we were there now. Hello, Dave!" he
sang out.

"Hello, Bob!" came a cheery response from within the coach.

"What do you think of this for scenery--isn't it great?"

"Oh, ho--best I ever saw. I'm getting inspirations every minute. Did
you ever see anything prettier than this?"

As he spoke, the vehicle lumbered heavily over a bridge. Below, a
turbulent stream foamed its way in and out among rocks and boulders,
sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. The trail led upward, and when
an hour had passed--an hour full of delight to the boys--they were in
the midst of a wild and unfrequented region. Here and there, leaves of
the maple and ash shone out against the darker pines and cedars, while
the dogwood in full bloom lightened the landscape with its cheerful
colors. Forest perfumes filled the air, and the notes of many woodland
songsters rose above the steady grind of the coach.

"Perfectly su-perb--magnificent!" floated out of the window, and Bob
Somers chuckled as he listened to the delighted comments of his friends.

It was a long, toilsome ascent. The road twisted and turned, now lost
in the dark, gloomy recesses of the mountain, then emerging into the
clear daylight, where views of the broad valley were obtained.

"Crickets, but we are getting up in the air," called out Tom Clifton.
"How much further is it to that pass?"

Dugan pulled up his panting horses. "A right smart ways, yet," he
answered, "but you'll know it when we get there, young 'un."

At the next halting place, a magnificent view caused the Ramblers to
almost exhaust their vocabulary of admiring expressions. A veil of
bluish mist hung over the opposite mountain, while its snow-capped
summit, rising clear, shone out brilliantly against the sky. Far down
in the valley a silver torrent threaded its way among the rich masses
of vegetation.

"Glorious!" cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "It certainly makes a
chap feel small. Know how high that mountain is, Mr. Dugan?"

The driver snorted.

"Bill--plain Bill's my name," he said, sourly. "Never had no tape
measure long enough to find out, but some says it's five thousand feet."

"And it looks it," was Bob's comment.

"In ten minutes we'll git to Blinker's Pass," went on "Big Bill,"
slowly. "Don't know but what we oughter blindfold that little feller
inside--say, what's the fat boy's name?"

"Dave Brandon."

"He don't look as if he ever done a lick of work in his life. Whoa, you
'Peggy.' Too clost to the pass for any of that game;" and Bill, with a
laugh, gazed into Bob Somers' face.

"Might as well give it up, Bill--you can't scare me," laughed Bob.
"Guess you won't find Tom Clifton showing the white feather, either."

"We hain't came to it yet," and Bill smiled grimly.

But the pass was soon reached. The road rose steeply, then stretched
ahead in a level course for a considerable distance.

Bob Somers, in spite of his assurance, felt a strange tremor run
through him, as they reached the dangerous point. Below, the jagged
rocks extended in a sheer descent of several hundred feet, and between
them and the bottom was but a narrow strip of turf and rocks. He
clutched hold of the seat in a firm grasp and gazed breathlessly at the
thrilling sight.

"Something of a drop, eh?" chuckled "Big Bill." "Toss over one of them
rocks an' you won't hear a sound when it strikes."

"Great Scott, it's like being in a balloon," gasped Bob.

"It's taken the nerve of many a fellow--it has. Hey, young 'un, are you
too scared to take a look?"

The driver leaned around and glanced toward the window. He saw Dave
Brandon's smiling face looking calmly down.

"It's deep, and no mistake," observed the stout boy; "but not quite as
bad as I hoped."

"Don't expect much, Chubby, do you?" laughed Bob.

As for little Tom Clifton, he smiled faintly, but made no reply to
Dugan's question, and the latter was quite sure that he breathed a sigh
of relief when the precipice was hidden from view behind a ridge.

Again the coach climbed laboriously upward. Many times the panting
animals were allowed to rest, and the Ramblers became impatient
to reach their destination. Hunger attacked them, and Dave sighed
dolefully as he thought of the long wait before their appetites could
be satisfied.

But at length the road began to descend, and about two o'clock they
caught a glimpse of a shining body of water with two dark spots at its
western end.

"What are they?" asked Bob, with interest.

"Promontory and Hemlock Islands," replied Dugan. "That's Mountain Lake.
We're gittin' there now--village is jist beyond the middle of the lake."

"And mighty glad I am to see it," said Bob. "I can make out some of the
buildings. Are those white spots farmhouses?"

The driver nodded.

"This must be a great place for boating and fishing."

"'Tain't bad--but jist let me give you a word of advice--keep away from
them islands."

"Why?"

"Why?" echoed Dugan, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, jist this
side of 'em is the entrance to Canyon River. It runs a-racin' an'
teamin' through an awful gorge, an' any feller that gits swept in is a
goner."

"Whew! No one ever go through in safety?"

"None that I ever hearn tell of. The sides of the gorge rise plumb out
of the water, an' even if you kin swim like a fish it wouldn't do you
no good."

"Well, I guess you won't catch me trying to swim through," laughed Bob.

"The end of the lake is all right for a feller that knows the
currents," went on Dugan. "That's what I told Howard Fenton."

As if glad that their journey was about over, the horses broke into a
brisk trot and the coach rattled noisily along, swerving from side to
side, while Bill Dugan cracked his long whip at frequent intervals.

He was a skilful but reckless driver, and the last stretch was taken at
a clip which made Bob Somers hold tightly to his seat.

As they approached the lake, Captain Bob became more and more pleased
with its surroundings. The forms of the two islands began to stand out
clearly, and he soon saw that the nearest was scarcely more than two
hundred yards from the end of the picturesque sheet of water. The lake
rounded sharply at this point, being shut in by granite cliffs. It was
here, immediately opposite Promontory Island, that Canyon River had its
source, the water flowing into a gorge whose towering walls rose in
places from five hundred to a thousand feet.

"Do people climb the mountain?" asked Bob.

"Anybody that don't mind riskin' their necks kin. But it's an awful
job, an' nobody with any sense would try it," growled Dugan. "Onct,
I was foolish enough ter go up with some fellers. We set out early,
an'"--Dugan paused; the recollections brought out the wrinkles on his
forehead again--"I'll never forgit it. After a-climbin' an' climbin',
we came to a wall of rock risin' most straight up in the air."

"Well, what happened?"

"The fust thing we did arter that was to run inter a hornet's nest,
an' in tryin' ter git away from the pesky bugs I fell down a bank,
every blessed cent I had rolled out of me pockets, an', for all I know,
they're a-rollin' yet."

Bob politely refrained from smiling at Bill Dugan's ludicrous
expression of disgust.

"Not only that," went on the driver, "but I ruined me best pair of
boots, an' was laid up for a week with a bad arm. An' all that jist to
hear the sound of a waterfall in the distance--always did run in mean
luck."

"Climb the wall of rock?" queried Bob.

"I did not," snorted Dugan. "T'other chaps wanted to, but I says, 'Not
fur me.'"

"Then you never saw the waterfall?"

"No! An' don't want to, nuther. Some fellers has, but the pesky birds
an' animals kin do all the lookin', as fur as I keer. As I tole you
afore, anybody what gits caught in that gorge is a goner. Where the
river comes out there's a current that would make you shiver to look
at. No boat could git up it."

"How is the mountain on the other side?"

"Like a twin brother to this one, an' hard to tell which is the
meanest. None of us around here ever keers to go up, but strangers,
like as not, will be crazy 'nuff ter try it."

"That's mighty interesting--I mean the waterfall," observed Bob Somers.

"I suspicioned you'd say so, an' wouldn't s'prise me if you turned out
to be one of them fellers what don't mind a-runnin' inter danger--the
wuss, the better. Only hopes you git cured soon," and with this
ill-natured remark the driver lapsed into silence, while Bob devoted
his attention to the scenery.

The lake now stretched straight ahead, its furthest shore almost lost
in a haze that enveloped the base of the mountains beyond. The road led
down to the water's edge, and once there, it seemed but a few minutes
before the stage-coach was rattling past the outlying farms. The
individual houses of the village were now clearly distinguishable, as
well as a wharf, at which several boats were moored.

At length, the vehicle drew up in front of the Resort House, a rather
pretentious building which combined hotel, post-office and general
store.

It seemed as if the entire male population had assembled to witness
the arrival of the coach. Men and boys lolled about, exhibiting the
liveliest interest in the proceedings, and gaping curiously at the five
boys, as they stepped to the ground.

"Act as if they'd never seen a human being before," whispered Sam
Randall. "My, but it's good to stretch one's legs again."

"Say, which of you fellows is Bob Somers?" exclaimed a cheery voice.

[Illustration: A BOY STEPPED FORWARD.]

From among the group, a boy stepped forward, looking inquiringly from
one to another.




                              CHAPTER II

                             HOWARD FENTON


His general appearance indicated at once that he was not a native of
that region. His neat blue suit, of the latest cut, set off a slight,
boyish figure to advantage, and seemed more appropriate to Fifth Avenue
than to a small mountain village. A shock of chestnut hair, in defiance
of comb and brush, swept across a white forehead, and his frank blue
eyes were pleasant to look upon. Below them, a coat of tan told of his
outdoor life.

Bob Somers held out his hand.

"I'll bet you're Howard Fenton," he said, warmly.

"You've struck it," laughed the other, accepting the proffered hand
and giving it a hearty shake. "And mighty glad I am, too, that you
chaps have arrived," he went on, totally ignoring the presence of many
interested listeners.

"My uncle spoke to me about you," said Bob. "Fellows, this is Howard
Fenton."

"Feels good to meet some one," laughed Dave. "Takes off some of the
strangeness of landing in a strange place. How do you like it out here?"

"For a while, not at all," replied Fenton, lowering his voice. "You
see," he added, confidentially, "I was always used to the city, and
the strangeness you speak of--well"--he drew a long breath--"it hit me
pretty hard, at first. Silly, I know, but the pater--he's out here with
me--thought he knew what kind of a vacation I'd enjoy."

"And he wasn't mistaken, after all," interrupted Bob; "I can see that
by your face."

"I should say not. A few days, and I began to like it immensely."

"See here," broke in Dugan's rough voice, as its owner stepped out of
the post-office, "I'm going to take your truck over to the house. If
you're goin', jump in;" and, without waiting for a reply, he mounted to
his seat.

"Coming along, Fenton, aren't you?" inquired Bob, cordially.

The New York boy nodded.

"Sure," he answered. "We'll get better acquainted on the way. Maybe I
can help you to get things started."

As the coach whirled along, Fenton told them that he intended taking
a scientific course in Columbia University and had brought a few
text-books along to study between times.

"And I haven't opened one of them yet," he added, with a laugh.

"Best plan for vacation," said Dave Brandon, lazily.

"Mr. Barton told me that you fellows have formed a club."

"That's right--and we've seen some great times, too," responded Somers.

"Go in for parliamentary procedure and all that, do you--whereas, etc.,
etc., be it therefore resolved that----"

"Not much," grinned Sam Randall. "Hunting, fishing, and having a good
time generally is what we're after. That stout boy opposite is our
poet laureate and artist in chief; Dick, here, is photographer; Bob's
captain, and Tom Clifton and I are just ordinaries."

Fenton laughed.

"Do you really paint?" he asked, with interest, turning toward Dave.

"Oh, yes--a little," admitted the latter. "Just took it up last winter,
though."

"Are you going to make any sketches out here?"

"It would take an awful lot to keep me from it. I have a stack of
canvas that has to be daubed up. And talk about fine views, never saw
anything to beat 'em."

"I met Mr. Barton several times," went on Fenton. "He sort of took to
me because I came from New York."

"Yes, that's where he used to live," said Bob. "Uncle Isaac came out
here a good many years ago. He has some big orchards a few miles
away--grows all sorts of fruits, you know. He bought this house because
it's right near the lake."

"Mighty good of him to invite us out here, wasn't it?" put in Sam
Randall.

"Uncle got the idea of going to Europe," added Bob, by way of
explanation, "so he suggested that the whole crowd come over. And he
left a colored boy to do the cooking, too."

Fenton nodded, and Bob went on, "The Rambler Club rendered father a
big service not long ago. We took a trip for him, and on the way some
fellows blew up our motor boat."

"Blew it up?" gasped Fenton.

"Yes--into a thousand bits. I'll tell you about it some time. Well,
dad insisted upon making up the loss in some way, and when Uncle Isaac
proposed this jaunt, I didn't have any trouble in fixing it up. Uncle
Isaac and his wife left a bit sooner than they expected, and hustled us
out here."

"Nothing could have suited me better," declared Fenton, warmly. "I
guess you won't mind my mixing in with you once in a while. Most of
the visitors in town are elderly people, and the boys," he lowered his
voice, "well, they're good enough chaps in their way, but not just the
sort I like. Jim Havens and Tom Sanders are the two I know best."

"Why do they call Dugan 'Big Bill'?" asked Tom Clifton. "He isn't big."

Fenton grinned.

"Has a nephew of the same name," he explained. "He's smaller, so it's
'Big Bill' and 'Little Bill.' Fine pair they are, too. Hello--here we
are."

This announcement interested the boys immensely. The coach was turning
into a private road, which led toward a substantial two-story building.
Standing some distance back of the main thoroughfare, its graceful
white outlines could be seen, surrounded by beautiful trees and
shrubbery. To its left was a stable.

"Not a bad looking place, eh, fellows?" observed Bob, with satisfaction.

"It's dandy," put in Dick Travers, enthusiastically. "And so close to
the lake."

"Yum--yum, I can't see anything, I'm so hungry," sighed Dave. "Thank
goodness--no more traveling to-day."

As Dugan brought up his horses before the entrance, a smiling colored
lad rushed out.

"I 'clar' to goodness, the boys has come at last, eh? Mistah Dugan!" he
exclaimed. "I certainly is glad, for suah."

"Show it then, Sam Bins, by helpin' to git this here truck off the
rattleboard," growled the driver.

"So you is Mistah Somers, an' party," went on the lad. "I've been
a-lookin' for yo' every day. Yo' sho must be hungry, gemmen. All right,
Mistah Dugan, I'll help yo'. Step inside, Mistah Somers an' fren's, an'
I'll git a meal that'll do yo' a power of good."

"Glorious words," murmured Dave, "to be followed by glorious action."

Ten minutes later, the "rattleboard" had disappeared, and the boys were
busily engaged in removing the dust and stains of travel.

The rooms of Rickham House were large and furnished more for
comfort than appearance. As the boys collected in the large, square
dining-hall, they examined with interest the old-fashioned fireplace,
substantial oak furniture and numerous engravings of hunting scenes
which hung upon the walls.

Sam Bins had disappeared, but occasionally sounds from the open door
indicated that something was happening in the kitchen.

"Did you ever think how much we owe to cooks?" said Dave, as he settled
down in a comfortable chair. "Why----"

"Huh, cut it out, Chubby," admonished Dick Travers. "Let's talk about
something worth while."

"Won't do it now, after being sat on like that," sighed the poet. "Wake
me up, fellows, when dinner is ready," and he closed his eyes.

Sam Bins was a good cook and had a proper appreciation of the size of a
hungry boy's appetite. The meal was therefore a bountiful one.

Between talking over their plans, relating stories and listening to
Fenton's description of New York, the Ramblers passed a very pleasant
time.

The meal at length having been concluded, Sam Bins took them to the
stable and exhibited a pair of fine saddle-horses.

"Yo' fellahs know how to ride, ob course," he said, with a huge grin.

"Not I," responded Fenton, decidedly, as the others nodded. "Never was
on a horse in my life."

Sam Bins was profoundly astonished.

"Then I wouldn't advise yo' to try either of dese," he said, rather
scornfully. "Dey's got a lot ob spirit--dey has."

Fenton laughingly assured him that he wouldn't.

The rest of the day was spent in arranging their rooms. Dave and Sam
took one, Tom and Dick another, while Bob Somers used a smaller one at
the western end.

Since leaving their homes in Wisconsin, they had been almost constantly
traveling, and the whole of the previous night was spent on the cars.
This, with the journey on the stage-coach, had fatigued them greatly.
But in spite of eyes that persisted in blinking, they bravely kept at
work until their belongings were arranged to suit them.

Fenton, the city boy, had a wholesome respect for firearms, and the
Ramblers, as they exhibited their brightly polished shotguns and
rifles, filled him with apprehension.

"I'd be afraid of my life to handle one of those things," he admitted,
candidly. "You see," he grinned, "I never had any occasion to use 'em
in New York. But there are two things I've learned pretty well out
here--sailing a boat and handling a canoe--what's the matter with
taking a sail day after to-morrow?" he rattled on. "The pater has a
good boat, the 'Dauntless,' and, if you like, we'll explore Promontory
and Hemlock Islands. They camp out there once in a while. Tom Sanders
and Jim Havens, the fellows I spoke about, are over there now."

"You can just bet we'd like it," declared Bob, enthusiastically.

"The lake is perfectly safe as far as the passage between the islands,"
went on Fenton. "I won't take you into any danger."

"You are not going to find us a scary crowd," laughed Bob; and the
matter was arranged then and there. Fenton soon after took his
departure.

"A nice chap, that," observed Dave, as his slight figure grew small in
the distance.

"Awful glad we got acquainted so soon," said Tom. "Somehow or other, he
doesn't seem like a stranger. A smart fellow, too."

"He's in good company, then, Tom," was Dick Travers' rejoinder.

That evening, the Ramblers sat on the wide veranda, enjoying the
pleasant air.

The moon was mirrored in shining streaks on the breeze-swept waters
of the lake, and its light played hide-and-seek on the mountain crags
beyond. Several peaks gleamed ghostly white against a greenish sky,
while the valley appeared gray and mysterious.

"Some of those mountains look like volcanoes," observed Tom.

"When did you ever see a volcano?" laughed Dick.

"In books, smarty."

"Some of them were volcanoes at one time," declared Dave Brandon, "and
there must have been terrible eruptions. I've read that there's lots of
lava and basaltic rock to be seen, and----"

"Basaltic rock? Excuse me, Chubby, but don't spring anything like that
so suddenly. Basaltic--wow!" and Dick's companions joined in the laugh
that followed.

"Oregon is a great state," went on Dave, with a twinkle in his eye.
"There's a lake--Crater Lake they call it--an awful big sheet of water,
right in the crater of an extinct volcano, away up in the air, with
high walls all around."

"Nice place to drop in," commented Sam.

"Canyon River interests me a whole lot," observed Bob. "Of course most
of the rivers here are swift-flowing, and there are many canyons--but
that waterfall--great to get a look at it, eh?"

"Yes, if we could soar above it in a flying machine," drawled Dave.
"Even the thought of climbing a mountain makes me tired. Fellows, I'm
going to turn right in."

And the others decided to follow his example.




                              CHAPTER III

                          ON THE "DAUNTLESS"


Breakfast on the following morning was quite late. Only a series of
wild whoops and yells, which almost scared Sam Bins out of his senses,
had served to awaken Dave Brandon, and he protested vigorously.

"Why can't you let a fellow sleep?" he grumbled. "It's only eleven
hours ago that I tumbled into bed."

"Nine o'clock, nine o'clock!" called Sam, laughingly. "Do you want to
sleep all day?"

"Yes, Sam--you've struck it exactly. Think I will," and Dave tried to
lock the door.

But three sturdy shoulders proved too much, and he capitulated.

A tour of the grounds followed their meal. To the east of Rickham House
was a large, level field, and on reaching it Sam Randall uttered an
exclamation.

"As I live, a regular diamond!" he said. "Crickets, isn't this fine?"

"Well, I should say so," put in Dick.

"Uncle Isaac was always great on baseball," explained Bob. "Played a
good bit himself--centre field, I think. Well, I suppose he managed to
have a game here, once in a while. But, come on, fellows, let's take a
look at the boats."

Right across the road, which followed the course of the lake, and
almost directly opposite the house, was Mr. Barton's private wharf.
Besides several canoes, he owned the sailboats "Speedy" and "Spray."
Both were about twenty feet long, but the former was narrow of beam and
built mainly for the purpose which its name implied.

"What a grand summer we'll have," cried Tom Clifton, enthusiastically,
as he stooped over to examine the trim-looking craft.

"Well, I rather guess so," said Sam. "But it's time now to get over and
see Fenton."

Back to the yellow road they trudged. It led past farmhouses, and
fields with growing crops, or orchards containing many kinds of fruit
trees. It was a rich and fertile valley. Here and there, flowers grew
in rich profusion, roses, lilac and rhododendrons mingling their color
in harmonious contrasts.

The village was about half a mile from Rickham House. It had enjoyed a
boom as a health resort, on account of newly-discovered springs near
by, and the Resort House was one of the results which followed. Another
hotel was in the near future.

The boys found a few loungers on the porch of the hotel. They
stared at the Ramblers curiously. One in particular--a typical
mountaineer--seemed the most interested. He was a tall, thin man, with
deeply wrinkled face, scraggly brownish beard, and wore an expression
which Dick Travers declared "made 'Big Bill's' face seem positively
mirthful."

"Wal, wal! what's all this?" he growled. "Where did this parcel of boys
drop from?"

"Not from an air-ship, that's sure," replied Dick, flippantly.

"That ain't answerin' my question, youngster. Be you a-goin' ter stay
long?"

"Long enough to knock over a grizzly or two," laughed Dick. "Ever see
any?"

"Did I ever see any?" snorted the tall man. "Boys--you hear that?
Askin' old Joe Tomlin sich a question."

"He's makin' fun of ye, Joe," said some one, with a sly wink.

"No one kin do that," exclaimed the other, fiercely. "See here, kid----"

But the Ramblers had entered the hotel.

They soon found Howard Fenton, who introduced them to his father, a
slender, grave-looking gentleman wearing a beard.

But they soon found that Mr. Fenton's cold appearance belied his
nature. He entered into their talk with almost the zest of a boy, and
all were really sorry when he declined an invitation to accompany them.

"Just the kind of weather for a sail," observed Howard, as they walked
out upon the wharf.

The sky was partly overcast and the low clouds scudded before a breeze
that deeply rippled the surface of the lake. Several boats moored
to the pilings were lazily rocking or straining at their ropes. The
largest was the "Dauntless," a staunch boat, built both for speed and
safety.

"It's mine, boys," said Fenton, with a smile. "Jump in, and let me show
you what a good sailor I've become."

The lines were cast off and the sail run up. In an instant it filled
out. Careening over, under the full force of the wind, the "Dauntless"
plunged her bow into the choppy water, and a cloud of spray dashed over
the rail. Soon she was fairly racing toward the islands, Promontory
rising grim and majestic against the lowering sky.

"Isn't this grand?" cried Bob. "See how fast we're leaving the shore.
Where are you going to land us, Fenton?"

"On Promontory Island. But we have to go through the passageway and
around on the other side."

It seemed but a short time before they were skirting the shore of
Hemlock Island, while a little way off the more rugged sides of the
other rose, in places, almost perpendicularly. Here and there, stunted
growth struggled for existence, but the summit was crowned with a thick
growth of trees. Hemlock Island was flat, and almost entirely wooded.

"Look alive, fellows!" warned Fenton, at length.

The boom swung around, the "Dauntless" shivered and shook, then,
righting herself easily, sent the spray flying again, as she came about
and headed for the passageway.

"What whopping big trees," cried Tom Clifton, admiringly, noticing the
giants that rose here and there among the dark firs.

"Redwood," said Fenton. "This is a glorious country for trees and plant
life generally. There are oaks in there, besides wild cherry and many
other kinds. Of course some parts of the state are barren, with salt
marshes and plains covered with sage-brush."

"Give me this part every time, then," said Bob. "Doesn't it look
inviting in there, fellows? Imagine a nice little camp, and dinner
under way."

"Wait until you see the other side of Promontory," put in Fenton; "it
beats this all hollow."

At the proper time, the course of the boat was again changed slightly,
and they entered a wide channel.

The passageway was almost in the shape of a letter V, with irregular
sides.

In the shelter of the great crags, the speed of the "Dauntless" was
considerably checked, indeed, within the channel, she was almost
becalmed.

"Think of trying to climb that cliff, Chubby," exclaimed Sam Randall,
glancing aloft. "Whew, wouldn't it be awful?"

"Makes me nervous to think of it, even," broke in Tommy Clifton.

"I can show you a way to reach the top without danger," laughed Fenton.
"From there, you get a good view of Canyon River."

In a short time the "Dauntless" swung around a point.

On this side, the character of the island was different. In parts there
were rocky cliffs, while elsewhere thickly-wooded slopes led upward.
They were steep, but easily climbed.

Now and then they passed picturesque coves and wooded points, and the
newcomers were thoroughly charmed.

"Hello, I see a boat!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.

"And by the flying partridge, the smoke of a camp-fire," laughed Dave.

"And a tent," chimed in Sam Randall.

"Probably Jim Havens and Tom Sanders," put in Fenton. "Might as well
land;" and so speaking, he headed the "Dauntless" toward the shore.

As they approached the camp, which was built on a knoll, three young
men were seen lazily reclining on the ground. They sprang to their feet
and walked forward.




                              CHAPTER IV

                            THE ISLAND CAMP


"Havens, Sanders and 'Little Bill' Dugan," added Fenton, quietly, as a
hail came from the shore.

"A jolly good place for a camp," observed Bob.

"But no game around worth shooting at," objected Sam. "Hello, look at
that sign they've got."

On a strip of canvas, stretching from one tree to another, was painted
in rude black letters, "Idleman's Club."

"Hello there, Fenton," came from the shore; "what crowd is that you've
got?"

"Wait and see, Havens," replied Howard, smilingly.

The sail rattled down and the "Dauntless" glided slowly over the
transparent water toward a boat moored close by. Havens caught a rope,
and, in a moment, the boys were scrambling ashore.

Jim Havens was a sturdy-looking boy, with a rather pleasant face and
manner, while Tom Sanders, slimly built, had sharp features and a loud
voice. The Ramblers did not need to be told which was "Little Bill."
That lad had the same aquiline nose, gray eyes and sour expression
which characterized his uncle, the stage-driver.

"Come over to the camp, fellows," invited Havens, pleasantly. "This is
a surprise, all right."

The Idleman's Club had chosen a most inviting situation. Not far away
was a thick grove of trees, while the heights which rose back of them
formed a most pleasing picture.

As the group walked toward the camp-fire, "Little Bill" trailed in the
rear. He did not seem glad to see the visitors, and on learning who Bob
Somers and his friends were, his manner became even less cordial.

Before the tent a brisk fire was burning. Suspended above it several
pots were steaming merrily and sending forth a delicious odor.

The boys examined the camp with interest, peeped into the tent, and
then looked at the game which the Idleman's Club had bagged the day
before.

"Havens," said "Little Bill," suddenly, "I want to go over and see Mr.
Barton this afternoon, an'----"

"Didn't you know he had gone?" asked Bob, in surprise.

"Gone?" echoed Dugan; "yer don't mean ter say so." A blank look came
over his face. "Gone," he repeated, "since when?"

"About five days ago," answered Bob.

"Little Bill" made an angry gesture.

"An' I thought he wasn't a-leavin' till next week."

"Changed his mind," said Bob.

"Wal, wal--an' me here without known' a thing about it. Ain't that
luck?"

Dugan seemed much perturbed.

"An' didn't he say nothin' 'bout me?" he demanded.

"Why, no," replied Bob. "Not in any of his letters."

"Mighty funny, for a fact. I've done odd jobs over at Rickham fur
a long spell, now, an' I was powerful sure he'd give me the job of
lookin' after his horses this summer. Ask Sanders if I wasn't."

"Sure you were," said the thin boy.

"He always called me 'Bill'--old Barton did. He says ter me, 'Bill,
I'll see about it.' Say, why didn't Sam Bins go with him?"

"I don't know," said Bob.

"An' there's another thing. Seein' as how he wouldn't be here this
summer, I wanted ter use the 'Spray.' I spoke to him 'bout that, too."

"Would he agree to that?"

"He didn't say nothin'," admitted Dugan, reluctantly, "but I'm powerful
sure he intended to. Didn't tell me no. Anyway, I suppose it'll be all
right, eh?" and "Little Bill" looked eagerly at Captain Bob.

"I'll write my uncle and find out. I'd like to oblige you, Dugan, but
I'm responsible for things just now. Of course, if he says the word----"

"Guess anybody kin tell what that means," interrupted Dugan, fiercely.
"Talk about the meanest luck yet--lose a job an' all the sport I was
a-goin' ter have this summer--the whole business busted ter bits! Can
you beat it? Mebbe you don't believe what I says, eh?"

Bill raised his voice--his eyes began to snap.

"Certainly I do," laughed Bob.

"Then won't yer let me have the boat like a good feller?"

"Honest, Dugan--I can't, 'til I hear. You can go out with us any time."

"Oh, ain't that partic'lar nice?" sneered "Little Bill." "Eh, Sanders,
did you hear him?"

"Some people's middle name is meanness," was Sanders' diplomatic
response.

Dugan was fast working himself into a passion.

"Old Barton intended to let me use that boat," he cried. "Onct he says
ter me, 'Bill,' he says----"

"Here, here!" interrupted Havens; "you're raising an awful holler over
nothin'."

"I'm standin' up fur me rights'. He says, 'Bill'----"

"Don't get mad, Dugan," said Bob, soothingly. "Come now--be sensible."

"Oh, ho, glorious views around here," broke in Dave. "Going to stay
long, Havens?"

Dugan took a searching look at the poet's smiling fare, sniffed
audibly, and then lapsed into silence.

"Don't know exactly," said Havens, in reply to the question. "There's
plenty of small game, an' fishin' is great. A feller gets sick of the
village."

"Sick of it?" echoed Sanders. "Worse'n that--eh, Dugan?"

The latter nodded.

"I can't git away often enough," he said, sourly.

"Well, fellows," asked Bob, "what do you say to climbing the hill?"

"Count me out of it," said Dave, promptly.

"Oh, you won't find it hard," exclaimed Havens, reassuringly.

"I feel uncommonly sleepy," declared the poet, and he ambled leisurely
toward a mossy bank.

"What will you do when we get to the mountains, Dave?" asked Bob.

"You fellows going there?" asked Havens.

"We certainly are."

The sour expression left Dugan's face. He looked interested and
exchanged glances with Sanders.

"That's where you will find the big game," said Havens, "and I know
how to pilot you around, all right."

"Great!" exclaimed Dick.

"It's pretty risky, though, if you're not good shots."

"We're not so bad at it," laughed Bob; "eh, Chub, over there? But say,
fellows, come on. Let's get our legs in training," and he started off.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob sat down by the side of a huge boulder to
rest. The others were some distance below.

"Little Bill" and Sanders, who had been conversing in low tones, were
the first to approach.

"See here," began Dugan, in a whining voice, "yer ain't riled at the
way I talked, a spell back, are ye? I'm an outspoken feller, I am."

"No, I'm not a bit mad, Dugan," assured Bob.

"Wal," "Little Bill" looked cautiously around, "there ain't nobody
here who knows the mountains better'n Sanders an' me. Don't need ter
go no further fur a guide. Yer couldn't never go there alone. Somebody
out of the crowd would sure git lost, or fall down a precerpice, or
be drownded in one of them mountain streams. It's certain as your name
ain't Willie. Say--is it a go?"

"I'll have to talk to the other chaps, Dugan," answered Bob, evasively.

"But it's only right to take me, after what I've lost," persisted the
other. "Ain't that so?"

"I'll talk to you about it later."

Captain Bob's manner was not encouraging, and Dugan's expression began
to change.

"I suppos'n you'll have Havens," he snapped, "an' is skeered ter say
so."

Bob made no answer, but a faint smile flitted across his face, and
Dugan was quick to notice it. Two lines, rivaling those on his uncle's
forehead, appeared, and he turned away abruptly.

"Wal, I don't keer what yer does," he snapped.

Stalking down the hillside, he rejoined Sanders, who had paused a short
distance away, and the latter was heard to exclaim in a stage whisper,
"Some people's middle name is meanness."

A moment later, the two were lost to view amidst the shrubbery.

When at length the tired boys reached the hilltop, a beautiful view
repaid them. Patches of blue sky appeared between dazzling white clouds
and straight ahead rose the frowning walls of Crescent and Round
Mountains, with the gorge of Canyon River at the base of the former.

Making their way past a small cabin which stood in an open space, the
boys walked out as far as they dared.

Exclamations of wonder and admiration escaped their lips. Far below
them, the water foamed and madly tossed, as it rushed into the narrow
confines of the gorge. For a long distance it stretched ahead, dark
and gloomy, then disappeared behind a jutting crag at a point where
the walls separated, leaving a grassy strip on each side of the river.
To the left, at a great height, the weather-beaten summit of Crescent
Mountain was partially obscured by a slowly-moving cloud.

"I never saw anything finer," declared Bob Somers, at length.

"Think of getting spilled into that current," murmured Dick, whose
thoughts turned in another direction.

"You'd be a goner," said Havens, dryly.

"Suppose, after all, we won't see that waterfall," continued Bob, in a
tone of regret, "eh, Sam?"

"Not much danger of seeing it, but lots trying to," grinned Havens.
"I've climbed most of the mountains around, but I let those two fellows
alone."

As they turned away, a flock of screaming crows circled close overhead.

"Let's take a look at the cabin," suggested Sam. "Seems most as old as
the cliff."

"Nothing left of the door, and window isn't much better," said Tom.
"Wonder who could have lived here."

"Most likely some old crank," put in Dick, as he peeped inside.

The cabin contained a shaky table, a stool with one leg missing and an
empty box, all thickly covered with dust.

"Interesting, but it smells kind of musty," said Sam. "Let's skip."

The descent was made quickly.

"Well, well--what boat is that?" cried Fenton, suddenly.

The group, at that moment, had come in sight of the camp.

"As I live, the 'Dauntless'!" exclaimed Dick. "Doesn't that beat all?"

Sure enough, the graceful sailboat was slowly swinging out from the
shore, and the grinning faces of Sanders and "Little Bill" could be
plainly seen.

"Never heard of such a cheeky pair," put in Bob, indignantly.

"Good-bye, little boys," yelled Sanders. "We've borrowed yer boat fur
a spell." Then, with derisive shouts, they waved their arms, pulled
away at several ropes and the "Dauntless," catching the breeze, rapidly
receded.




                               CHAPTER V

                           OUT IN THE STORM


"Hey, there, come back with that boat!" yelled Howard Fenton.

"Oh, of course we won't!" came from "Little Bill."

"Swim out, Willie, and we'll throw you a line!" shouted Sanders, with a
derisive laugh.

"Make a hundred yards' dash for it. I'll bet on the fat boy!"

"Give Fenton ten feet start, an' he wouldn't lose by more'n a hundred!"

"Dive off the cliff! Don't go in Havens' boat--it has a hole in it!"

These words, floating over the air, grew fainter, as the "Dauntless"
drew away from the island, her sail, a shining patch of white in the
sunlight, and her hull scarcely seen against the rippling water.

"Well, this is a pretty how-de-do, isn't it?" growled Dick. "Talk about
cheek, eh? Looks as if they're going to take their time in coming
back, too."

"Oh, never mind," said Fenton, resignedly. "As long as the boat isn't
hurt, I don't care. Anyway, we can't help ourselves."

Jim Havens looked disturbed.

"Honest, fellows, I didn't know a thing about it," he exclaimed,
earnestly. "Didn't think that Sanders would play such a mean trick."

"Fenton ought to punch him good and plenty," said hot-headed Dick
Travers.

"Rather out of my line," laughed the New York boy. "It's only a bit of
fun on their part. Let's be philosophical, like our friend," and he
pointed toward Dave Brandon asleep on the mossy bank.

"Guess you're right," assented Bob. "Perhaps they won't be long. Awful
nerve, though."

Jim Havens brightened up when he saw that the visitors were disposed to
take it good-naturedly.

"They're not going to hurt the boat," he said; "but I'm afraid that
Dugan will keep right on to the village. He's been wanting for some
time to get a gun that he left with his uncle."

"Why didn't he take your boat, then?"

"Well, the 'Dart' ain't much for speed," admitted Jim, with a faint
smile.

"Oh, that's it. But say, I've heard that 'Little Bill' is rather
reckless with boats."

"Maybe, but Sanders ain't. Whenever you fellers are ready, I'll take
you to the shore--that is, if the two don't get back before that time."

"How about that hole in the boat?" asked Tom Clifton.

"It isn't much. We ran into a rock yesterday and dented a couple of
boards. It's all fixed now."

"And strong enough to hold a ton or so?" laughed Travers, pointing
toward Dave Brandon.

The object of his remarks sat up and yawned.

"Had a fine nap--say, what's up?" he asked.

"You haven't been, for one thing," replied Dick. "Pirates have run off
with the 'Dauntless.'"

"Is that all?" said the poet, calmly, rubbing his eyes. "Thought,
from the way you looked, that something had happened. Tell me about it."

Dave smiled at the recital.

"Real saucy chaps," he said. "That bank makes a capital place for a
nap. When the 'Dauntless' hoves in sight, let me know."

But when several hours had passed, and there was no sign of the boat,
all concluded that Havens' surmise must be correct.

The boys sat around, talked about baseball and hunting, and stood up
and talked about the same things. Then they strolled up and down the
pebbly beach, and cast many an anxious look over the choppy water, for
the wind was blowing much more strongly, and only Dave Brandon was
content.

Finally they lounged around a cheerful blaze, while supper was being
prepared.

[Illustration: THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE.]

Being accustomed to roughing it, none would have cared if they had been
compelled to spend the night on the island, but Howard Fenton did not
wish to worry his father by an unexpected absence. Therefore, when
darkness began to approach, he asked Jim Havens to get the "Dart" ready.

They stayed, however, to finish their scanty meal, and then cleaned up,
still hoping that the "Dauntless" would put in an appearance.

When Howard Fenton finally walked down to the water's edge, the tree
tops were sighing noisily, and black, wild-looking clouds had risen
above the top of the cliff. A sudden and rapidly growing darkness fell
over the scene. It was apparent that the twilight would be very quickly
blotted out.

"Guess we'll have a rough night of it," observed Bob.

"A downright stormy one," grumbled Dick. "Why don't those duffers come
back?"

"We're in for a good ducking--that's what," put in Tom Clifton.

"I really have to get over to the shore, fellows," spoke up Fenton,
earnestly. "My pater would imagine all sorts of terrible things."

"Well, here we go," said Havens, briefly.

"Pile in," added Bob, as he sprang on board the "Dart."

"By Jove, it certainly looks wild out there," declared Sam Randall,
indicating the sombre expanse of lake.

"Enough to make a fellow feel kind of creepy, eh?" chimed in Tom. "The
wind is freshening, too."

"Don't get scared," said Havens, calmly. "Let me run up a couple of
these 'electric lights,' and we'll get under way with a rush."

Several lanterns were fastened in position, then the skipper, aided by
Howard Fenton, started to shove off. Clumsy and heavily laden, the boat
resisted their efforts for a moment, then swung out suddenly into the
gurgling water, at the same instant giving a lurch which was far from
reassuring.

The sail was hoisted and the "Dart" instantly responded by plunging her
nose deeply in the water, white showers of spray were sent flying in
all directions.

Dave Brandon was presently heard to murmur, "H'm--that last one hit the
only dry spot left."

In the dim light, the crags of Promontory Island looked gigantic
and the dark line of firs on Hemlock blended mysteriously into the
distance.

"I 'most wish we hadn't come," declared Tom Clifton, nervously. "Wow! I
thought she was going over that time sure."

"Wind enough to blow a fellow's head off," grumbled Dick. "It's worse
than I thought."

"And listen to that water gurgling," observed Fenton. "Keep your eyes
open for the 'Dauntless.'"

"Likely to meet her in the passageway," said Havens, grimly. "Hold on
tight, fellows, and mind your heads!"

The sail rattled and banged as the boom swung around, while a sheet of
water foamed over the sides. Already they were drawing near the space
which separated the islands.

"Oh, we'll get smashed to bits," groaned Tom Clifton.

"Not on your life, sonny," laughed the skipper. "I could go through
here with my eyes shut."

A moment more, and the "Dart" glided into comparatively smooth water.

"Oh, ho! This is better," remarked the "poet," cheerfully, "but I guess
the next stretch will be worse than ever, eh, Bob?"

"We're going to be tossed about a bit, that's sure," commented the
captain. "How wet are you, Chub, anyway?"

"Just a little more than if I'd been soused in the lake," laughed Dave.
"Hello, here comes the finishing touch--rain, by Jove! Might as well
get out and swim."

When the "Dart" reached the end of the passageway, the lights of the
village could be seen, apparently so distant that Tom uttered an
exclamation.

"Crickets, think of all that water to be crossed!" he groaned.

"Seems a lot because it's dark," put in Havens. "The 'Dart' isn't so
fast, but she'll make it in no time, with this breeze."

As they rounded the shore of Hemlock Island, a pouring rain began to
beat in their faces, and almost every instant hissing, foaming water
dashed over the gunwale. Once outside its friendly shelter, the "Dart"
began to pitch and toss in an alarming manner.

Suddenly, a furious blast heeled her far over and she shivered from
stem to stern.

A chorus of excited exclamations rose above the whistling wind.

"Get the bucket, somebody!" yelled Havens. "Bale her out, quick!"

Bob Somers, reaching forward, was tumbled to his knees in the water
that swished forth and back with every movement of the boat.

But he got the bucket. Dick seized another, and both set vigorously to
work.

"Don't let up, fellows," commanded Havens. "Here's another big one.
Hold on tight!"

Again the "Dart" staggered and shook. For an instant, the boys fairly
held their breath. Then Sam Randall made an alarming discovery.

"Great Cæsar!" he cried. "The piece of wood which plugged up that hole
in the side is gone!"

"And the water is just pouring in," added Havens, in a voice which
betrayed both surprise and agitation.

"Oh, why did we ever come!" wailed little Tom Clifton.

"Everybody look around for that piece of board," went on the skipper,
earnestly. "Hurry up--hole isn't much above the water line."

A quick search proved without result.

"Fill it up with any old thing," commanded Dave. "Don't get scared,
fellows. Shore isn't very far now."

The boy's calm tones inspired the others, and an instant later Bob
Somers was stuffing an old coat through the opening. Even Tom Clifton
forgot his fright for the moment.

The downpour increased, however, until the village lights were entirely
blotted out. Nothing could now be seen through the impenetrable
blackness, and all sense of direction was speedily lost. The lanterns
threw weird splashes of light around the storm-tossed boat and upon its
water-soaked occupants. All strained their eyes to pierce the gloom,
hoping that each moment the veil might lift, but the minutes flew by
with nothing to cheer their sight.

"We're in an awful fix," groaned Tom Clifton, his teeth almost
chattering. "Where in the dickens are we, Havens?"

"It would take a smarter chap than I am to tell you, Tom."

"And we're just racing along, too."

"Going like sixty--that's a fact."

"Jim, you're a reckless skipper," said Howard Fenton. "It's a good
thing you know more than we do about the lake."

The light revealed an anxious expression upon Havens' face, but he held
the tiller with a firm grip and remained perfectly cool.

"Here, Sam, take hold of this bucket for a moment and bail!" cried Dick
Travers. "Whew! we owe Sanders and Dugan something for this;" and, as
he was relieved, Dick groped his way forward.

The violent motion began to have its effect upon Tom Clifton. "I feel
awful funny, fellows," he gasped. "Christopher, I do!"

"I say, Havens," yelled Bob, "we must be getting pretty well in, now.
Hadn't you better come about on another tack?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. The wind has shifted two or three times and
there's no telling which way we may be headed." The skipper smiled
grimly. "The rain is letting up a bit," he added. "Look out for the
lights ahead and keep on bailing."

"Feeling better now, Tommy?" asked Dave Brandon. "You'll be----"

"Great Cæsar!" An exclamation interrupted him. Then a series of wild
shouts arose on the night air, as a crunching and grinding suddenly
sounded.

"What's up--what's the----" But Dave did not finish the sentence.

A violent shock tumbled the boys in a confused heap. Then came a
terrific pounding. The "Dart" gave a convulsive shiver, turned sharply
over on its side, and seven boys, wildly grabbing at empty space, were
sent heels over head into the black water of Mountain Lake.

As he felt the chilling water encircle his neck, Tom Clifton gave a
frantic shout for help. Then his cries were instantly stifled.

Choking, gripped by a terror which nerved him to fight with all the
energy he possessed, Tom struggled to reach the surface. Unable, like
the others, to swim, he could only kick and thresh out with his arms
in a blind and desperate effort. He had a confused idea of touching
bottom--then, gasping and choking, his head rose clear of the swirling
water.

Vainly he tried to keep afloat. Down he went again, until his ears
began to sing and the water poured down his throat. Then, as he gave
up hope, something touched his collar with a firm, strong grip, and he
felt himself rising. His head came above the surface for the second
time, and a voice shouted in his ear, "Put your legs down and stand
straight up!"

Dave Brandon's strong arms held him, and, mechanically obeying his
friend's command, Tom found to his astonishment that by so doing he
could touch bottom.

The wave of thankfulness which swept through him could not quite blot
out the few awful moments through which he had just passed, and, for
the time being, all he could do was to stand erect and hold on tight.

"Feel all right, Tommy?" asked the "poet," kindly.

It was difficult to talk, with the water bubbling and splashing around
them. And the wind was cold. Even Dave's teeth were chattering and his
words came out in a series of jerks.

"Sure--fine," whispered Tom.

His hand closed with a tighter grip on that of Dave's. Then his eyes
fell on a curious spectacle.

Close by, partly submerged, was the "Dart." A lone lantern illuminated
with a feeble, yellow glow the heads of his companions, all staring at
him anxiously.

"You make me think of a lot of pumpkins."

That is what Tom meant to say, but the cold and a strange weakness
prevented such a lengthy effort.

Presently he heard Jim Havens remark, "Tommy's all right, fellows.
Let's skip before we get stuck in the mud." Then, almost before he
realized it, they had left the treacherous water and were climbing up a
bank.

"I feel like a beautiful mess," groaned Havens, when they came to a
halt.

"I'd like to have a good, square look at you," returned Bob, grimly.
"I want to laugh, but can't. It isn't any island for you to-night, eh,
Havens?"

"Not unless I swim back," was the reply. "Something is holding the
'Dart' fast. Awful lucky we weren't spilled out in the middle of
the lake. Come along, fellows," he added. "Let's get our blood in
circulation;" and he started off on a trot.

Bedraggled and miserable, his companions followed through the rain.
The exercise began to warm their chilled bodies and the prospect of
reaching shelter spurred them on.

When the lights of the Resort House were seen burning against the
blackness, the group slowed down.

They declined Fenton's invitation to stop at the hotel.

"We'd like to, old man," grinned Bob, "but it's the Rickham for us
to-night."

Sam Bins was amazed when the five boys arrived.

"Fo' de land ob goodness, is you de same gemmen what left dis mornin'?"
he asked. "Whar', fo' goodness' sake, has yo' been?"

"In the lake, paying a visit to the fishes," replied Bob, as he made a
break for his room.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the Ramblers, in dry clothes, were
enjoying a hearty meal, and Sam Bins' curiosity was satisfied.




                              CHAPTER VI

                           THE NATIONAL GAME


Dugan and Sanders had intended to return the "Dauntless" that night.
They sailed to the end of the lake, where "Big Bill's" cottage was
situated, and tied up. But the storm coming up prevented them from
carrying out their plans.

At daybreak the following morning, they set out, and were startled
to see the "Dart" lying in shoal water. Badly frightened, the boys
immediately headed for the hotel wharf, and lost no time in mooring the
"Dauntless" to her accustomed place.

When Havens was encountered, later in the morning, the members of the
Idleman's Club had a falling out. It was a lively affair, and proved
very amusing to a group of loungers on the Resort House porch. Mr.
Fenton, hearing the rumpus, also took a hand in the proceedings, to the
great discomfiture of the two bold pirates.

Of course the encampment on Promontory Island came to an abrupt close.
Dugan and Sanders, disgusted at the outcome, also quarreled and went
their separate ways.

One morning, just before breakfast, Bob Somers and Dick Travers were
sitting on the porch enjoying the cool air.

"So the ball game's coming off to-morrow, eh, Bob?" remarked the
latter, in a tone of satisfaction. "Who's on our team besides Fenton?"

"Phil Levins, Havens, and that little fellow from Boston."

"Old duck, with a bald head, eh?" said Dick, flippantly.

"Plays ball like a streak, though, they say. Fairly eats up hot liners
and all that sort of thing. He played short-stop for Harvard, I'm told."

"Just the kind we need. These chaps out here may know a thing or two
about the game. No telling but what Mr. Barton has done a lot of
coaching. Hello, Chub!"

The stout boy ambled slowly out on the porch. "You fellows still
talking baseball?" he asked. "Why don't you look at that great effect
over there? See that hazy light across the mountains?"

"Oh, the dickens with that," grumbled Dick. "The game's coming off
to-morrow, and you've got to hold down first base."

"By Jove, that's a hard thing to do, though. Still, I'd like to try it."

"What--painting or first base?"

"Why--weren't we talking about painting, Dick Travers?"

"I'll begin on 'camera' pretty soon, unless you quit, Dave Brandon."

"Oh, well, who do we play against, then?" sighed Dave.

"A lot of village chaps, and if we get beaten they'll have a jolly good
laugh on us, too."

"I always did like ham and eggs, boys," observed Dave, reflectively.
"Hope Sam Bins is cooking enough. Yesterday I only had three eggs
and----"

But, with a despairing gesture, Dick Travers arose and walked inside.

That afternoon the boys spent in practicing. Havens was on hand, and
Phil Levins, a village lad, also took an active part. The visitor
from Boston proved to be Mr. George Kimball, a small man, with a
fringe of sandy hair around a dome-shaped head, watery blue eyes and
insignificant yellow moustache.

"I see you chaps can play some," he said, in a high-pitched voice;
"but several, I won't say who, take a bit too much time in getting set
before throwing the ball. Shoot it right over. Here, Somers, let me
show you. Bat out a liner."

Mr. Kimball smiled complacently and trotted out in the field. Then a
sharp crack of the bat sounded.

"By Jove, he's a hummer, and no mistake," remarked Sam. "Look how he
took that bounder and sent it back."

"Yes! But Dave is what bothers me," whispered Dick. "He reminds me of a
freight car, and side-tracked at that."

"Well, boys," said Bob, as, perspiring and happy, they walked toward
the house, "we ought to put up a pretty good game."

"And I suppose I'll have to hop around like a sparrow again to-morrow,"
said Dave, with a quizzical look at the others, and a wide, very wide
smile played for a moment on the face of Mr. George Kimball, of Boston.

The day for the game proved ideal. The sky was flecked with a few white
clouds and a slight breeze tempered the rays of the sun.

No one would have dreamed that so many people could be found in the
small mountain village and its immediate surroundings. They came by
twos, threes, and in groups, flocking under the shade of a few big
trees, and cheered when the town boys began to practice.

"Little Bill" Dugan was among the players. He glanced coldly toward the
Ramblers and their friends, and sniffed scornfully at a white board
which Dick Travers had nailed to an apple tree. Painted on it in big
letters was the following:

    Somers, p.
    Brandon, 1b.
    Randall, c.
    Travers, cf.
    Clifton, rf.
    Havens, ss.
    Fenton, 3b.
    Levins, 2b.
    Kimball, lf.

Mr. Fenton accepted the position of official scorer, while a man from
Chicago, Mr. Perkins, was agreed upon as umpire.

The Ramblers won the toss and took their positions upon the field.

"Play ball!"

The spectators sat up, and the game was on.

"Speed 'em over, Bob," yelled Dick. "Make him hit it. Put the lap
dazzle shoot on it--yi, yi!"

Bob smiled, and sent in a wide out-curve.

"One ball!" yelled Mr. Perkins.

"H'm," muttered the pitcher.

Crack. Grimshaw, of the mountain team, swung, smashing the ball
squarely, and sped for first.

Then came a loud shout, when Kimball in left field jumped in the air
and pulled down the fly.

The next man also solved Bob's delivery, but Havens managed to get the
ball over to Dave an instant ahead of the runner.

"It wasn't out!" yelled Dugan.

"You keep quiet," counseled one of the others, and "Little Bill,"
scowling fiercely, turned away.

The next man struck out, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Bob walked
in and picked up a bat.

"Take it easy, Somers," advised Dave. "Don't slam at the first.
There--that's the way."

"Ball!" cried Mr. Perkins.

"Two balls!"

"Three!"

"One strike!"

Crack. A hot liner burned the short-stop's hand. He let it drop, and
Bob, smiling good-naturedly, was safe on first.

Dave Brandon slowly ambled up to the plate.

"Chuck me an easy one, Grimshaw," he said.

The pitcher grinned. One strike--two strikes--the smile broadened, but
the stout boy did not seem in the least disturbed.

Dick Travers groaned. "Mind yourself, Dave. Get Bob off that bag."

Hurrah! Dave's sturdy arms swung the bat with telling force. Gleefully
the Ramblers saw the ball flying far beyond the right-fielder's reach,
and the "freight car" getting over the ground at astonishing speed.

Bob, with a desperate slide, managed to reach home, while Dave, puffing
and blowing, stopped on third.

But the boys' high hopes, at this auspicious beginning, were dashed
when Randall and Travers were thrown out at first and Clifton fanned
the air three times.

"Never mind," laughed Bob, as the shrill yells of the mountain
adherents were still echoing; "keep up your good work, Dave. We have
them beaten by a mile."

But the next inning proved disastrous. Their rivals earned three runs,
and the shouting redoubled.

"Hi, hi! Did they ever see a ball before?" yelled "Little Bill."

"Ah--ah! Look at that hit--yi, yi, yi!" came from others.

Mr. Kimball looked worried. "Not working quite enough together, boys,"
he said. "Take it easy--don't let the noise rattle you. Who's up? You,
Havens? Now give us a line drive like Dave's, and we won't find any
fault with you."

Havens prided himself upon being a heavy hitter. He swung his bat far
around and after missing two good balls landed on the third. Grimshaw
dodged. Dugan, at second base, made a wild grab for the sphere, tripped
and tumbled head foremost into the grass. Then, as it neared the limits
of the grounds, two fielders came together with a crash. Havens ran for
all he was worth, did not stop to look around and was home long before
the ball had been recovered.

"Good work, old man," cried the delighted Sam Randall. "Only one more,
and the score is tied."

Fenton hit safely. Levins was out on a foul tip and Kimball walked to
first on balls.

The head of the batting order was again up. Bob had his eye on the ball
and another line drive resulted from his efforts, but it went straight
into the hands of the waiting second baseman, who easily threw him out.

"How's that for style?" called "Little Bill," a moment after the first
baseman's gloves closed on his throw.

"Worst play I ever saw," returned Dave Brandon, who was already at the
plate; "you had lots of time to touch second and make a double play."

Dave swung fiercely at the first ball pitched, only to miss it by a
very scant margin, and the fielders all played out as far as possible.
A tantalizing slow one he failed to aim at, and strike two was called
on him.

The instant Grimshaw received the return throw, he whipped in the
speediest inshoot of which he was capable. Brandon was not caught
napping. He met it by the merest tip, and a little pop fly dropped
safely in the territory usually covered by short-stop.

Fenton raced home, and the score was tied.

"Hi, hi! Did we ever see a ball before!" cried Dick. "Oh--wow! It'll be
about ten to three."

But the end of the seventh told a different story. Mr. Fenton's card
showed the score to be seven to six in favor of the Ramblers.

Bob stepped up, determined to make a mighty effort. Grimshaw was
weakening.

"Put it over, Grimmy," yelled Dugan. "He can't hit anything--never
could."

The captain smiled, then bunted, and the ball rolled slowly toward the
pitcher. Grimshaw made a frantic dash, fumbled it, and Bob, on a close
decision, was declared safe at first.

"Oh, yi, yi, he calls that safe!" yelled Dugan. "The feller was out by
a mile. We won't stand for anything like that."

He came in from second, followed by several of the others, and the home
plate was immediately surrounded. Then the crowd began to shout.

"Get back to your places," commanded the umpire, briefly.

"Yes, skip back, Dugan," added Dave. "That hit was easily safe."

"I ain't a-talkin' to you," cried "Little Bill," angrily. "I say it
wasn't safe."

"Come now, Dugan, trot out in the field," went on Brandon, quietly.

"I will not! An'----"

"The man was safe, and my decision stands," exclaimed Mr. Perkins in an
authoritative tone.

"You don't know the game, then," blustered Dugan, excitedly. "Look out!
Don't you bump into me, fat feller."

Dave laughed good-naturedly.

"You make an awful lot of noise for a little chap," he said.

"A little chap, eh?" Bill clenched his fists, his eyes blazed with
passion. Dave had touched him on a tender point.

"I'll show you how little I am," he yelled. "Here's where trouble
begins."

His right fist shot out in the direction of Dave's nose.

But the "poet" jumped nimbly aside, then his sturdy arms encircled
"Little Bill's" waist, and, in an instant, the latter found himself on
the ground.

"Let go--lemme be!" he cried.

But Dave was calmly sitting on his shoulder.

"Look out--help! You'll mash me ter nuthin'!" yelled Bill, frantically.

"Keep quiet," admonished Dave. "Lie still! A little conversation might
be all right, but we don't want any shouting."

"Push that elephant off, somebody. I'm mashed to a pulp a'ready. Oh,
now, Grimshaw, don't stand there like an idjit."

"We were talking," said Dave, pleasantly, "about keeping quiet. Now, if
you promise to do what I say, an awful lot of trouble will be saved."

There was no help for it. Dave Brandon's hundred and seventy-two
pounds held the belligerent ball player helpless, and Bill, furious and
chagrined, was obliged to surrender.

"You ain't heard the last of this, you clumsy elephant!" he shouted, as
he arose and edged away. "Don't you forget it!"

Dave's face wore a very broad grin.

But Mr. Perkins was speaking--"No, Dugan, you cannot continue to play,"
he said, firmly. "How is it, boys?--good--we don't want any rowdyism on
this field."

There was a few minutes of silence. Grimshaw held a brief conference
with his fellow players, then walked forward and called out in a loud
voice, "Hello, Sanders, get down there to second and play the base."

It was a very willing boy that hurried forward to obey this summons,
and Bill Dugan, thoroughly discomfited, almost immediately saw the game
going on without him.

And the score still stood seven to six when the villagers came to bat
in the ninth. It was their last chance, and they were determined to at
least tie the score.

"My arm's getting kind of played out, Dave," whispered Bob. "I'll do
what I can."

"You can't do any more," said the other, soothingly. "Make them hit
it--we'll do the rest," and the stout boy grinned.

Clayton was the name of their opponents' first batsman. He came within
one of striking out, then drove the ball over Havens' head and sprinted
to second.

Loud cheers came from the spectators, and Bob looked worried.

"Don't let them get your nerve, old man," called Sam.

The loud coaching of Mills and continuous cries from the field,
intended to disconcert the Ramblers, only served to spur pitcher Somers
to greater efforts. Putting forth every ounce of strength he possessed,
the captain sent in an inshoot.

The batter knocked a fly, which Fenton on third easily caught. Clayton,
who had been playing off second, just got back in the nick of time.

Mills fanned the air three times, and threw down his bat in disgust.
Their chances seemed about to go glimmering, yet one good hit might
save the day.

Dalton, a big, strong chap, older than any of his team mates, faced the
pitcher. Clayton played away off second. It was a moment of intense
interest to the spectators and anxiety to the Ramblers.

Bob forced the runner back to the base by a throw, then pitched the
ball quickly. Clayton anticipated this, risked everything and was
instantly off on a wild dash for third.

Sam handled the sphere nicely, making a perfect throw.

There was an expectant hush, as ball and runner neared the bag. A cloud
of dust arose. Clayton had thrown himself flat, and touched the base
with his hand.

The silence, intensified until not a sound could be heard, continued
for a moment longer. Then Mr. Perkins' voice rang out clearly. "Safe,"
he said.

A storm of cheers broke forth, while the cries which it was hoped would
disconcert the pitcher redoubled.

"One strike!"

"Two strikes!"

Bob grinned and gripped the ball more firmly. Then came Mr. Perkins'
voice again, "One ball--two balls!"

All eyes were upon the stalwart form of Dalton. One more strike, and
the game would be over.

But as the next ball shot above the plate, a solid smack sounded. An
awkward bounder was ripping toward first base at such a speed that the
eye could scarcely follow it.

Another great shout arose as Clayton sped home. No one expected that
the ball would be fielded until the batter was safe on second.

Then the spectators witnessed an astonishing sight. Dave Brandon darted
off the bag with lightning agility. Breathlessly they watched him. The
stout boy reached far out.

"Look at that elephant," remarked "Little Bill" to the boy sitting next
to him. "What does he think he's going to do?"

Smack! The ball had bounded, striking squarely in the centre of
Brandon's mitt. Dave instantly recovered himself and made for first
base.

Then a series of wild yells and whoops from the Ramblers broke forth,
for Mr. Perkins was heard to say, "Runner out on first." By a fraction
of a second, Dave had beaten Dalton in the race and won the game.

Even the villagers were good-natured enough to cheer his play, and the
"poet" almost blushed when his enthusiastic friends surrounded him.

"Bully boy," said Mr. Kimball, patting him on the shoulder. "Biggest
surprise out. Thought, from the way you moved yesterday, that--oh,
well, what's the use of saying it?"

"And I called him a 'side-tracked freight car,'" mused Dick, with a
smile.

"When Chub gets waked up, he's like a streak o' lightning," declared
Bob. "Now, I'm satisfied. We've had a good game, and, what's more, won
it. Let's skip off on our hunting trip next week----Say, but wasn't
'Little Bill' wild, though," and Bob smiled at the recollection.

"An' don't you think he's goin' ter forgit what that elephant done,
neither," growled a voice.

Unobserved, Dugan had approached. But he stopped at a respectful
distance, and pointed his finger threateningly toward Dave Brandon.

"You'll wish yer hadn't, fat feller!" he cried. "Remember what I says,"
and he stalked slowly off the field.

"He's wearing his number one sour expression," laughed Dick. "Most as
bad as the mountaineer we saw at the hotel."

"Bill's a pretty mean fellow at times," put in Jim Havens, "but I
wouldn't pay any attention to him. Let's fix it up about that trip to
the mountains."

The boys, accordingly, made their way to the porch of the Rickham
House, Mr. Kimball and Phil Levins accompanying them.

Before supper time, all arrangements had been made. It was decided that
Bob, Dave Brandon and Dick Travers would take the first jaunt, and on
their return Sam and Tom could go off on theirs.

"That way, we'll all have a fling at it during the summer," said Bob;
"not once, but a couple of times, and the Rickham will never be left
without an occupant."

"You fellows ought to have a daisy time," observed Phil Levins.

"It makes me feel real envious, boys," said Mr. Kimball of Boston,
"but--well, I never handled a gun or fishing pole in my life--I'm more
at home running over a column of figures in a ledger than I would be
facing a grizzly--but, seriously, don't you think it's rather a risky
undertaking?"

"Huh! I guess the Rambler Club can take care of itself," and Mr.
Kimball laughed at the scorn which Dick Travers put into his tones.




                              CHAPTER VII

                         FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER


Four panting and tired boys came to a halt in the midst of a dense
forest on the sloping sides of a mountain. Early that morning, Sam Bins
had driven them as far as he could toward their destination.

Besides weapons and fishing-tackle, each hunter had a pair of
blankets--rubber and woolen--and a water-proof canvas bag which
contained tin dishes, a pair of moccasins, a compass, match-safe, and
plenty of rope and twine, besides nails. Havens carried a lantern and
small saw. All were provided with hatchets and hunting knives, and
provisions were divided up among them.

Dave Brandon, in addition, carried a brand new paint box, and the
official photographer his camera. Everything unnecessary had been
omitted, yet the outfits strapped to their backs were not light ones.

Dave Brandon threw himself wearily upon a flat rock.

"Oh, but I am tired," he exclaimed. "This truck weighs a ton. Where are
we going to stop, Jim?"

"I know a dugout that's just the thing for us," responded Havens.
"Sanders and I used it for a while last year. A long time ago, 'Surly
Joe' hung out there."

"'Surly Joe', that's a nice name," laughed Bob. "A good disposition, I
suppose, eh?"

"Such a nice one that I hope we don't meet him. But there isn't a
better hunter around these parts than Joe Tomlin."

"Why, that's the old chap we saw at the hotel," put in Dick Travers.
"Remember, Bob?"

"Sure thing. Don't wonder they call him 'Surly Joe.' He certainly
looked sour enough."

"He's a good friend of 'Big Bill's,'" explained Havens. "Every once in
a while Joe gets to the village, but he and I don't gee together a bit."

"This climbing is tough work," drawled Dave. "I ache all over. How far
is that dugout, Havens?"

"We ought to reach it before nightfall."

Dave, who had arisen, sank back on the rock, with a gesture of dismay.

"And this is what we get for going after fur, fin and feather," he
groaned.

In a short time, the march was resumed. The region about them was wild
and rugged. The forest contained a great variety of trees; shrubbery,
underbrush and tangled vines were so dense in places as to make
progress difficult. Boulders and rocks lay strewn about in profusion,
and the boys found it necessary to rest frequently.

"Should think there would be a lot of caves around here," panted Bob.

"There are," replied Havens, "and if you run across any, knock on the
door before you stick your head inside."

"Oh, we know," laughed Dick; "bears and other beasts."

"That's right. If you keep your eyes open, you can see their tracks all
around."

"Just listen to the birds," observed Dave. "Doesn't their singing and
chattering sound fine? Hear that woodpecker tapping."

"Working for his living, eh?" grinned Dick.

"Look--a Jack rabbit," cried Bob, suddenly. "I'll bet I could have
knocked him over easy. See him? He jumped over that log, running like
sixty."

"I see something prettier," said Dave.

A bird, singing cheerily, had just darted across, a flaming spot of
orange against the rich green hemlocks beyond.

"An oriole," announced the "poet." "A beautiful little bird, and a
noisy one, too. Listen to his chatter."

"If you fellows don't want to sleep out in the open to-night, you'd
better be coming along," said Havens, and Dave, with a sigh, again
struggled to his feet.

"Listen!" Dick stopped and held up his hand. "What's that noise?" he
asked.

"The rapids," replied Havens. "I thought we must be pretty close to
them."

"When we get there, let's stop and have some grub," said Dick. "Wow! My
back's 'most broken. Always did hate to lug things."

"I'll sleep all day to-morrow," declared Dave.

"If you do, I'll set a bear on you," laughed Dick.

The noise of rushing water grew louder, and finally, after scrambling
over a pile of rocks and forcing their way through a tangled thicket,
they reached the bank.

Before them was a dashing, tumbling stream, eddying and foaming past
the grim-looking rocks, which for countless ages had disputed its
passage in vain. Dancing drops sparkled like silver in the sunshine,
currents swirled and bubbled, as the ever-rushing torrent gurgled forth
its musical lament.

"Oh, ho, what a lovely sight," exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Look at those
trees bending over, the reflection in the water and that mass of pink
dogwood."

"Pretty enough, Chubby," admitted Dick, "but I'm thirsty as thunder."

"You can get a drink a bit further along," said Havens. "We have to get
across, anyway."

"Get across?" echoed Dick.

"Sure thing. The dugout's on the other side."

"Then I suppose I'll have the joy of helping to fish somebody out of
the stream," said Dave. "Hello, did I hear anything?"

A low growl seemed to come from the opposite bank.

"What in the world is that?" cried Dick, in a startled tone.

"I see it," exclaimed Bob Somers, excitedly. "Some kind of an animal.
Look! It's on that limb. Great Cæsar! What a whopper!"

Partially screened behind a mass of leaves, a long, tawny animal was
crouching, with ears thrown back and glaring eyes. Its long tail lashed
from side to side, and its powerful, muscular body seemed to quiver
with anger.

As if fascinated, the boys gazed at it for some instants without
speaking. Their nerves tingled.

"What is it?" asked Bob, in a suppressed voice. "A panther?"

"Yes, though most people out here call the beast a mountain lion, or
painter," replied Jim Havens. "That is one of the biggest I ever saw."

"Awful glad he's on the other side of the street," murmured Dave. "Not
so sure, now, that I'm fond of hunting. Say--doesn't he look fierce?"

"They won't bother you much if they're let alone, but corner 'em,
and I'd 'most as soon have a grizzly in front of me. It's a quiet
beast--doesn't screech much, though once in a while he'll let out a
yell that makes you sit up and take notice."

"Shall we risk a shot?" asked Dick, eagerly.

"No, I think not," replied Havens. "You might only wound him, and in
case he managed to get across--well, Sanders and I had a scrap with one
last year, and I ain't anxious for another."

"Look--he's off!" cried Bob.

With a low growl, the panther dropped lightly to the ground and
disappeared in a dense thicket.

"They're great fellows for staying in trees," went on Havens, "and
for springing down upon any animal that happens to pass. Hard to see,
too--the color is so much like the bark."

"Well, I'm glad it's skipped," said Dick. "Hang it, if I'd only
thought, I might have made a snap-shot."

"The trip is just begun," laughed Havens. "Get out your grub, fellows.
Cat or no cat, James is going to eat."

"Maybe that ferocious beast is waiting for us on the other side of the
creek," said Dave.

"And possibly is ready for lunch, too," added Bob.

The boys looked at the swirling water and slippery rocks, the dark,
overhanging banks with here and there gnarled roots exposed by
crumbling away of the earth, then paused to consider.

"I think it will not be necessary for us to cross just now," said Dave,
facetiously.

No one offered an objection, and the quartet thereupon found seats.

Sandwiches, washed down with clear, cold water, refreshed them all.

On resuming the march, they kept as close as possible to the rapids.
Presently Havens led the way out on a bank.

"What a magnificent view," exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the opposite
range of mountains.

"Couldn't be finer, Chubby," declared Bob.

"This is where we cross the stream, fellows," put in Havens. "Get ready
for your bath."

"I'm going first--here's a scheme," he added. "I'll tie a rope around
my waist. You fellows hang on to the end, and if I slip I won't go ten
miles without stopping."

"Right you are, old man," said Bob. "That water is pretty deep in
places."

The necessary precaution having been attended to, Havens carefully
stepped upon a large, flat rock.

"Slippery as the dickens," he said.

"Why shouldn't it be?" observed the "poet." "It's been here for a
million years, perhaps."

"Don't get to dreaming, Dave," laughed Bob.

"Chubby's the clumsiest chap I ever saw, yet he does everything right,"
observed Dick, thoughtfully. "At times, I feel like splashing him."

Dave laughed good-naturedly.

Havens made his way carefully from rock to rock. Out in the midst of
the stream, with eddying currents and masses of foam on all sides, it
looked bigger and more dangerous than when viewed from the bank. The
main channel was too wide to jump, and the only means of crossing it
was a series of small round boulders so smooth as to scarcely afford a
footing.

His companions, who had followed part way, held the rope tightly and
waited for him to fall in. It was a matter of some surprise when they
found that this was not going to happen.

"Hope that we are just as lucky," said Dick, as he grasped the rope
which Havens had tied to a tree, and prepared to follow.

By the time that Travers stood on the opposite bank Bob and Dave were
well on their way across. These two worthies did not meet with any
mishap, though the stout boy gracefully accepted all the aid that was
proffered when it came to the final climb.

"I wonder if his catship is anywhere around," remarked Dick Travers.

"Maybe," answered Havens. "They have a way of skulking about. Keep your
eyes peeled."

The boys were soon winded again, but even weariness did not prevent
them from enjoying the forest. Gloomy and grand, it surrounded them on
all sides. With heads bared to the whispering breeze, the boys lolled
on the ground and looked at the patches of clear blue sky between the
interlacing branches, and forgot, for the moment, whatever dangers
might exist. Each breath of air brought with it some woodland odor--of
fragrant pine or dogwood and many other plants.

"Grand," sighed Dave, peering dreamily through half-closed eyelids.

"Worth all our trouble," said Bob. "But say, Jim, will you be able to
find that dugout?"

"I'd be a silly chump if I couldn't," answered Havens. "Tramped these
mountains too many times to lose my bearings."

"But suppose some one is living there?"

"Build a lean-to; or I know a cave where we might put up for a few
days."

"Rent high?" asked Dick.

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had a bear for a landlord."

Fifteen minutes later, just as Dave was about to declare his inability
to go a step further, Jim announced that the dugout was close at hand.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed the "poet," wearily.

But it was still some time before Havens uttered a grunt of
satisfaction, then said, "It's right over there, fellows--back of that
clump of trees."

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick.

"Me, too," sighed Dave. "I'd holler like that if I wasn't so tired."

In a few moments, they saw a log structure built against a wall of rock.

"Never was so glad to see anything in my life," declared Bob Somers.
"It doesn't look big enough for the whole bunch, though, Jim."

Havens smiled. "Don't you know that a dugout is a log cabin or some
kind of a shack built in front of a cave?" he asked.

"Good! This is a dandy place, eh, Dave?" cried Bob, enthusiastically.
"Imagine sitting out here, after a good day's sport, with a venison
steak broiling over the fire!"

"I'll get indigestion, if you talk that way, Bob Somers," said Dave,
severely, as he threw his burden down on the turf.

"Don't go rushing in, fellows," warned Jim. "Sometimes a varmint takes
it into his ugly head to use it for a stopping place."

But impatient Dick Travers was already at the door, uttering a series
of wild whoops.

"All right!" he sang out, as his form disappeared from view.

The dugout, though solidly built, showed the ravages of time. The door
was missing and a tree, dislodged by some gale, had fallen across the
roof, leaving a gaping hole.

But, in spite of these defects, the boys were delighted.

"We can fix it up in short order," declared Bob.

"Not to-day, thank you," said Dave.

The light from a single window illuminated the interior of a spacious
cave. Several reminders of its former occupants, a rude table and
chairs, were scattered around.

"Don't see any piano," murmured Dave Brandon.

"Fell over a precipice as they were bringing it up," laughed Havens.

After a short rest, Jim, who seemed to be the least tired, set about
collecting fuel, and soon had a fire started. Then outfits were
unpacked, and dishes and provisions brought forth.

Bob suddenly straightened up. "Jim," he said, solemnly, "how about
water?"

"Just beyond that big cedar," Havens indicated the direction, "you'll
find a rivulet. Don't go without your gun."

"Oh, no," laughed the other; "I've been out in the woods before."

Bob had no trouble in finding water, and when he returned preparations
for supper were under way. Havens and Brandon attended to this duty,
while Dick Travers and Bob Somers went off in search of cedar boughs.

Armed with hatchets, they kept steadily at work, and although very
tired, did not desist until a large quantity of the fragrant leaves had
been collected. Then Dave helped drag them to the dugout. Four beds
were made in the cave, after which the hunters, well satisfied with the
result of their labor, sat down to supper.

"What's on the bill of fare?" asked Bob.

"Sardines, bacon, crackers, cheese and coffee," said Dave.

"Not bad, for a starter. Guess I can get away with my share all right."

"Nothing like outdoor life to give a fellow an appetite," commented
Dick.

Dusk soon gathered. The forest looked grim and sombre, and when night
came it was pleasant to watch the twinkling stars overhead and to
listen to the weird sounds which often filled the air.

Havens piled a couple of logs on the fire and the dancing flames sent
forth a cheerful glow.

Finally Dave Brandon picked up a lantern and led the way into the
dugout. When all were inside, he stretched a blanket across the door,
then, following the example of the others, spread his rubber blanket
over the fir brush. Bob hung the lantern upon a board projecting near
the hole in the roof.

"Good-night, fellows," said Jim.

"Good-night," responded the others. Then silence reigned.

Dick Travers' slumber was not refreshing. Occasionally, he half opened
his eyes. The interior of the cave, in the dim light, looked very
strange. Deep black shadows stretched up to the jagged roof, and, in
places, some mineral sparkled brightly.

But it was something else that finally caught his attention, and caused
him to sit bolt upright. A strange sound seemed to come from the roof
of the log house.

Dick slowly rose to his feet, and listened intently. He hesitated to
awaken his soundly sleeping companions.

As the boy was about to steal forward, a sharp crash echoed throughout
the cave with startling clearness. Then followed a series of sounds
which fairly made his hair stand on end.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                             THE INTRUDER


The sleepers awoke on the instant, and scrambled to their feet.

"Great Scott! What was that?" cried Bob Somers.

"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Dave.

"Grab your guns!" yelled Havens.

Several timbers fell with a loud clatter, and the lantern, dashed to
the floor, promptly went out. Then a dark form crashed through the
roof, flopping heavily on its back, while a series of savage growls and
whines made the boys cower back in the darkest part of the cave.

"A bear!" shouted Jim Havens, "and a whopper."

Dick Travers, who had left his gun in front, was panic-stricken at the
idea of being bottled up. Out in the open, he would at least have a
chance in flight.

The pale moonlight, streaming through the window, revealed the animal
pinioned beneath heavy timbers. Now was his chance. With a yell, Dick
darted forward, and just as he did so, bruin rolled over on his feet.

Dick Travers' terror lent him strength. Bounding forward, he grazed
the animal's back, brought up against the blanket, tore it from its
fastenings, then stumbled at full length outside the door.

Bruin, no doubt astonished and alarmed at his own mishap and the
commotion which followed, uttered another roar and turned tail.

Just as Dick Travers scrambled to his feet, a huge black body dashing
by knocked him flat, and the boy let out a yell which could have been
heard a mile.

The moon had risen above a belt of timber, throwing a silvery light
over the landscape, and it showed the bear getting away at surprising
speed.

The three boys who remained in the cave quickly recovered their wits.

"After him!" cried Havens, loudly.

Bob was first at the entrance. Raising his rifle, he sent a bullet
speeding toward the retreating form. Then Havens' gun echoed sharply,
but it was evident that neither shot took effect.

"Well, well," panted the poet. "A nice little surprise, eh? Hurt, Dick?"

"Not a bit of it, Dave." Dick's tones spoke of a troubled spirit. His
companions were looking at him slyly.

"Ever take a prize in jumping?" asked Havens. "I'd bet on you, all
right."

"I might as well admit it--he got my nerve," said Dick, frankly.

"Don't let it worry you, old man," said the "poet," laughingly.

"What do you suppose the old duffer was up to?" asked Bob.

"Guess he thought things looked kinder funny 'round here, so he walked
up the tree and stepped on the roof. It's a beautiful mess, now isn't
it?"

"A good day's work to fix it," commented Bob.

"Think the bear is likely to come back?" queried Dick.

"Not after the scare you gave him," grinned Havens. "Still, to be on
the safe side, we'll take turns on guard."

This arrangement was agreed to, but the rest of the night passed
without incident.

After breakfast, the boys decided to work on the hut. Bob Somers and
Dick Travers climbed to the roof and began to remove the loose boards.

"Work, you fellows, work," said Dave, as he lay indolently on a bit of
turf. "I'll help with advice."

"All right, Chub," laughed Bob.

"Don't think I will, either--I'll paint a sketch."

"Good," cried Dick. "Good."

Havens, axe and saw in hand, had gone off to the woods to get material,
and the sounds which came from the timber indicated that he must be
hard at work.

Dave got out his paint box and, seated Turk fashion before a canvas,
began to squint dreadfully.

"Hey there, who are you making faces at?" asked Dick.

"Oh, of course you don't understand," said Dave Brandon, loftily.
"That's to shut out the detail. All artists do it. You ought to see
Professor Mead when he paints."

"Glad I don't have to, if he puts on such a face as that."

"It's worse."

"It couldn't be. Hello, what's up?"

Havens was heard to shout--then a second cry came from the woods.

"More bears, I wonder?" exclaimed Bob.

"Sounds as if he was running like sixty," cried Dick. "Here he comes.
What in thunder's the matter? Did you catch what he said?"

"No."

Bob hastily lowered himself to the ground, and the three boys started
toward the rapidly advancing figure.

Then it was seen that Jim Havens' head was surrounded by a dancing
cloud of insects.

"Get some pine-knots," yelled the fugitive, slapping wildly at his
tormentors. "Ouch! Stir yourselves--beat 'em off--help!"

"Bees!" cried Dave. "Bugville to the front."

All signs of laziness instantly disappeared. He jumped nimbly to
his feet, and rushed, with the others, to the fire, where several
half-consumed sticks were smouldering.

Havens arrived in their midst. So did the bees. They acted with
charming impartiality.

Dick Travers slapped his cheek. "I'm stung first!" he yelled.
"Ouch--wow--great Cæsar!"

"Welcome to the honor," said Dave. "Thunderation! Oh--oh! By the flying
partridge, that hurts!"

Smoking sticks began to describe half circles and other curves in the
air. The boys danced wildly, and hit right and left, up and down, all
the while uttering exclamations, as numerous sharp stings were received
from the angry insects.

"Take that--and that!" panted Dave. "You will tackle my painting hand,
eh?"

"Give it to them!" yelled Bob.

The battle raged furiously, but at length, unable to withstand the
onslaught, the insects suddenly buzzed away, leaving not a few of their
number slain on the field.

"Oh, my--look at Bob's nose," snickered Dick.

"You ought to feel it."

"I'm satisfied with getting it in the neck;" and Travers tenderly
placed his hand on a huge bump behind the ear.

"Three stings on one cheek is about enough, isn't it?" asked Dave.

"What did we ever do to you, Jim?" asked Bob, reproachfully. "It'll
take a lot of explaining."

"Oh, I say," whispered Dick, "who's got that book--'First Aid to the
Injured'? Trot it out, somebody."

"It's missing," said Dave.

"How's that?"

"Because nobody brought it."

Dick groaned. "Nice way to make a book useful," he said. "What'll we
do?"

"Pooh--you fellows haven't got any stings," broke in Havens. He held
out his hands ruefully. "Must have been about a thousand buzzing 'round
me. Honest--I couldn't handle them alone. Lucky I brought something
to----"

"Oh, say that again," cried Dick, hopefully. "You brought something
along, eh?--Quick!"

Jim dived for his canvas bag, and took out a bottle.

"Smells like a drug store," said Bob, "but dish it out."

In a few minutes the smarting was somewhat allayed.

"Jim, you have a head," said Dick, admiringly. "Did you expect this to
happen?"

"Sure! Anything's liable to happen in the woods."

"What else have you?"

"Something for snake bites and poison ivy."

"Great head! Anything for panther bites and bear hugs?"

"And now, Havens," interrupted Bob, "we want to know how this happened."

"Well, I came across an old hollow tree back there--bees hang out in
such places, you know."

"Do they?" said Dick, with tremendous sarcasm.

"As luck would have it, my hatchet fell plumb in the hole--then I
strolled over to tell you about it."

"Next time, Jim," said Dave, "you have our permission to do all your
strolling in the opposite direction. But," he added, brightening up,
"maybe there's some honey over there."

"Light some pine-knots, and we'll soon find out," said Havens.

His directions were put into effect, and in a few minutes they reached
the hollow tree.

Havens began operations by hurling a stone.

"Watch 'em," he said.

The angry insects buzzed forth, but were easily put to flight by the
blazing torches. Then vigorous blows from Jim Havens' hatchet sent the
chips flying.

A cheer broke forth, when a great quantity of honey was disposed to
view.

"Bet there's fifty pounds in there," said Dick, gleefully.

"Um--um," exclaimed Dave. "For breakfast, dinner and supper."

"You'll be um--umming more when you taste it," said Bob, slyly.

Back to the dugout for pans and dishes they tramped. These were soon
filled to the brim with the most delicious honey. The four proceeded to
enjoy some at once, and it was quite a while before work was resumed.

The slender maples which Havens had cut were then dragged to camp.
These were nailed about six inches apart over the hole in the roof and
a quantity of fir brush interwoven. A rough door was next fashioned out
of the remaining saplings, and their work was done.

Late in the afternoon, the four, guns in hand, started off after game.
In the course of an hour, they were a considerable distance from the
dugout, skirting along the edge of a precipice.

Dick Travers, in advance of the others, caught a glimpse of some
animal skulking through the underbrush straight ahead. With visions of
securing a pelt worth while, he stole steadily forward.

"As I live, it's a fox," he murmured, excitedly. "Gee, I must get a
crack at that."

Flinging caution to the winds, Dick leaped rapidly forward. Suddenly a
cry of alarm escaped his lips.

Rushing full tilt through a mass of vegetation, he saw a yawning
crevice, a sort of crack extending backward from the face of the cliff,
before him. His impetus was too great to be checked, and Dick gave a
gasp of horror, as he felt himself sliding over the edge.




                              CHAPTER IX

                             AN EXCURSION


"Grab hold of him--do, that's a good fellow! Stop the beast! Whoa,
Buttercup, whoa! Oh, dear, won't somebody stop him?"

Howard Fenton, seated on Mr. Barton's big black horse, was having a
most uncomfortable time in the field by the house. It was the first of
a series of lessons in the art of horseback riding that Sam Randall had
undertaken to give him.

Sam, Tom Clifton and young Bins, painful to relate, were roaring with
laughter.

"Golly, but dis chile neber seed nuthin' like that. Oh, dese city
fellers! Golly!" and Sam showed his white teeth again.

Buttercup, as if indignant at the awkwardness of his rider, danced
and pawed the ground and bobbed his head up and down, while Howard
struggled desperately to hold his seat.

"I know I shall fall! Oh, oh, for goodness' sake--if I break my neck,
Sam, it's your--oh--oh----"

The sentence, ending in a wail, was too much for Sam. He seized
Buttercup by the bridle, while Bins, nearly convulsed with laughter,
aided the frightened rider to dismount.

"Thanks, old chap," panted Howard. "I know I made an awful spectacle
of myself. Talk about jolts, bumps and aching bones--say, does anybody
really enjoy riding?"

"Oh, listen to him!" cried Sam Bins, with another explosion.

"Of course they do," said Randall, loftily, bestowing a compassionate
look upon the crestfallen Howard. "Let me show you how to do it," and
he vaulted into the saddle.

Fenton gazed after him admiringly, as he rode around in a wide circle,
then skilfully drew his spirited steed alongside.

"You're a crackerjack, Sam," he exclaimed. "But I'll stick to electric
cars and trains."

"Oh, dese city fellers," chuckled Sam Bins.

"Here--I'll take a turn, too," put in Tom Clifton.

The smallest member of the Rambler Club also managed Buttercup with
ease. Proudly, he put the horse through its paces, and, flushed with
triumph, called out, as he rode up, "How's that for riding?"

"You country chaps can beat us out in some things, that's sure,"
laughed Fenton, good-naturedly.

"Come ahead--you can learn to ride," urged Sam.

"Yes, do. It's as easy as rolling off a log," chimed in Tom.

"Nothing easier than falling off a horse, I think," returned Fenton,
with a faint smile. "But not to-day, boys. Oh, no! Guess I've had
enough."

"Oh, dese city fellers," repeated Sam Bins, as he led Buttercup back to
the stable.

"Wonder how Bob and the other fellows are getting along in the
wilderness," said Howard, when the group had turned toward the porch.

"Guess they won't leave any bears or moose for Tom and me," grinned
Sam. "They are crack shots--that is all except Chubby. He never seems
to hit a thing, any more."

"Hope Dick will get some pictures," put in Tom. "Wish I had a camera,
I'd snap some, too."

"I say, Howard," exclaimed Sam, suddenly, "Phil Levins, Tom and I are
going over to Promontory this afternoon. I'm teaching Clifton how to
swim. Want to take a sail in the 'Spray'? It's a bully day for an
outing."

"I may come over later, in the 'Dauntless.' Promised pater I'd do some
writing for him," replied Fenton. "Guess I can make it, though, and
we'll have a little race on the way back."

"Good! But the 'Spray' will run away from the 'Dauntless,' old man."

"It will--like fun," laughed Fenton, as he took his leave.

Phil Levins met the Ramblers at the wharf. Just as they were clambering
aboard the "Spray," "Little Bill" happened to pass. He surveyed them
with a scowl.

"I'm a-goin' ter take out that boat, some day, an' don't you forgit it.
Old Barton says ter me one day--he says, 'Bill'----"

These were the words that greeted the boys, and Sam Randall cut them
off by exclaiming, "Oh, we're not talking about that now, Bill Dugan."

"Ain't you? Well, I'm talking about it, all right. Afear'd I'd hurt the
boat, eh? Think you're sich swell sailors, eh? Jist you wait, fellers."

"All year, if you want," laughed Sam. "Give the boat a shove, boys.
Rattling good breeze, eh? That's it--we're off."

The sail quickly filled out, and the boat drew away from the wharf.

"Jest you wait," repeated "Little Bill," loudly.

"That's what we're doing."

"I ain't forgot what that elephant done."

"Don't let it worry you, grouchy," and the boys waved their hands
toward the disgusted Dugan.

The "Spray" was a fast boat, and with a strong, favorable wind, cut
through the water at a rapid rate.

The dark firs on Hemlock and the crags of Promontory Island, began to
loom up clear and distinct. It was exhilarating sport, and, as the
water foamed and gurgled and occasionally dashed over the gunwale, the
boys began to sing.

"This is great," exclaimed Tom Clifton, at length. "We'll have a dandy
race, if Fenton comes over."

"We ought to give him a handicap."

"Sure thing. The 'Dauntless' isn't a patch on the 'Spray' for speed."

In a short time, the "Spray" dashed into the passageway beneath the
towering crags. Emerging on the other side, they sailed past the site
of the former "Idleman's Club" and continued on until a picturesque
cove appeared in view.

"Ease over the sheet, Phil," said Sam. "That's right. Haul it down when
I say the word."

In a sheltered situation, the "Spray" glided smoothly over the limpid
water and entered the cove. At Sam's command, the sail was lowered and
an anchor heaved overboard. The boat came to a stop within a few feet
of a jutting bank, where the water was so clear that the pebbly bottom
could be plainly seen.

"Done like old salts," laughed Sam. "Off with shoes and stockings,
fellows; we'll have to wade."

In a few minutes they stood on shore. Then all took seats on a
convenient rock.

Clouds of dazzling whiteness glistened against the deep blue sky,
shadows flitted across the surface of the lake and over the rugged
crags above, while now and then a cool, pleasant breeze blew strongly
in their faces.

They were in a delightful cove. A group of willows on the opposite side
mirrored themselves in the clear water; pond-lilies and aquatic growth
bobbed gently on the listless current.

"This is where Dave would enjoy himself," observed Sam. "Listen to
the birds--say, look at that bit of blue sky," and Sam imitated the
"poet's" tones so well that Tom burst out laughing.

"Can he really paint and write poetry?" asked Phil Levins.

"Oh, Chub can do anything," replied Sam, with conviction. "He's a
dandy. But here, Tommy, get off your duds. If you don't look out, you
won't be able to swim any better than Fenton can ride."

"Oh, suffering catfish," said Tom, flippantly.

The boys quickly donned their bathing suits, and walked along the
shelving beach to the end of the cove.

"Oh, but the water's cold. Hold on there, Sam Randall, don't push."

"Don't crowd him," grinned Phil.

"Oh, of course not," snickered Sam, and the next minute, Tom, neatly
tripped, hit the water with a loud splash and a yell.

For the next half hour, they had great sport. The water was shallow and
well suited to their purpose. Tom made a little progress, and by actual
count was able to keep afloat for seventeen seconds. Then he paddled
around, while Sam and Phil, both good swimmers, raced out to the end of
the cove and back, Sam leading by a few feet.

When they were again dressed, the three resumed their place on the rock.

"Most time for Fenton to come," observed Phil Levins.

"I'll bet he won't turn up," grumbled Sam, as he shied a rock into the
water. "I'd give a lot to have that race, too."

"Let's take a walk," suggested Tom.

"Where--up on the cliff?"

"No siree! Around the base as far as we can go."

"All right, son, we'll do it," agreed Sam. "If Fenton comes along,
he'll know how to find us."

Thick vegetation, at times, forced them toward the base of the cliff,
while at others they skirted along the bank. Pretty wild flowers
nodded in the breeze and brilliant-hued butterflies hovered about.
Occasionally, a rustle amidst the underbrush indicated the presence of
some startled creature.

Straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, loomed the towering walls of
Crescent Mountain, its opposite neighbor being partly hidden by the
cliff near at hand.

At length the end of the island was reached, and the boys only stopped
where the cliff, rising straight out of the water, barred further
progress.

"A daisy view," commented Tom. "Look at the current, Sam--pretty strong
even here, eh?"

"That's right, Tommy. I wouldn't care to be more than fifty feet from
shore. Nice fresh breeze, too, though we don't get so much of it on
this side."

Sam seated himself, the others following his example. Now and then a
stick or branch floated slowly by, occasionally caught by some counter
current and swung in to shore, only to again be started on its journey
toward the gorge of Canyon River.

Sam picked up a stout limb and sent it far out, then idly watched the
current carrying it away.

"Wonder, Tom," he said, reflectively, "what kind of a journey the thing
will have. Maybe it will go over that mysterious falls."

"I'm sure I don't care. Let's skip back, and see if Fenton has come."

"You run over and see, Tommy, like a good fellow."

"I will not, you lazy-bones. What are your legs for?"

"Lots of things," laughed Sam, as he made a lunge for Tom. But the
latter jumped nimbly aside.

The boys started to retrace their steps and presently reached a point
from which the "Spray" could be seen. They saw that no one was on the
beach, while the clear expanse of Mountain Lake was unspotted by craft
of any kind.

"I told you so, Tom Clifton."

"Never mind--let's sit down and wait."

Suddenly a shout came from Phil Levins, who had lagged in the rear. It
was so full of terror, that Sam and Tom looked at each other in wonder
and alarm.

"What's up now?" gasped the latter.

Phil was waving his arms wildly.

"Hurry up--hurry up!" he yelled, frantically, and the Ramblers broke
into a run.

Over bushes and rocks they dashed, until they caught sight of something
which seemed to make their blood run cold. Their faces blanched.

A quarter of a mile away, caught in the treacherous current of Canyon
River, was the "Dauntless," her white hull sparkling in the sunshine
and her tapering mast bobbing back and forth against the background of
cliffs.




                               CHAPTER X

                           HOWARD IN DANGER


"It's Howard Fenton!" cried Sam Randall, in terrified tones. "Can't
something be done to save him?"

"The boat will be carried into the gorge, as sure as fate," groaned
Phil Levins. "See--it's moving faster every minute."

"Awful!" breathed Tom Clifton. "Awful to stand here and see that!"

Into the minds of each flashed the dreadful conviction that Howard
Fenton was doomed. Spellbound, they watched the "Dauntless" struggling
in the current, tossing about like a chip, now floating broadside,
then stern foremost, and each moment nearing the dark, gloomy gorge of
Canyon River.

Sam Randall brought out his field-glass.

"I see Howard plainly," he gasped. "He's holding on to a rope. The
water is rough out there. Great Scott! This is terrible!"

"I wonder how it happened," groaned pale-faced Tom Clifton.

"It seems like an awful dream," panted Phil. "See how fast the
'Dauntless' is going now. In a few minutes he'll be in the gorge."

"Oh, why did we ever ask Howard to come over?"

Sam Randall directed his glass toward the base of the cliff, and a
shiver ran through him.

A ridge of white foam shot up against the dark rocks which rose sheer
from the water. There was nothing in that glance to inspire hope, and
breathlessly they waited.

Glittering in the sunshine, the white hull, tossing and pitching
violently, shot toward the base of Round Mountain.

"Poor Howard," groaned Sam. "No hope now. The 'Dauntless' is in the
gorge."

[Illustration: "THE DAUNTLESS IS IN THE GORGE."]

He turned away to hide his feelings, and when he looked again the boat
was sweeping rapidly between the cliffs. Silently the boys watched,
until the jutting crag hid it from view, and then, with heavy hearts,
retraced their steps. For some time none could trust themselves to
speak.

"What an awful difference a few hours has made," said Sam, finally, in
an unsteady voice. "Poor Howard, I can't understand how he was ever
caught like that."

"Looked to me as if the 'Dauntless' had lost its rudder," answered
Phil, tremulously. "The wind's pretty strong, too, and if an accident
happened near the passageway it would be easy to get carried out."

"Never felt so bad in all my life," put in Tom Clifton. "Fenton was
such a jolly good chap."

"I can't help feeling that Howard will be saved in some way," said Sam.

But Phil Levins shook his head gloomily.

"You don't know Canyon River, Sam," he exclaimed. "Everybody will tell
you that Fenton hasn't a chance."

They soon reached the "Spray," and hastily embarked. So eager were they
to get ashore that the boat seemed to move at a snail's pace. But once
outside the passageway, a good, stiff breeze carried them along at a
rattling clip. They were obliged to tack many times, and their patience
was sorely tried.

At length, however, the hotel wharf was reached, and the boys jumped
ashore.

They found great excitement at the Resort House. Groups had
congregated, eagerly discussing the accident.

The arrival of Sam, Tom and Phil furnished fresh interest. The three
were besieged with questions, and they, in turn, asked many others.

"Yes, we saw it," said Philip Brown, the proprietor's son. "A searching
party has already gone off to the place where Canyon River comes out of
the gorge. Dear knows how long it will take them to get there."

"An' when they do, 'twon't be any use, I calc'late," remarked "Big
Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver. "I tole Fenton many a time ter look out
fur that current. Awful news fur his dad, when he gits back."

"Where is Mr. Fenton?" asked Sam.

"Went a-ridin' jist afore Howard put off in the boat. It beats me, it
does--this business."

"Say, Sam, let's go over to White Rocks," suggested Phil Levins.
"Coming, Tom? You can get a good idea of the current there."

"Like as not yer'll drop in," growled Dugan. "Best keep away. It's
'nuff ter have one stranger carried down, without bein' plumb crazy
'nuff ter run any more chances."

But the boys had already started off.

The White Rocks were a series of huge boulders and flat stones which
extended into the lake not far from the base of Round Mountain.

Led by Phil Levins, the boys were soon making their way from rock to
rock. But Tom Clifton finally balked. The distance which separated him
from the next was a little more than he cared to cross.

"Better not go out any further, fellows," he cautioned.

"Wait here, Tom. Your legs ain't quite long enough," replied Sam, as he
made a flying leap.

Phil Levins, like most of the village boys, had often been out on the
Rocks, and knew the easiest way, but Sam Randall drew many a long
breath during the time that he was jumping and scrambling from one to
another.

"Christopher! Isn't it terrific!" he cried, when they finally came to a
pause on the smooth, flat top of a rock near the outer end.

The water foamed and boiled against its sides; miniature whirlpools
formed here and there, while long, rippling swells with a glassy
surface separated them from the boulders beyond.

Above all other sounds was the steady roar of the torrent thundering
toward the barrier. As if angry at resistance, it lashed itself into
a fury, beating and splashing against the sullen cliff. Hurled back,
its blue-green waves, patched with foam, paused for an instant before
rushing in mad triumph toward the gorge of Canyon River, about fifty
yards ahead.

Sam Randall was fascinated at the spectacle. From where they stood, it
was possible to see down-stream for a considerate distance, and the
boys eagerly turned their gaze in that direction, vainly hoping that
the "Dauntless" might be somewhere in sight.

"Well, what do you think of it now?" asked Phil Levins, at length.

"I give up. No one would have the least chance in such a current," said
Sam, in a hollow voice.




                              CHAPTER XI

                        "LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"


Dick Travers dropped his gun and frantically seized a stout sapling
which grew close to the edge. A cry of horror escaped his lips, as
it began to bend beneath his weight, and his hands to glide over the
slippery surface.

"Dave--Bob!" he yelled, despairingly. "Help!"

Through the crevice, narrow as it was, came a patch of light. He turned
his head, to shut out the view of the awful chasm below, but in even
that quick glance the jutting crags and great boulders strewn about the
base were indelibly fixed upon his memory.

The sapling was still bending, but with the grip of despair he clung to
it, fearing each instant to hear the fatal snap.

"Help! Bob, Dave!" he gasped again. "Help!"

Then his dangling feet bumped against the face of the cliff and struck
a projection. Daring to look down again, he saw a ledge about a foot
wide, and hope sprang within him.

A crashing through the underbrush sounded from above and three pale
faces were gazing into his own.

"We'll save you," cried Dave Brandon. "Courage, old man!"

"Hurry," gasped Dick. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead,
but Dave's voice cheered him.

"Lucky we brought a rope along," panted Dave. "Quick--make a noose--put
it around me!"

Bob Somers had implicit confidence in Dave Brandon, and asked no
questions. In a moment the noose was slipped over his sturdy shoulders
and under his arms.

"Now pass the end around that tree," instructed Dave, hurriedly. "Hang
on to it, Bob. Here, Jim, grab hold of my legs, and don't let go."

"Hurry up, fellows," came a cry from below.

"Courage, old boy," sang out Bob. "We're coming."

Dave threw himself flat on the ground and worked his way to the edge of
the opening, then leaned far over.

Havens, with a firm grip on the stout boy's legs, twisted his arm
around a convenient sapling.

"I've got you, Brandon," he said grimly.

Farther and farther Dave stretched over. He paid no heed to the yawning
depths. All he saw was Dick Travers' fear-stricken face just below.

A few inches more, and the "poet's" strong hands closed with a
vise-like grip over his fellow Rambler's wrist.

"Keep a tight grip on the sapling, Dick," he commanded, in a tense
voice, and the other obeyed.

It was a thrilling moment for all. But Dave's strength was equal to the
emergency. With a mighty effort, he began to work his way back inch by
inch.

Bob Somers, after fastening the rope securely, sprang forward. No words
were spoken. Dave Brandon grunted and groaned, while the perspiration
rolled off his round face.

Presently Bob Somers leaned over and grabbed Dick Travers' left arm.
Up, up came the dangling form.

"Now, Havens, pull for all you are worth," panted Dave. "Pull like the
dickens," and Jim bent all his strength to the task.

Another instant, and Dick was seized by the waistband and dragged over
the edge to safety.

It would be hard to give an idea of the thankfulness that was in the
hearts of all. For several moments, Dick Travers lay without speaking.
The shock had been a severe one.

"Thanks, fellows," was all he said, finally. But his tone spoke volumes.

"Look before you leap next time, Dick," observed Jim Havens. "Lots of
dangerous places around these mountains."

"You bet I will. Crickets! It was awful to hang over that chasm. I felt
sure the sapling was going to snap," and Dick shuddered at the thought.

Still puffing and blowing, Dave Brandon was busy wiping his perspiring
face, while he lay at full length on the ground.

None of them felt quite in the mood for hunting, and the stout boy
finally proposed that they return to the dugout.

"I need a good, square meal," he said.

"And you deserve it, too," said Dick, heartily. "Let's vamoose."

Tired and hungry, they finally pushed through the last belt of timber,
and came in view of the dugout.

"Well, well, who in the world is that?" exclaimed Bob Somers in
surprise, as he observed a figure sitting on a log before the entrance,
calmly smoking a big pipe.

"By the flying partridge, a visitor out here," laughed Dave.

"Didn't know we had any neighbors in this block," said Dick.

"Think I know that feller," put in Havens. "Looks like Hank Merwin, the
trapper."

The visitor did not arise as the boys approached. He was evidently a
very tall, raw-boned man, and his face was bronzed to almost the color
of an Indian's. He rested a Winchester rifle across his knees, and
fastened to his belt was a holster containing a huge Colt revolver.

He looked impassively at the campers, then drawled, slowly, "Wal,
young uns, arternoon!"

"Hello, Hank!" greeted Jim, familiarly. "These are some friends of mine
out hunting and fishing. Speak your names, fellows."

Hank Merwin listened calmly. His face was as expressionless as a wooden
Indian's.

"Huntin' an' fishin', eh? Wal, I happened along this way, and I sees
that some one was a-usin' the dugout, so I stays."

"Glad you did, Hank," said Jim, cordially. "Grub with us to-night."

"Don't mind if I do."

When everything was under way, Dick Travers brought out his camera.

"As long as we have a real trapper here," he announced, "I'm going to
take a picture of the whole crowd."

"Knew a feller oncet who had one of them jiggers," observed Hank,
slowly. "I never had no picter of myself."

"Well, I'll give you one of these," said Dick. "Step this way,
gentlemen, and get your phizzes taken. Get up, Dave. Stay right where
you are, Hank."

He stepped back, while the others ranged themselves around. There was
a sharp click, and Dick announced that it was all over.

"I'm going to take some wild animals with this, Hank," he said.

"Wild critters, eh, lad?"

Hank's gray eyes rested on the youthful photographer. Then he gazed
reflectively at the rings of smoke again.

"Mebbe I kin help ye," he said, kindly. "Kin ye take one of them
picters at night--by jacklight?"

"By jacklight?" questioned Dick, in puzzled tones.

"Sartingly! But perhaps you never hearn tell of it?"

"Hank often goes out hunting by jacklight," interposed Havens. "He has
a lamp in front of his boat, and a reflector sends the light an awful
way ahead. Well--moose and deer are fond of feeding on lily-pads and
grasses near the shore, and every once in a while he runs across 'em."

"Should think they would scoot away like sixty," said Dick.

"They don't. The light sort of blinds them and they can't see the
hunter."

"Wal, lad," continued Hank Merwin, "kin ye take a picter by that 'ere
light?"

"You just bet I can," cried the official photographer,
enthusiastically. "I've got a lot of flashlight powder, and it will
be as easy as rolling off a log. Thanks awfully, Hank. Snap-shots by
jacklight sounds fine, eh, Bob?"

"Right you are."

"Wal, whenever you takes the notion, look me up," said Hank, "but you'd
best wait 'til thar ain't no moon."

Dick Travers was delighted at the prospect, and the others were no less
pleased.

After supper, sitting before a pleasant fire, Hank Merwin, who had
taken a great fancy to the boys, related many thrilling incidents
in his life as a trapper. The moon rose above the belt of timber,
enveloping the landscape in its pale greenish light; the whispering
breeze brought with it many strange sounds from the forest, and, as the
fire crackled and glowed, sending up showers of dancing sparks, the
boys were more and more charmed with life in the open.




                              CHAPTER XII

                            DOWN THE GORGE


During the week, the boys went out on several hunting expeditions. Many
quail and jack-rabbits fell victims to their good aim. Dick Travers had
been gradually developing what Dave described as a severe attack of
"photographis nightowlis." He was constantly talking of Hank Merwin and
the promised jacklight expedition, and Dave was sympathetic.

"Before it gets any worse, fellows, we'd better pull up stakes for a
while," he said.

"That's good," approved Havens. "We can come back to the dugout any
time," and, Bob agreeing, the matter was thereupon settled.

One morning, bright and early, they were ready to start. A great part
of the outfit was hidden, the hunters carrying only what was absolutely
necessary. Of course each was provided with a stout pole having a spike
at the end.

"We'll have a dandy time out with Hank Merwin," said Havens. "He looks
solemn enough--never smiles--but he'll treat you white."

At the first clearing, a magnificent view brought forth delighted
exclamations. Streamers of purple mist hung over the valley, while
the early morning sun cast a rosy glow over the snow-covered mountain
summits which stood out against a pearly green sky.

Masses of pink and white laurel, gay in sunlight and cool in shadow,
sent forth their delicate odors to mingle with those of the wild rose
and grape blossoms.

Presently Bob Somers held up his hand--"Listen."

A faint musical murmur reached their ears.

"It's a cascade," announced Havens. "Let's steer for it."

As they progressed, the sound changed into a steady roar. It was not
difficult to guide themselves by it, nor easy to go in a direct line,
on account of irregularities in the mountain slope. Dense masses of
vegetation also interfered, but by persevering for about fifteen
minutes the boys emerged from a heavy belt of timber, to find an
extensive prospect opening out before them.

"Gee willikens! Isn't that a wonderful sight!" cried Dick Travers,
enthusiastically.

"Oh, ho--the finest I ever saw," sighed the "poet."

"Perfectly stunning!" burst out Bob Somers, while Havens smiled at
their enthusiasm.

Rising almost perpendicularly, a gigantic wall of whitish rock jutted
out from the side of a gorge. Perhaps a hundred feet above them, a
foaming, glittering stream dashed over the edge, spreading out like
a fan in its descent, and dashing with a thunderous roar upon the
rocks below. Clouds of mist rose above the boiling, bubbling water and
showers of dancing drops glittered like diamonds in the sunlight.

The four approached the edge of the ravine that hemmed in the torrent.
Havens, shouting at the top of his voice, explained that a short
distance further along there was another cascade.

Dave nodded. Then he slowly raised his arm and pointed upward to the
mountain slope beyond.

Several animals on the heights above the cascade were seen moving
about, now and then leaping lightly from rock to rock.

"Big horns--mountain sheep--good eating, too," said Havens, laconically.

Bob Somers brought out his field-glass. "By Jove, isn't it wonderful
how they keep their footing?" he cried. "Look, Dave!"

The powerful glass brought the animals close into view, and the "poet"
gazed long and earnestly. He could see them bunch their four feet
together, poise for an instant, then leap gracefully and land on the
steepest rocks.

"That's a great sight, Bob," he said, at length.

"Big horns generally keep above the timber line," explained Havens.
"They go in bands of about fifty. Some of the old stagers are whoppers."

"Wish I could get a snap-shot of 'em," sighed Dick.

They watched the wild sheep for some time, then retraced their steps
and before long were again on their way down the mountain slopes. They
found the descent both difficult and dangerous. Gullies and precipices
were encountered, and a misstep might have resulted disastrously.

It was about noon when they finally scrambled over a ledge of rocks and
reached a clear, swift-flowing stream.

"Oh, ho, how glad I am to get down with arms and legs safe and sound,"
sighed Dave.

"This stream leads to the lake where Hank Merwin has his cabin,"
announced Jim Havens.

"That's what I call a bit of good news," said Bob. "Let's have a bite
to eat--that is if Chubby is willing."

"Willing?" groaned Dave, as he lolled at full length. "I couldn't go a
step further without something to strengthen me. If there was only a
store around where a fellow could get a plate of ice cream, eh? Um--um."

"Wish to thunder we could swim to Hank Merwin's," remarked Dick, with a
glance toward the swift current.

"Not as much as I do," said Dave, languidly.

"Hank is a crackerjack at cooking," put in Havens. "Most likely he'll
get up a fine spread, if we reach there in time."

"Eh? That sounds interesting," said Dave. "We must give him a chance.
Come ahead, fellows," and he sank back on the turf and closed his eyes.

A little judicious tickling with a blade of grass soon brought him to
his feet, however, whereupon the boys, in single file, began to trudge
along the bank.

In about half an hour they reached a dilapidated log cabin.

"H'm--about the worst wreck I ever saw," commented Bob. "Struck by
lightning, blown over by a cyclone, or knocked out by an earthquake?"

"All three--I should say," chimed in Dick, with a grin. "More logs
lying about the ground than on the walls."

"Hey, fellows, I've got an idea," said Bob, suddenly. "A dandy one,
too."

"Quick--speak out. Don't let it get away," grinned Dick. "Something
tells me it's something."

"Well, why not make a raft?"

"A raft!" echoed his companions.

"Yes! Why not? That's better than swimming, isn't it? We ought to be
able to steer with a couple of poles, all right, and keep out of the
way of rocks, eh, Havens? Dandy fun, besides."

Jim reflected. "A good scheme, Bob. Only there are some pretty swift
rapids. We might get upset in the middle of one--that sounds nice, eh?"

"But if we walk," drawled Dave, "it means a lot more climbing, doesn't
it?"

"Sure thing," said Jim.

"Then I say, real loud, build a raft--but do you think it can be done?"
An anxious look came over the stout boy's face.

"Of course," asserted Bob, confidently.

"But how? Don't keep me in suspense. My! Wouldn't it be great to float
down that stream."

"By Jove, there are enough loose logs around to build two rafts,
Chubby," said Bob. "Don't you see 'em? But let's begin on the job."

"I'm willing, if the rest are," put in Jim Havens, slowly.

"Hurrah for the raft!" shouted Bob.

In a few minutes the four guns were stacked, their outfits piled in
a heap, and then the sound of axe and hatchet resounded through the
forest. Cutting the logs to the proper length was a hard task, but
the boys worked with a vim and were rewarded by success. A sufficient
number finally lay at the water's edge.

"Now, fellows, we need tough roots to bind 'em together," said Bob.
"Must be lots around."

"And with the old door from the cabin nailed across it ought to be
solid," said Dick.

The work progressed rapidly. The raft was not a thing of beauty, but
it promised to hold together. The roots used were extremely tough and
flexible, and, fortunately, great quantities were close at hand. Bound
securely with these, and braced by strips from the door, the raft was
completed to their satisfaction.

"Now we'll fashion a couple of paddles, and begin our voyage," said Bob.

"Don't forget a rest for the guns," put in Dave.

"That's so, my boy. Great head."

"A couple of short logs, with a strip nailed across the tops, will do
the trick."

"Somebody's got to look out for 'em, though. You will, Dave?--good."

At last, everything was ready. The raft had been built on a shelving
bank, and after a hard tussle was set afloat.

"All aboard the 'Mayflower'!" yelled Bob. He stood, paddle in hand,
with Havens at his side.

"Let 'er go, cap'n!" cried Dave. "All overboard at the next rock.
Hurrah! We're off, and still on!"

The clumsy pile of logs swung slowly out, then caught by the swift
current, began its voyage down-stream.

With but little effort the boys kept it well out from the shore, and
the motion was delightful.

"Whoop la! This is dandy," cried Dick, in great glee. "It beats walking
all hollow, eh?"

"Oh, ho, what views--look at the reflections," said Dave.

"And isn't the water clear?" put in Bob. "You can see the bottom."

"We'll see it closer, if you don't keep her steady," said Havens, with
a laugh.

At good speed, they swept along. The stream soon widened out, each
shore presenting a most picturesque appearance. Oaks and maples hung
far over, and occasionally a birch stood out sharply white against its
fellows.

"Rocks ahead! Port your helm," sang out Dick.

"Aye, aye, sir!" laughed Bob.

The two navigators pushed their poles down against the pebbly bottom
and by exerting all their strength succeeded in swinging the unwieldy
craft to one side.

But an instant later, a terrific jolt made Havens sit down with a thud.

"By jingo!" cried Dick. "We're stuck."

He had hardly uttered the words, however, when the mass of logs slowly
ground off the submerged rock into clear water again.

"And this is just the beginning," remarked Havens, rubbing his legs.
"Nothing soft about these logs, fellows."

"Hello, we're going into a canyon soon, sure as blazes," remarked Dick,
rather apprehensively. "I'll bet the old thing hits a rock and busts."

The valley began to narrow, and before many minutes had elapsed the
raft was running between high, precipitous banks, then, swinging around
a bend, the walls of a canyon came into view.

"We're in for it now," said Havens, with a long breath. "Wow!"

As they entered the dark gorge, a chilling breeze swept in their faces;
the current fairly raced along, and, as the voyagers looked up at the
straight walls of rock, they began to doubt the wisdom of their course.
Rocks, and snags, too, were numerous.

"Mind your eye!" yelled Havens. "If we get dumped into this pocket,
we'll be in a mess, sure enough."

"You bet we will," panted Bob. "Look out for that rock straight ahead,
Jim. Now--both together."

By vigorous efforts, they once more kept clear of the obstruction,
then, as the gorge became still narrower, they were obliged to redouble
their efforts.

"Oh, ho, real exciting sport, this," remarked Dave.

"Just a bit too much so," grumbled Dick. "Wow! We're coming to another
bend."

"Canyon ends just beyond it," called out Havens. "Look out, though,
we're coming to the worst stretch of all."

With a rush and a roar, the river swept around the giant cliffs. The
"Mayflower" shook convulsively, swung in a half-circle, then, gripped
by another current, wobbled violently.

Only quick work prevented a catastrophe, and all breathed a sigh of
relief when the wider valley was again reached.

As the raft approached a clump of trees, a flock of ducks arose with
cries of alarm.

"Hey there, ye chumps--what d'ye mean by scarin' away them ducks?"
yelled a stentorian voice.

A tall, lank figure stepped into view, and shook his fist angrily
toward the advancing raft.

"'Surly Joe,'" said Havens, laconically.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          HANK MERWIN'S CABIN


"Oh, I remember him," said Bob, surveying the hunter with interest.
"He's the old fellow we saw at the Resort House."

"He of the sour face," added Dave, laughingly. "Seems real mad, eh?"

"Hey, you lot of wooden heads," shouted the trapper, "what are ye doin'
out here?"

"Enjoying ourselves," laughed Havens.

"Wal, if ye bother my game another time, ye won't," snarled Joe. "Were
you waterbugs crazy 'nuff ter come through the canyon on that thing?"

"Sure, Mr. Tomlin," grinned Dick.

"Don't give me none of yer imperdence, kid. I won't stand fur no sass."

"There might have been a dandy mixup if we'd been on shore," remarked
the "poet," grimly.

When the sun had sunk from view behind the range of mountains the raft
entered Lake Cloud, a beautiful sheet of water about two miles long,
three-quarters broad, and partly hemmed in by mountains.

The rich, dark evergreens and lofty peaks were reflected with wonderful
clearness in the limpid surface. Straight ahead, rising against the
golden sky, was a snow-capped summit, purple and hazy, while nearer at
hand were red-brown cliffs, with the higher walls still touched by a
glow of sunlight.

"No words are strong enough for this scenery," declared the "poet."
"Hank Merwin certainly knows where to hang out."

"There isn't a prettier place around," asserted Jim Havens. "And talk
about game--it's chuck full--bears and deer. But Hank can tell you all
about that."

"Beats any place I ever saw," said Bob, enthusiastically. "Now,
fellows, we'll have to desert this good old craft."

"Right you are," was Havens' rejoinder. "Hank's shack is over on the
north shore."

The raft was soon poled through the lily-pads and rushes bordering the
lake, and the boys jumped ashore.

"Feel kind of stiff, for a fact," said Dick.

"Haven't very far to go," put in Havens, cheerfully.

With a last look at the rude pile of logs which had served them so
well, the boys shouldered their outfits and started off.

Hank Merwin's cabin was in a clearing behind a spur of a mountain and
not far from the lake.

They found him sitting before the entrance, calmly smoking his pipe. He
looked up as the boys trooped forward, but no change of expression came
over his impassive face.

"How d'ye do, young uns?" he drawled, without rising. "I've been kinder
lookin' fur ye."

"And we've had a grand trip," said Havens. "A raft most of the way."

"Young uns will be frisky," commented the trapper; "but I reckon, lads,
ye're hungry."

The venison steak and corn dodgers, together with coffee made a very
enjoyable supper. When it was over, Hank assisted them in making bough
beds. Then they turned in, and were quickly lulled to sleep by the
whispering pines.

Next morning, up bright and early, Dick Travers made several
photographs of the surrounding scenery.

"Crickets, I can hardly wait for that jacklight trip to-night," he said
to Brandon.

"Time will be here before you know it," drawled Dave. "I'm going to
make a sketch of the lake."

Dave was only a beginner, but his work impressed Hank greatly, and his
delight was unbounded when the picture was finished and the boy, after
tacking it on the wall of the cabin, said that there it was going to
remain.

Before supper, the trapper got his fourteen foot boat ready.

"I can't take all of ye lads," he said, regretfully, "but some kin go
another time."

In drawing lots for the coveted position of assistant to the official
photographer, Dave Brandon secured the lucky number.

Eager with anticipation, Dick Travers scarcely tasted his food, and the
sight of Dave calmly munching away annoyed him.

"For goodness' sake, Chub, do get excited--or something."

"Let it be something," yawned Dave. "Nerve-tingling business isn't in
my line."

Hank Merwin lighted the lamp on the bow of his boat, and a powerful
reflector sent a stream of light to pierce the blackness.

"Jacklight's a-goin'--git aboard, lads," instructed the trapper.

The boys eagerly obeyed. In a moment, comfortably seated, they heard
the faint sound of ripples lapping against the sides of the boat, then
the fire in front of the cabin gradually grew smaller.

Hank handled the paddles with great skill, keeping far enough out to
clear the aquatic plants which grew in profusion.

"Lads," he said, in a low voice, "no talkin'. Our frien's kin do all
that," and Dave smiled, for the voices of the two on shore reached them
with astonishing clearness.

Occasionally, the cry of some bird or animal in the forest sounded
weirdly, while night-hawks, hovering over the lake, made their sharp
voices heard at frequent intervals.

"Oh, ho," murmured Dave; he lay back and repeated, in barely audible
tones:

    "'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar
    And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"

Meanwhile Dick Travers directed the rays of the lantern toward the
bank. They flitted fantastically from tree to tree, now darting between
and dragging into view some delicate tracery beyond, then shooting
across the inky black water, revealing lilies and rushes.

The steady, rhythmic sound of the paddle, barely heard above the soft
lament of the pines, the faint gurgle of the water, and the easy,
gliding motion, produced a dreamy, unreal effect, which charmed the
Ramblers and soon lulled one of them to sleep.

But Dick was ever alert. He strained his ears and eyes for the fairest
evidence which might indicate the presence of some wild animal, but
without avail.

Still Hank Merwin paddled on--his muscular arms seemed tireless--and
still Dick shot the blinding glare over water and shore. The end of the
lake was reached. Looming faintly against the sky, they now saw a great
snow-capped peak, and Dick Travers caught a low, musical murmur.

"A cascade," he whispered, and Hank, who had heard him, grunted
affirmatively.

Dick began to feel that his chances of getting a photograph were very
slim indeed.

A half hour passed; then a faint sound set his nerves to tingling.

"Hank--Hank!" he whispered.

"Sh--sh," came from the trapper.

Dick felt a gleam of hope, for instantly the boat shot ahead at
redoubled speed. In spite of himself, the hand that directed the
jacklight trembled. Gradually the sound grew more distinct; its nature
puzzled the youth more and more.

"What in the world can it be?" he thought. "Crickets, it sounds funny.
Wish I dared ask Hank."

But there was something in the boatman's manner which impelled silence.

They were skimming rapidly past the trees now. The boat shot ahead
almost noiselessly toward the mysterious sound, which seemed to be just
ahead.

Dick touched Dave on the shoulder.

"Wake up, wake up!" he whispered, excitedly.

"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar,'" murmured the stout boy.
Then he sat bolt upright, with an exclamation, and peered ahead.
"What's the----" he began.

But a low, stern injunction for silence from Hank Merwin cut him short.

Evidently something extraordinary was going on out there in the night.

Suddenly the beam from the search-light, shooting past a jutting point
of shore, fell upon a most remarkable spectacle and one which sent a
thrill through both boys.

Two great animals, engaged in terrific combat, reared and plunged, as
they charged each other with lowered heads.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                            A BEACON LIGHT


"Ten days ago--ten, mind you, since poor Howard Fenton was carried into
the canyon," said Sam Randall, softly.

He and Tom Clifton were seated on the porch of Rickham House. The night
was very dark, and several starlike points of light indicated the
village.

Tom Clifton tilted his chair back against the wall.

"Maybe it won't make Bob Somers and the rest of them feel badly," he
remarked, reflectively.

"It couldn't fail to. Wonder if anything has been heard from Mr.
Fenton?"

"Walter Brown says not. Very funny how he disappeared right after the
accident."

"Certainly is--and never told any one where he was going. Left a lot of
stuff at the hotel, too."

"Perhaps he's off in the mountains somewhere," suggested Tom.
"The searching party never found a trace of either Howard or the
'Dauntless.'"

"A terrible thing--indeed it was."

For a while the boys lapsed into gloomy silence.

Presently Sam rose to his feet and peered earnestly in the direction of
the islands.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Tom, do you see anything?"

"Of course I do. A light--a light on Promontory. Now what in the
dickens can that be?"

A tiny spot of light, seemingly suspended in the air, had suddenly
appeared in view, steadily growing brighter until it looked like a
blazing beacon.

"Maybe the old log cabin is afire. I'll bet that's just what it is,"
said Sam. "Christopher, where's the field-glass?"

He darted inside, and presently returned.

"I can't make it out," he said, finally, in a perplexed tone. "Here,
Tom, take a squint."

But the younger member of the Rambler Club shook his head.

"By jinks, I give it up, Sam," he remarked, slowly. "Mighty funny--I
never saw a light there before. Shouldn't wonder if some camper is
living in the old shack."

"Huh! And I suppose he's making a pot of coffee."

Tom laughed.

"Must be a good-sized blaze to make all that light," he admitted.
"Let's take a run over to-morrow, and find out."

"I've got a better scheme than that, Tommy. Why not go out a bit on the
lake now?"

"Now?" echoed Tom, in astonishment.

"Sure! It's a dandy night--not too much breeze. It will be lots of fun,
cruising around. Come ahead."

"I'm not so anxious, Sam. It's blacker than a stack of black cats out
there. I'd rather stay on the porch."

"Oh, pshaw, Tommy! Be a sport. With a lantern to keep us company,
there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, suffering catfish! Who said anything about being afraid, Sam
Randall?" exclaimed Tom, flaring up. "Sure we'll go." He settled his
cap firmly on his head, and then, with another glance at the distant
beacon, rose to his feet.

In a few minutes the Ramblers were at the wharf. The water looked very
black, and it seemed so silent and lonely that Tom, despite his words,
felt many misgivings as he stepped aboard the "Speedy."

Sam lighted a lantern; then the sail was run up, and within a quarter
of an hour they were well on their way toward the far end of the lake.

"It's burning brighter than ever, Tommy, so I guess it ain't the old
shack," observed Sam; "but what in thunder do they want such a whopping
big bonfire for?"

"Might be 'Little Bill' and his pals having some fun."

"Perhaps. This is bully sport, eh?"

Soon the thickly-wooded shore of Hemlock Island began to separate
itself from the lake, and the lofty crags of Promontory rose dimly
against the star-studded sky.

At the proper time, Sam Randall skilfully brought the "Speedy" about,
and they prepared to enter the channel.

Just as the sharp turn was being made, the sound of oars reached their
ears.

"H'm, some of the night-picnickers, now, perhaps," muttered Sam.

He half arose, in order to get a better view, and at that instant
a rowboat shot out of the passageway directly across their bow. A
collision seemed inevitable.

The Ramblers gave a lusty shout; Sam swung the helm hard down, and the
sail rattled to the deck in a jiffy, but despite these efforts, the
sailboat struck the other a glancing blow near the stern.

The occupant of the rowboat, however, had used his oars skilfully, and
escaped being thrown into the water by a narrow margin. The two craft
grated past each other, and quickly came to a stop. Then the oarsman,
with a couple of strokes, drew up alongside the "Speedy."

As the rays of the lantern shot across his face, the boys were
profoundly astonished to recognize Mr. Fenton.

"I suppose I must plead guilty to having made a blunder," said the
latter, after replying to the boys' salutations; "but surely the last
thing I expected was to encounter a boat. I must thank you for having
handled yours so nicely that I was spared a wetting."

"Good thing there isn't much wind," was Sam Randall's response. Then
he added, abruptly, "We saw a light on top of the bluff, Mr. Fenton,
and thought it would be a good idea to cruise around a bit to see if we
could find out what it was."

"Not remarkable, then, that we should run across each other."

"Suppose you saw the bonfire? It's been making quite an illumination."

Mr. Fenton did not answer for a moment, and when he spoke his voice
betrayed some embarrassment.

"Yes, Sam, I noticed it," he said. "But, really, it's about time that I
got back to the hotel. It's quite a long pull, and----"

"Oh, we couldn't let you row, Mr. Fenton," interrupted Sam, quickly.
"We'll tow you back."

"Of course," put in Tom, wondering at the oarsman's courage in
venturing out at night in a small boat and on such dangerous waters.

As if divining his thoughts, Mr. Fenton said, "It's safe enough if one
hugs the shore of Hemlock Island for some distance. That makes the way
a bit longer, but really, boys, I don't feel that I ought to put you to
the trouble."

"No trouble at all," asserted Sam. He stooped down and passed over the
painter. Mr. Fenton thanked him quietly, and made it fast to his boat.

As there was very little wind in the passageway, it was necessary to
use a pair of oars in bringing the "Speedy" about. Mr. Fenton clambered
over the side, and the return trip began.

When they were well out in the lake again, the Ramblers looked
curiously toward the top of the cliff, but the mysterious light had
entirely vanished.

With natural delicacy, neither Sam nor Tom touched upon the recent
happening, nor did Mr. Fenton himself mention it. They landed him at
the hotel wharf, then set sail for Rickham House.

"Tom," remarked Sam, slowly, when they were out of hearing, "what do
you make of this adventure? Doesn't it seem kind o' queer that Mr.
Fenton should be near Promontory Island at this time of night?"

"Well, rather. And he didn't seem to care to talk about that bonfire."

"No--I can't make head or tail out of it, Tommy."

"Perhaps the place where his son used to go has a sort of attraction
for him," said Tom, hesitatingly. "I've heard of people like that,
and----"

"But it doesn't explain the light."

"No!"

"How long do you suppose he's been back at the hotel?"

"Can't guess. Why didn't you think to ask him?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, his manner kind of rattled me," said Tom. "Never knew him to be
so cold and stiff."

"You wouldn't expect him to be like he was, would you?"

"No! I guess not. The shock must have been terrible."

"What do you think about that bonfire, anyway?"

"Give it up."

Early next morning, the "Speedy" was again headed for Promontory, and,
aided by a strong breeze, reached it in a short time.

Almost immediately the boys were scrambling up the cliff. They arrived
at the top much out of breath, very dusty, and also very eager.

Sitting in front of the cabin was a short, stout man with a full beard
whom neither had ever seen before. He was calmly smoking a pipe.

Both boys immediately noticed a great pile of charred sticks--remains
of the huge bonfire of the night before.

At the sight of visitors, the man jumped to his feet.

"Well, well," he said, gruffly; "in a powerful big hurry, boys, ain't
ye? Wait till you get yer breath." He waved his hand and reseated
himself. "Ever been up here before?"

"Sure," answered Sam; "and it's the first time we ever met anybody.
Hello! The cabin's fixed up in great shape, eh, Tommy? New door and
window, besides a whole lot of patching."

He looked inquiringly at the stout man. "Should think you'd find it
lonesome and dull up here."

The other knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"Sometimes, boy," he responded, slowly, "but I don't git bothered much
by people that have questions to ask. Now I suppose you're as curious
as most people, and are a-wonderin' who the old codger is."

He paused, and refilled his pipe.

"Well, I'm Neil Prescott, at nobody's service."

The boys grinned, and introduced themselves. Then Sam began to tell Mr.
Prescott how they had seen the light of his fire the night before.

"Well, what of it?" asked the stout man, gruffly.

"Nothing," said Sam, somewhat surprised. "Only I thought----"

"A power of things, no doubt, an' all of 'em wrong."

"You didn't need a blaze like that to cook by, did you?"

"Well, well! That's a good one. I was just a-tryin' ter find out what
the village looked like."

"And I guess you came pretty near doing it," said Sam, with a grin.
"If you had piled on a bit more wood, we wouldn't have run into Mr.
Fenton's boat."

"Eh--what? Run into Mr. Fenton's boat?" gasped Mr. Prescott, half
rising from his seat. "Say that ag'in."

"Then you know him?" broke in Tom Clifton, abruptly.

"Did I say anything about knowin' 'im? Did yer hear me utter any words
to the effect that I knew him, eh?"

Mr. Prescott brought out an enormous bandana handkerchief, and mopped
his perspiring forehead.

"If you boys ain't quizzers from Quizzerville--well, this Mr.
What-you-may-call-him wasn't hurt, was he?"

"Not so you could notice it," said Sam, flippantly. "Going to stay here
long, Mr. Prescott?"

"Mebbe--mebbe not. If you hev time ter wait, I'll write out the story
of me life an' give it ter you. Where did you come from, an' what are
you doin' out here?"

A grim smile played over Mr. Prescott's features. He began to speak
rapidly, and more gruffly than ever.

"Answerin' questions ain't sich fun as askin' 'em, eh? 'Tain't well ter
mind other people's business, lads. Did yer ever think of that?"

And, well satisfied with this home thrust, Mr. Neil Prescott laughed
gruffly.

He soon became quite pleasant, however, and entertained his visitors
with several stories. But not a word of information did he volunteer
about himself. When they took their leave, Sam and Tom's curiosity,
instead of being satisfied, was aroused to a greater degree than ever.

"He doesn't belong to the village," said Sam, positively, "and isn't
any hunter--you can bet on that. Wonder where in the dickens he came
from? Say--did you notice the big box of provisions he had inside?"

"Yes--and the whole place was cleaned up as nice as you please. Any one
could tell that he knows Mr. Fenton, too. Wonder why he tried to bluff
us off."

"It's kind of mysterious, Tommy--and I hate mysteries. You and I, old
chap, will have to clear this thing up. Neil Prescott isn't staying in
that cabin for the fun of the thing. No, sir," and Sam shook his head
with conviction.

That night there was no sign of life from the solitary occupant of
Promontory Island, but late on the evening following the strange beacon
burned even more brightly than before.




                              CHAPTER XV

                             DICK'S MOOSE


Hank Merwin ceased plying his paddle and the boat rested almost
motionless.

The jacklight revealed a sight which might have thrilled even a veteran
hunter. The boys found it hard to steady their tingling nerves.

"Gee!" gasped Dick Travers. "I never----"

But a stern, though almost inaudible admonition from Hank Merwin
effectually silenced him.

In spite of the glare of light which streamed over them, the infuriated
moose continued their deadly combat. Bellowing and snorting, they
reared and plunged, striking with both hoofs and horns, churning the
shallow water into foam and trampling down the lilies and rushes which
grew thickly about.

The novelty of the situation, the weird light, cutting its way through
the blackness, and the struggle to the death, made it seem more like
some wild dream than reality, and the chums rested almost motionless,
half expecting, each moment, that their presence would be discovered.

But the monarchs of the forest were too intent upon their war. Although
of clumsy build, with huge head, short neck and long, ungainly fore
legs, they moved about with wonderful speed.

Suddenly their antlers came together with terrific force, and two
foam-flecked bodies swayed back and forth. The battle raged hotter.
Now the smaller animal was borne almost to his knees; then, recovering
himself, forced the other back, and the latter, in turn exerting his
enormous strength to the utmost, pushed his rival partly around.

A huge head was silhouetted for an instant against the background; a
spreading pair of antlers descended. The blow was struck with all the
force that a powerful pair of shoulders could give--a blow of crushing
force.

The smaller animal staggered; a snort of agony and rage echoed over the
lake, as he flopped to his knees, sending forth a circling wave to
surge against the sides of the boat.

"He's done for," breathed Dick.

[Illustration: "HE'S DONE FOR."]

"No--not yet. Look--he's game."

The fighters were on the edge of the jacklight now, and Dick's hands
trembled with excitement as he adjusted the reflector.

The moose, with a desperate effort, bravely arose and locked horns
again.

Then it was that Dave Brandon aroused himself.

"Quick, Dick Travers," he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper, "quick!
What's the matter with you--get your picture!"

The official photographer had almost forgotten his mission. But he
set about repairing his error with so much energy that he nearly fell
overboard.

A warning "sh--sh" from Hank steadied him, and, to his relief, the
animals paid no heed.

Eagerly, he again adjusted the light and sighted the camera.

"Ready, Dave," he whispered. "Set off the powder."

A blinding glare followed, and Dick Travers gave a low cry of triumph.

"As sure as you live, I got it," he murmured, exultantly. "Christopher!"

The combat was approaching an end.

The larger moose backed away, then plunged forward.

Crash! Its antlers landed with telling force; its antagonist staggered,
sank to his knees, then toppled heavily over, and a wave surged forth
as he fell among the water-lilies and rushes. The mountains threw back
on the night air the conqueror's bellow of triumph.

Then, as if conscious for the first time of danger, the moose wheeled
sharply about and made for the shore as fast as his exhausted condition
would permit.

In an instant, Dick had raised his rifle, and, seeing this, Hank Merwin
lowered his own.

"At him, lad; and shoot straight," he encouraged.

There was a flash and a report--the moose fell backward on his haunches.

"I've got him!" yelled Dick, in great excitement.

But, almost as he spoke, there was a floundering in the water; the
wounded and enraged animal staggered to his feet and charged directly
for the boat.

It was a critical moment.

But Hank Merwin did not lose his head. With a quick stroke, he sent the
craft forward, and, as he turned it, the rays of the jacklight swept
past the charging moose to the shore beyond.

"He's coming right for us!" yelled Dick, in terror.

"Don't none of yer shoot," commanded the trapper, sharply.

The moose was right behind them. Its ungainly form could be dimly seen,
as it lumbered through the dense aquatic growth, bent on vengeance.

But Hank shot the boat out in deep water, then quickly turned. The
jacklight was again directed toward the moose.

Its rays were barely in time to reveal a most unexpected sight. The
animal suddenly staggered and fell.

Dick Travers' shot, together with the wounds received in battle, had
proved too much for the gallant old beast, whose eyes glared defiance
to the last.

"Hurrah!" cried the official photographer, in a wild burst of
enthusiasm. "Oh, Christopher! Isn't this a piece of luck? Got a picture
and brought down a moose--how's that, Dave, old boy?" and in his
delight, he slapped his friend vigorously on the shoulder. "Ain't I a
hunter, eh?"

"Yes, lad, didn't do bad," put in Hank, kindly, "but if the ole critter
hadn't had that tussle--wal--you'd be a heap wetter'n you are now, an'
the boat might have been smashed ter bits."

"I say, Hank, could--I--I get the antlers?" asked Dick, breathlessly.

"Sartin, my lad. I'll fix 'em fur ye. I'd best be gittin' ter work
right away, too."

Hank Merwin's sharp hunting-knife began to do wonders. He cut and
slashed in a manner which showed his familiarity with such work.
Finally, the head, skin and several choice pieces of meat lay in the
bottom of the boat.

"To-morrer we'll come over an' finish the job," declared Hank. "Ye
sartingly were in luck, lads. It was a sight that many an ole stager
in the woods ain't seen."

"We've had a grand trip," said Dave, "and when we get back I'm going to
celebrate by taking the biggest snooze I ever had."

Bob Somers and Jim Havens were greatly astonished when they learned
what had happened.

"Christopher! Just look at that pair of horns!" exclaimed the captain,
as the moose's head was dragged ashore. "Greatest luck I ever heard
of," he added, "and if that picture only comes out right, won't it make
some of the Kingswood boys open their eyes?"

"I guess it will," laughed Dick. "And we ought to have a few more
adventures before the trip is over. When do we start climbing again?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Thought it was week after next," drawled Dave.

"Why not stay a while longer, lads?" put in Hank Merwin.

But Bob shook his head.

"Sam and little Tommy Clifton must have their fling at it pretty
soon," he said. "Guess they think we're lost already."

Next morning, the four piled into Hank Merwin's boat, and were paddled
to the scene of the battle. They helped the trapper skin the second
moose, and spent the rest of the day fishing. A good haul of trout
resulted.

On the following morning, immediately after breakfast, Hank Merwin
rowed them to the far end of the lake. He was sorry to see them go, but
the boys assured him that they would be back in a few days.

"It's funny," remarked Dick, after they had been on the way for some
time, "how close that mountain looked to the lake, and we've been
walking and walking."

"And haven't even come to the base," grumbled Dave. "That's always the
way with mountains--they do it on purpose."

"Notice how the trees have thinned out?" queried Havens; "well, this
place is called 'Scattered Pines.' Used to be a lot of moose around
here--guess there are still. But come ahead, fellows; we have a long
climb."

Presently, between the pines, a stream appeared in view. It sang so
cheerily that Dave was charmed.

"Oh, ho," he murmured, as he reached the bank; "makes me think of that
poem by--"

"That will do, Chubby," laughed Dick.

"By Bryant. It begins--now listen----"

"Great Cæsar, fellows, keep quiet," broke in Bob, in a low tone. "What
in the dickens is that straight ahead? Look, Havens--there--it moved!"

"A bear, and I'll bet a grizzly," said Jim.

"Where--where, for goodness' sake?" asked Dick, gazing wildly around.

"Right on that fallen tree," answered Dave.

"The old rascal is fishing. See--he scooped up something then."

"Sure he did," agreed Havens. "Grizzlies are great fishers, and the
old dub there is so anxious to get a square meal that he hasn't even
noticed us."

"Let's creep up on him," proposed Jim. "But you'll need all your nerve.
Who wants to go?"

"Huh! Do you think we came out here to hunt sparrows?" whispered Dick,
scornfully, and the others smiled.

Very cautiously, and keeping out of sight as much as possible, the
quartet pushed ahead, and presently arrived at a point where the bear
could be plainly seen.

He was stretched out on a trunk which had fallen across the stream,
forming a natural bridge. His broad, massive head lay far over, and his
gaze was fixed intently upon the water below. His powerful right paw,
ready for instant action, hung low, but the heavy, brownish yellow form
seemed as motionless as the trunk itself.

The grizzly was not resting, however, or merely enjoying the pleasant
sunshine. He was working for his living, and doing it in a thorough and
efficient manner.

Quick as a flash, his paw struck the water, and when it came out, a
glistening, wriggling fish was tossed on the bank.

"Fellows, I'm going to make a snap-shot of that," whispered Dick, in
great excitement. "By jingo--look at him eating! That is a sight worth
seeing, eh?"

"Quick, then," said Havens, in cautious tones.

With hands that trembled in spite of himself, Dick Travers sighted the
camera, and just as the grizzly was again making a catch, its click
sounded sharply.

Success emboldened them to wait and try to get another. The bear
continued his feasting, and all was silent. At least the boys were sure
they were acting with commendable caution. Whether they were mistaken
in this, or whether something else attracted the animal's attention,
they never knew, but Dick Travers, about to take another look through
the camera, drew back as if he had been shot.

The bear slowly turned his head; then, with a sort of coughing growl,
arose, and his powerful frame was silhouetted against the firs on the
opposite bank. In another moment, he had lumbered off the tree trunk,
and was pushing forward directly toward the venturesome hunters.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                        TACKLING "OLD EPHRAIM"


"Old Ephraim is out to investigate," declared Havens, excitedly.
"Throw down everything but your guns. Take my advice, and shin up a
tree--every blessed one of you."

"But," protested Bob, "we----"

Jim waved his hand impatiently.

"The worst animal in the mountains to tackle," he said, earnestly.
"Better do what I say. Quick! The old brute's coming this way."

The crackling of twigs and crashing among the underbrush indicated that
the bear was steadily advancing.

The hunters' nerves began to tingle at the prospect of meeting such a
formidable antagonist, but a certain pride prevented them from adopting
the wisest course.

Old Ephraim evidently felt that everything was not as it should be,
and seemed determined to be fully satisfied before returning to his
fishing.

While the four stood irresolute, the underbrush parted, and a broad
head with a rather pointed snout came into view. A pair of small eyes
gazed inquiringly around, and their owner, taking in the young nimrods,
uttered a low growl. He seemed to be indignant at the invasion of his
domain. Such a proceeding must be discouraged.

With a roar, he lumbered forward, and the Ramblers, feeling that closer
acquaintanceship was not to be desired, scattered.

All but Jim Havens were startled and disconcerted at the size of the
animal, and began to regret that they were not viewing the scene nicely
perched on some branch out of reach of his terrible claws.

In the meantime, the grizzly singled out Bob Somers for immediate
vengeance. The captain felt that it was too late to follow Havens'
advice. He steadied his nerves and awaited a favorable moment.

"Shoot straight!" yelled Havens.

Four rifles were ready, though they may have wavered a little.

One of them presently spoke; a sharp report reverberated; a wreath of
bluish smoke curled lazily upward, and a terrifying roar rang out.

Bob's shot had only checked the animal for an instant. It rose on its
hind legs, then dropped upon all fours again, and, maddened beyond
measure, redoubled its speed.

"Run for your life, Bob," shouted Havens. "We'll get him."

Then a wild chase began.

Afraid of hitting their companion, the others refrained from firing,
while the captain tore around the trees with the huge animal in hot
pursuit.

The three boys, with shouts and yells of encouragement, which they
hoped might also divert the bear's attention, followed. It seemed to
the frightened group that the captain was certain to be overtaken.

But, with a desperate effort, Bob suddenly swerved to one side, and by
the time the clumsy brute could turn he had gained several feet.

"Keep it up, Bob!" shouted Dave Brandon, encouragingly.

The stout boy was puffing and blowing, but despite his handicap in
weight kept well ahead of the others.

"Hi, hi! Christopher!"

"Great Cæsar!"

"My eye!"

Bob had reached the bank, and the grizzly was again almost within
reach. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that a turn to either
the right or left might be disastrous. Then, without hesitation, he
threw aside his gun and plunged into the stream.

The bear, as if puzzled by this strange proceeding, stood for a moment
gazing after the swimmer. But he did not mean to be cheated in such a
fashion as that. With another hoarse growl, his ponderous body sent the
water splashing.

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously.

"You missed him," called out Havens, his eyes shining with excitement.
"Come ahead--we've got him!"

At full speed, he led the way toward the fallen tree. But the remnants
of the grizzly's feast had made the trunk very slippery. Jim Havens'
right foot began to slide--he gave an exclamation--then the left gave
way.

The rifle dropped from his grasp; he flung his arms wildly over his
head, and, with a lusty yell of dismay, plunged forward and landed in
the water with a tremendous splash.

When, coughing and spluttering, he arose to the surface, it was about
ten feet further down-stream.

"Wow--I--I----"

But a sharp report drowned the rest of his sentence.

Dave Brandon had succeeded in crossing the natural bridge just as the
dripping bear clambered out on the opposite side. He sank to one knee,
and fired.

The grizzly rose on its hind legs, its mouth opened, showing an array
of formidable teeth; then, with a last defiant snarl, Old Ephraim fell
heavily over, gave several convulsive movements and finally lay limp
and lifeless.

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers.

He stood on the bank, with his wet clothes clinging tightly to him and
his hair matted fantastically to his forehead.

"Bully boy!" yelled Havens, who had scrambled ashore; "and I had an
idea you couldn't shoot."

"Oh, no, he can't. Dave is the champion nimrod of the crowd," laughed
Dick Travers. "Christopher--some excitement, eh?" Then he burst out
laughing. "You're not hurt, are you, Havens?" he asked. "Honest, you
were the funniest thing I ever saw when you went in."

"The whole thing was a comedy of errors," smiled Bob.

"It's lucky I didn't fall on a rock," said Havens, with a very faint
grin. "That old fish-eating monster caused us a peck of trouble. And my
rifle--we'll have to dig that up," he added, ruefully. "Somers, you and
I are pretty sights."

The two dry nimrods and the two wet were soon examining the carcass. It
was a monster, over eight feet long, and probably weighing about nine
hundred pounds.

The task of skinning Old Ephraim was not an easy one, but Havens'
experience counted. When the work was finally accomplished, all
realized that it would be impossible to reach the mountain top that
night.

"What's the odds?" remarked Bob. "We're not in any hurry."

Four o'clock found the boys weary, footsore, and looking for a camp.
They were a long way up the mountain.

During the march, Dick Travers, who carried a shotgun, brought down a
brace of quail.

When they came to a stop, it was at a point where a barren, rocky area
surrounded them. Evidently at some remote period a fearful convulsion
of nature had split and rent the great rocks and piled others together
in the utmost confusion.

Looming against the sky, high above, was a rounded summit of the purest
white.

Dave Brandon and Dick Travers rested by the wayside, while Bob Somers
and Jim went off on a skirmishing expedition toward a belt of timber.

In a few moments, shouts were heard.

"Think there's anything up?" asked Dick, in an anxious voice.

"No! Bob doesn't yell as if a bear was after him," laughed Dave. "Here
they come. What's that he says?"

"Found a cave, and a whopper, too."

"H'm--only hope it has a nice smooth floor, a soda fountain, and----"

"Hello, boys, we've struck a dandy place for a camp," called Bob; he
arrived, panting and gleeful. "Finest cave you ever saw, Chubby," he
declared.

"A crackerjack," added Havens. "Let's tote the stuff over, and get our
grub."

In a few minutes, the boys reached the entrance, which was partially
concealed by a fringe of bushes.

"Did you fellows have the nerve to go in there?" asked Dick.

"Not until we made sure that it was safe," responded Jim.

Dick eagerly pushed aside the bushes, and entered. For a moment
everything was black, and he lingered on the threshold, fearing that
some pitfall might be close at hand. Then, as he stepped forward, his
eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the dim light which filtered in
through the entrance.

But this disappeared almost entirely, as Dave's stout form squeezed
through. Dick lighted a match.

When the tiny flame flared up, he uttered an exclamation of
astonishment. It seemed as if he had been transported into some fairy
chamber of wondrous beauty.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                            ON THE MOUNTAIN


From the lofty roof hung stalactites which flashed and sparkled in
the light, while the walls were formed of smooth rock of astonishing
whiteness.

Dick lighted another match, and pushed forward over the hard floor.

"By Jove, isn't this great, Chubby?" he exclaimed. "Hello, as I live,
another chamber."

His voice reverberated in a series of roars and he wondered if the
stout boy understood. But Dave was soon at his side, and the others
followed.

As a flood of light illuminated the interior brightly, a murmur of
admiration arose. From almost every nook and corner, the rays were
flashed back in dazzling gleams, while fantastic groups of stalactites
sparkled with a delicate, silvery whiteness.

"Swell, eh?" said Havens.

"I should say so," cried Dick. "Like some enchanted region. Let's go
in the other chamber." Around a huge pillar of rock, a cavern somewhat
larger was entered.

Presently, Bob Somers grasped Dave by the arm. "Listen! Don't I hear
the sound of running water?" asked Bob. "That's where the sound comes
from. Look out, fellows!" he pointed his torch toward a yawning pit
which extended across the floor.

The quartet cautiously approached.

The steady swash of running water reached their ears, but the torches,
held low, revealed nothing but the rocky sides of the pit. Its lower
portion was wrapped in inky blackness.

Despite the strangeness of their surroundings, the boys slept as
soundly as they ever did in their lives.

"Gee whitaker!"

Bob Somers raised himself on his elbow, and looked at his watch. "Eight
o'clock! Wake up, fellows!" he cried.

The reverberations promptly aroused Havens and Dick, but the "poet
laureate" lay still.

"Get up, Chub!" yelled Dick. "Whoop la!"

"Lemme be--I've just turned in," protested Dave. "Lemme be! If you
don't, I'll hurt somebody."

But in spite of this awful threat, he was promptly dragged to his feet.

"Fellows," he said, after breakfast, "let's leave the bearskin here. It
ought to be perfectly safe, eh, Havens?"

"Sure thing. We can blaze a trail, and find the cave again easy enough."

After concealing the entrance as well as possible, the hunters began
their toilsome climb.

Great masses of whitish clouds flecked the blue sky, and the
snow-capped summit was often hidden. They saw plenty of small game
and several times heard the cry of wolves. Jim Havens blazed a trail
through the deep pine and oak forests.

About noon they came to a small clearing and a halt was made.

"Weather's beginning to look threatening, fellows," observed Jim
Havens. "Shouldn't wonder if a storm was coming up."

"Neither would I," said Bob. "We haven't had a drop of rain since
starting."

"But managed to get wet, just the same," grinned Havens.

Lunch over, the climb was resumed.

"Wish we'd run across some big horns or goats," grumbled Dick, wiping
his forehead.

"Too early for that, Dick. They don't often come down below the timber
line," said Havens.

"Sort of high-livers, eh?" laughed Dave.

"Yes, and look down on most of the other critters, though painters
often get after 'em."

At each open space, the quartet looked anxiously aloft, but there was
always another ridge ahead and the summit seemed as far away as ever.

"Don't believe we can get any nearer," grumbled Dave. "This mountain's
growing. Bet we're further away than when we started."

"There! Another cloud has bumped into the old thing," broke in Dick.

"Crickets, seems funny to have clouds coming to meet us," remarked
Dick. "Gee! The wind is getting a bit too strong for comfort."

A harsh scream suddenly startled the boys, and, as they looked
overhead, a bird with great, spreading wings soared above the tree tops.

"A bald eagle," said Havens. "We might have plugged the old robber."

"Why do you call him a robber?" asked Dick.

"Because he doesn't mind stealing. The old codger will watch a hawk
catch a fish, bird or small animal, then sweep down, and the meal
changes hands."

"Or changes claws," smiled Dave.

"That's it. He's a sneaking rascal. Always watching his chance to let
other birds work for him. There he is now!"

Ahead, the forest opened out. Into this the eagle was sweeping, in a
long, graceful curve, his wings scarcely seeming to move. The four
instantly detected his object. A frightened rabbit was scampering for
dear life through the grass, headed for a thicket.

But the woodland drama was soon over.

"He's got it," cried Dick.

With lightning speed, the bird overtook the fleeing animal; then the
struggling bunny was borne aloft in the eagle's claws, and almost
before the boys realized it, bird and prey were but a speck in the sky.

"Gee whitaker, that happened quickly," said Bob.

"Makes me feel glad that there are no rocs around," laughed Dave.

"Don't think one could have carried you off," said Dick, facetiously.
"Their limit was a horse or elephant."

The timber line was left behind. There was nothing now but stunted
vegetation, barren rocks, and, above them, perpetual snow.

"And this," observed Havens, waving his hand, "is the home of the big
horn and mountain goat. Is it getting too steep for you?" He dislodged
a rock, which rattled noisily down the incline.

"It's dangerous; besides, we can't see," grumbled the "poet." "In a few
minutes, it will be like trying to climb up the side of a cathedral."

"Seems out of the world," declared Dick; "and say, that cold is getting
worse--whew!"

He pulled up his collar, and the others followed suit.

"Hello! Rain at last."

The four shadowy forms came to a halt. A few big drops sprinkled around
them, then increased to a steady patter. A flock of screaming birds
darted swiftly by.

"H'm, flying before the storm," murmured Dave. "Sounds kind of ominous.
Let's grope around a bit for a more sheltered place. Out here we're a
regular target."

But before they had gone far, a torrent was beating in their faces.
Clinging to whatever support they could find, the four huddled together
and awaited the outcome.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                          THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE


"Yes, sir--ter my mind, he's plumb crazy."

"Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver, wearing his usual sour expression,
growled these words, as he stood, late one afternoon, on the Resort
House porch.

There was the usual crowd present, sitting and lounging around, and
"Big Bill's" harsh voice was loud enough to reach them all. Sile
Stringer, the old man of Mountain Village, who had been half dozing in
a chair, sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Plumb crazy--who's plumb crazy, Bill Dugan?" he quavered.

"When I says a thing, Stringer, I says it oncet," growled Bill. "If yer
can't listen, I----"

"Who's plumb crazy?"

"Jest listen at him!" The lines above Dugan's nose deepened. "That
feller over ter Promontory."

"What's he gone and did now?"

"Always a-buttin' in, Sile Stringer--go ter sleep ag'in," and Dugan
walked impatiently to the other end of the porch.

"Neil Prescott crazy?" questioned Sam Randall; "I guess not--he's sharp
as a steel trap."

"I'm not talkin' ter the nursery," said Bill Dugan, ungraciously, "but,
ter my mind, if ye'd like ter know, he's plumb out of his senses."

"How--in what way?"

"What's he a-buyin' sich stacks of grub for, eh? He's got 'nuff ter
last a man six months."

"How d'ye find that out, Bill?" interrupted Tom Sanders.

"The feller he bought 'em of tole me--that's how. An' only yisterday I
seen him takin' over a lot more. An' ain't it 'nuff ter make any man
laugh ter see the way he handles that boat?"

Old Sile again sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Who--who d'ye mean, Bill Dugan? Handles what boat?" he asked.

The stage-driver cast a withering look at the "oldest inhabitant."

"Go ter sleep," he growled. "If the man ain't crazy, would he build a
fire so big that yer kin 'most feel the heat of it over here? No, sir,
fur my part, he's plumb crazy. An' what's he doin' on the island; an'
where's 'e come from, ennyway? Who knows 'im?" "Big Bill" paused and
glared at his auditors. "Who knows 'im?" he repeated.

"Knows who, Bill Dugan?" came a quavering voice.

This time, the stage-driver paid no heed. "If that man ain't plumb
crazy, I'm mistook."

"Wouldn't be the fust time," sneered Tom Sanders.

"Now, now--be good," laughed Mr. George Kimball, of Boston. "Bill, tell
us something more about this mysterious old character."

The stage-driver sniffed.

"As long's ye got nothin' ter do but loaf around all day, I should
think you'd know more'n me, who's got ter work fur a livin'," he
growled. "Guess nobody's goin' ter ask me ter grub with 'em, so I'll
git."

"I say, Bill Dugan," came a voice, "did you say some one's plumb crazy?
Who's plumb crazy?"

A sort of grunt not unlike the growl of a bear sounded, and "Big Bill"
Dugan was down the steps.

Old Sile Stringer sat up and looked around with a quizzical smile. Then
he remarked, "I suspicioned he was going to act that 'ere way. I've
know'd 'im since he was a kid, an' I ain't never know'd a day when Bill
didn't speak rude to some one."

When Sam Randall and Tom Clifton walked home, they were accompanied
part way by the last named youth, with whom they had made peace. Their
principal topic of conversation was the strange dweller on Promontory
Island.

"Let's skip over to-morrer mornin' an' see old Squeal Pressed
Biscuits," suggested Sanders.

Early next morning, the boys met at the wharf, and were not
particularly surprised to find "Little Bill" hanging around.

"He's brought the Dugan scowl with him, all right," observed Tommy
Clifton, with a laugh.

"Sure, jest look at the mug on him," added Sanders.

"Let's get on board so as to be as far away as possible when the row
starts," chimed in Sam, and his advice was followed.

Before the lines were cast off, however, "Little Bill" turned toward
them.

"My eye, Sanders," he exclaimed, "I always thought you was a purty big
chump, an' now I knows it. Goin' with this here crowd, now?"

"Run right along, an' warble ter Billee the Big," growled Sanders. "If
I oncet git up there, I'll chase yer!"

"Yer will, hey?" retorted "Little Bill." "Yer ain't big 'nuff by two
feet ter chase me. Yer 'most as bad as that elephant roamin' the
mountains. Chase me, hey?"

A bucket half full of water was standing near by; "Little Bill's"
wrath was too great to be appeased by mere words. Before Sam Randall
could push off, a sheet of water curved gracefully through the air and
descended squarely on Sanders' head and shoulders.

"Know'd I git a chancet some day," cried "Little Bill."

Then he and a cloud of dust kept pace together up the yellow road.

When Sanders had recovered sufficiently to speak, he turned a
forlorn-looking face toward the two Ramblers, and observed, with
considerable vehemence, "It's a good thing yer ain't a-laughin' at me."

Sam Randall's face had turned purple from suppressed mirth; it was
only by a great effort that he stifled his desire to roar, and thus a
tremendous row was probably averted.

Meanwhile, they had made a start. For once, they skirted the far shore
of Hemlock Island, finally anchoring just below the passageway.

The climb to Neil Prescott's cabin brought them a disappointment--the
place was deserted.

"Gee! This is mean luck!" grumbled Tommy.

"But the old duffer is on the island, for we saw his boat," put in Sam.
"Let's look around a bit."

So down the cliff they scrambled; then began to wander around amidst
the trees, gradually working their way toward the western end of the
island.

"Gee! Where can he be, I wonder?" said Sam. "We can't get much
further."

"Hello! Look at this," remarked Sanders, presently. "Pertaters."

He pointed to the ground.

"Jiminy! A regular trail of 'em," put in Sam.

"Maybe old Pressed Biscuits is going ter start a patch."

"Wonder how in the dickens they came here, anyway?" mused Tom.

"Give it up," said Sanders. "All I know is how some of 'em is a-goin'
ter leave."

Stooping over, he gathered a pocketful.

"For goodness' sake--there's Neil now!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly.

They had emerged from a clump of trees and the end of the island was in
sight.

Neil Prescott, at the very farthest point, had his back turned. He was
leaning over, with a long pole in his hand, apparently gazing at the
water. The boys saw an object resembling a cask floating slowly away on
the current.

"Sh--sh! Let's see what Pressed Bricks--that's as good a name fur
him--is up ter," whispered Sanders.

"Say! This is funny," muttered Tom.

Neil straightened up; then sat down on a rock, with his back still to
them.

"I'm a-goin' ter give him the s'prise of his life," grinned Sanders.
"Watch!"

He drew forth a potato, and sent it flying toward the sitter,
observing, pleasantly, "Keep still, an' listen fur the plunk."

The tuber was small and round, and the curve Sanders gave it was
perfect. Neil Prescott received it directly in the middle of the back,
and proceeded to arise much more quickly than he had sat down.

Sanders let out a tremendous yell, waved his arms in the air, and the
trio walked forward.

For an instant, the "hermit" seemed greatly nonplussed. Then,
recognizing the boys, he quietly resumed his seat.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, reproachfully; "this here is a
surprise--who throw'd it?"

"See here, old sport," said Sanders, ignoring the question, and
pointing to the cask, "why did you chuck that in the lake?"

"H'm," Neil Prescott looked at the speaker calmly; "you're another one
of them quizzers from Quizzerville--jest joined, eh? Hain't got me
life's history writ out yet, an'----"

"Aw--wake up, an' answer me."

"Yes--go ahead, Neil," coaxed Sam Randall.

"Didn't yer never hear tell of them scientists what do all sorts o'
funny things?"

"What's this 'bout yer buyin' three tons of grub a week, old sport?"
asked Sanders, rudely.

"I kin swear I ain't buyin' an ounce over a ton," replied Neil, as he
filled a very large pipe and winked at Tommy Clifton. "No, fur a fact,
I hain't."

Tom Sanders sniffed.

"Now, old sport, you ain't as smart as you think. What was you a-goin'
ter do with them 'taters back there?" A jerk of his thumb indicated the
direction.

"'Tatars' is Latin fur pertaters, ain't it? I never went ter
no college, but l'arnin' comes nat'ral ter me, jist as it acts
kinder opposite with you. I remember oncet, when I was young an'
unsoapfixycated, a man says ter me----"

"Aw--cut it out," growled the disgusted Sanders. "Why did you throw
that thing in the water?"

"So as ter put in me life's hist'ry--writ by special request of the
chief quizzer of Quizzerville--that Neil Prescott, at the height of his
career, was a-studyin' currents. Who's a-comin' up ter the office?"

Neil winked and chuckled many times on the walk back, and laughed
gruffly at parting.

"We've learned an awful lot eh?" ventured Tommy Clifton.

"My eye, but I think Billee the Big hit it about right," said Sanders.
"The feller ain't got no sense in him."

"One thing sure," remarked Sam Randall, "Neil had just shoved off that
keg."

"Yep."

"And what in the dickens were those potatoes doing there?" put in Tommy.

The boys walked along in silence for a few steps, when Sam turned
toward his companions, and said, abruptly, "I give it up. The whole
thing is just a bit too deep for me."




                              CHAPTER XIX

                           ABOVE THE CLOUDS


Rain, fog and wind form a decidedly unpleasant combination on the
sloping sides of a mountain.

The three Ramblers and their friend Jim Havens were not long in having
this fact impressed upon them. With surprising suddenness, the wind
increased to a gale, sweeping everything before it, and the boys,
crouching almost flat, had difficulty in avoiding the stones which
rattled down from above.

Presently, the ominous darkness was momentarily dispelled by a dazzling
gleam of bluish-white. Then followed a crackling sound, which merged
into a crash that seemed to jar the mountain.

The obscurity grew denser. Never in their lives had they been in such
a fog. It almost startled them to realize that they could scarcely see
each other--that they were, in fact, amidst the very storm-clouds.

Each moment they expected another blinding glare and solemn peal of
thunder, but it seemed as if nature had spent most of its electrical
energy. The next flash, which only came after a considerate interval,
was much less brilliant.

Dick Travers protected his precious camera as well as he could, but
several times it almost slipped from his grasp.

Chilled, and soaked to the skin, the boys could do nothing but wait.
The clouds kept swirling past, while the wind moaned and howled, making
conversation almost impossible.

About half an hour later, Dave Brandon eased himself slowly to his feet.

"Weather to-day threatening and showery, fellows," he remarked,
cheerily. "To-night, clear and colder."

"That will do, Chub," said Bob, ruefully. "Wow--but I am glad the rain
is letting up."

"And the wind going down," chimed in Dick, his teeth chattering. "I
feel worse than an icicle."

"It's colder than all outdoors," added Jim, with a tremendous shiver.
"What shall we do?"

"Nothing--just wait for things to get better," answered the
philosophical Dave.

The wind continued brisk, and the boys felt it so keenly that they were
glad to keep their chilled bodies in motion.

"It's so steep I don't see how we can get much higher," observed Dick
Travers. "Say--where are you going, Jim Havens?"

Their guide, his eyes bent on the rock, was crawling upon hands and
knees toward a ledge that overhung a steep declivity.

"Plenty of signs of goats, fellows," he cried. "Look!" And Bob, who had
followed, saw that the surface was worn and indented by the tread of
countless hoofs.

"By jingo, it must have taken years to cut into the solid rock like
that," he said, reflectively.

"Hundreds, maybe," returned Havens. "Goats," he explained, "have
regular beaten trails. You'll find plenty of them all over the upper
parts of the mountains."

The group continued cautiously along, on the lookout for a break in
the slope which might enable them to ascend.

"Down there is a mighty bad place."

Dick Travers pointed just below and to their left.

The steep declivity they were on led down to a ledge at the brink of a
precipice, on one side of which the rocks jutted out abruptly, forming
a spur.

"Think you could climb down it?" asked Jim, with a grin.

"I'd leave that for----" began the "poet"; then he paused, gripped
Havens' arm, and whispered,

    "Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the rocks
    And disturb not a goat that so actively hops,"

and having changed the lines to suit the situation, a broad smile
played over his face.

"Stoop down, everybody," commanded Jim, sharply. "A herd of goats on
the ledge, as sure as you're a foot high--the wind in our favor, too.
By George! They're running to beat the band."

"Must be something chasing them," murmured Dick.

Havens gripped his rifle, and lay low.

A savage growl reached their ears; then a lithe, gray mountain lion
appeared in view. With lashing tail, he crept steadily forward.

An old buck courageously planted himself between it and the retreating
flock.

"We're going to see something now," whispered Havens, excitedly.

"Brave old codger," murmured Bob, "but he doesn't stand any show."

"Of course not," breathed Dick. "Look--the scrap begins."

With a savage snarl, the panther leaped in the air. Had the buck
remained still, the cat would have landed squarely upon his back. But
the grizzled old warrior sprang quickly to one side; then, with lowered
head, dashed furiously at his foe.

The force was so great that the mountain lion, partly off its balance,
fell back. A horrid screech rang out--then another, as the buck landed
its hoofs viciously on the prostrate form.

But the tawny beast recovered himself quickly, crouched with flattened
ears, and fiercely attacked its prey.

Bravely the buck met the advance, but the powerful paws of the panther
soon brought him to his knees.

"That's the end of him," whispered Bob. "Christopher! No, he's up
again. Look at that!"

"Wish he'd send the old monster over the cliff," said Dick,
breathlessly. "He's doing wonders."

With a desperate effort, the goat rose on its hind legs, and shook off
his antagonist. Backing away, the animal approached the edge of the
precipice.

"Wow!" gasped Dick, "he'll be over in a minute."

"The brave old buck deserves to live, after putting up such a game
fight," declared Dave. "Come on, fellows--to the rescue!"

The four began scrambling hastily down over the rocks toward the
combatants.

"Hey! Don't fire until I get a chance with my camera," panted Dick,
excitedly.

"All right, photographer--quick," said Havens.

The cat sprang again, and landed on the back of its antagonist; the
buck partly rose, the weight of the panther pulled him sideways, and
both goat and cat, struggling madly, fell in a heap upon the very edge
of the precipice.

The battle was no longer against each other--it was now to regain their
footing on the brink.

Breathlessly the boys watched; Dick Travers pointed his camera.

For an instant, the outcome was in doubt; then the buck, with wildly
waving legs, plunged backward into the abyss, dragging his snarling foe
with him.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Dave; "what a finish!"

"Great Cæsar!" cried Bob. "They'll be knocked into a thousand bits."

"By Jingo--both done for," added Havens.

Then something else happened.

Dick Travers, in his eagerness to get a photo, failed to notice a
projecting rock; he tripped, and found himself going forward.

It was a very sudden lurch, and the involuntary motion to recover his
balance resumed in the camera slipping from his grasp. Bumping and
sliding, it shot swiftly down the incline.

Bob Somers sprang forward to Dick's assistance, while Dave tried to
catch the instrument. The former was successful, but the stout boy had
no chance to intercept the camera.

With wild, staring eyes, Dick Travers watched the precious instrument
headed straight for the precipice. Nothing could save it.

"It's gone," he said, in a hollow voice.

An instant later, the official photographer's official instrument
sailed grandly over the brink, and followed goat and panther to the
rocks below.

Dick Travers was inconsolable.

"Never mind, old man," said Bob, soothingly. "My dad will send you out
another--honest, he will. You've got all your negatives safe."

"Fellows, look," remarked Havens, in a few minutes. He pointed to
several large birds circling above the chasm. "Vultures," he said,
briefly.

"After the goat and panther already?" exclaimed Bob, in surprise.

"Of course. I'd like to put a ball through the ugly rascals."

As soon as the great birds were hidden behind the precipice, the
Ramblers continued on.

"Here's a place where we can get up," observed Bob, at length.

He began scrambling over a pile of rocks, and the others followed.

After many difficulties, and assisting each other over places which at
first glance seemed impassable, the boys reached the snow.

"It's jolly fun to do this in summer, eh?" cried Bob, as he playfully
shied a lump at Dave.

"I should say so," laughed the stout boy, returning the compliment.

"I can't forget that camera," sighed Dick, gloomily. "Excuse me,
Havens, I didn't mean to soak you so hard."

Jim brushed a large quantity of snowflakes from around his neck.

"Oh, ho," said Dave, "this is a wonderful sight. A bit too cold to suit
me, though. Our friends, the goats, have been here, all right--see the
tracks?"

"And that's about all we will see of 'em," put in Havens. "They're
scary critters. Big horns the same way."

Cautiously, the four climbed on. A magnificent panorama was before
them--of valley and rugged mountains, of dark timber and rocks, all
in sunshine save where the shadow of some floating cloud dotted the
landscape.

The sun was now hanging just above a high peak, and within a short time
the shade would creep through the valley, the rosy glow fade from the
opposite mountains and the dense forests become sombre and gloomy.

Dave Brandon thought of this, and proposed returning, but the others
were anxious to reach the highest point.

"Come on, Chubby," protested Bob. "Don't talk that way until we have
balanced ourselves on the peak."

"Clouds coming up again, fellows," broke in Dick. "Gee, but aren't they
far below us?"

"Wish they would spread all around," said Bob.

"By jingo, it looks as if a fellow could walk on them without falling
through, doesn't it, Chub?" remarked Dick.

"Yes--makes it feel safe up here. Sort of holds us in."

"Funny to be looking down upon a pile of clouds," observed Bob,
reflectively.

In ten minutes, the slowly-moving clouds had again cleared almost
entirely away, and the boys, as they slipped and scrambled around a
huge snow-bank, came across a view which brought them to a sudden halt.

"Jiminy crickets!" cried Bob, with arm outstretched; "look--Mountain
Lake!"

"That's just what it is," said Dick, wonderingly. "Isn't it great,
though? Can see just the shape and everything. The two islands look
like a tiny little speck."

"Wish we had the Lick telescope," was Dave Brandon's remark. "Might see
Sam and Tom on the porch or fishing in the lake. And think," he added,
in tones which spoke of a troubled soul, "of all the weary tramping
we've got to do before we see it again."

"Freezing snowbirds, I can't do the standing act," chattered Dick.

Their way, however, was soon barred by a narrow ledge which sloped
abruptly downward on either hand.

"Never had any practice on tight ropes, and don't care to negotiate
it," announced Dave, firmly.

"If you please, Chubby, we know you are right up in big words, but
you'd better save 'em for Professor Hopkins," said Bob, with a smile.

"Very good," returned Dave; "but I am unalterably opposed to a
continuance of----"

A series of groans stopped him.

For a few moments they contemplated in silence the dazzling depths
below. Then Havens spoke up.

"Better be moving, fellows," he said. "There are some pretty tough
places to get down, and we want to spend the night in the cave again."

"That's so," said Bob, "and often it's worse than climbing."

"Makes me tired to think of coming all this way, and then find that you
just can't reach the top," exclaimed Dick Travers.

He looked longingly toward the summit, whereupon the other boys faced
about and began the homeward march.

"Wouldn't do you any good to plead for it," said Dave. "I'm satisfied
with being this far out of the world."

The descent, across sloping fields of snow, over slippery hillocks and
declivities, proved to be more difficult than they had anticipated.
Many anxious moments were spent at places where a slip or misstep might
have meant a terrible fall.

When the timber line was reached, Havens' trail was soon found, and the
four plunged into the thick pine forest.

"It's going to be blacker than pitch," remarked Dave, cheerily.

"Who cares?" said Bob. "We won't get lost--that's sure."

"And I wouldn't mind if we did," put in Dick, gloomily. "I can't get
over that camera."

"Brighten up, old man--the worst is always ahead of us," laughed Dave.

"Don't even whisper, fellows," said Bob, a moment later. "Our supper is
over there."

"Where--where?" came a low chorus.

"Don't you see a flock of birds in the open space beyond that old oak?"

"Sure," said Dick, in a stage whisper. "We mustn't miss anything like
that."

"And won't, either," asserted Havens. "Be careful now."

Cautiously, the hunters spread out, and began to creep along, avoiding
obstructions almost as well as Hank Merwin could have done. Not a word
was spoken.

Through every opening they eagerly peered, and saw the flock still
feeding, unconscious of danger. A little further, and four guns were
raised toward the glade. Then four reports echoed, almost in unison,
and almost instantly afterward the guns spoke in a more scattered
fashion, while a flock of ducks, with loud quacking, took wing and
disappeared amid the thick foliage.

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers. "I told you so. We'll have a dandy supper."

Quickly they covered the ground which separated them from the glade, to
find three plump birds.

"That's bully," cried Havens.

"Um--um," said the "poet." He picked up a bird by the legs and held it
aloft. "Isn't that a daisy wood-duck?" he cried, admiringly. "Look at
the lovely color--it's the prettiest of all ducks."

"Right you are, Chubby, but it will look even prettier when it gets
over the fire. Come ahead--it's growing dark fast."

Already the light was beginning to fade from the sky, and before long
it would be difficult to find the trees which Havens had marked.

"It means a torchlight procession pretty soon," remarked Dave, and
this prediction was soon verified. When night came, four flaring
pine-knots flashed a pathway through the forest, and caused many of its
inhabitants to dash madly for the nearest thickets.

Strange sounds met their ears, the plaintive note of the whippoorwill,
the weird hooting of owls, and sometimes the cries of animals in the
distance.

Every one of the group kept his eyes and ears open for signs of any
dangerous beasts which might be lurking in their path.

Owing to Havens' forethought in "blazing" the trees at short intervals,
the trail was easily found, and the cave at last reached.

"Oh, how glad I am to get here," said Dave. "Nice late supper we'll
have, though I'm 'most too tired to eat."

"Isn't possible," said Dick. He lighted a fresh pine-knot, and
continued, "Let's take a look inside the hotel."

"See if my bearskin's safe," drawled Dave.

He propped his flaring torch between two stones and sank wearily down,
while Bob and Dick entered the cave.

A moment later, Dick Travers poked his head outside the opening,
and, in a voice that trembled with excitement, made this startling
announcement:

"Hello, Dave Brandon--it's gone!"




                              CHAPTER XX

                             BOB'S WILDCAT


"Gone? It can't be!" gasped Dave. He rose slowly to his feet. "You're
joking, Dick."

"Not a bit of it. Sure as you're bigger than a grasshopper, somebody's
swiped it, eh, Bob?"

Bob nodded.

"It's gone, Chubby--and who could have taken it?"

"I told you, Dick Travers, that the worst is always ahead of us,"
grumbled Dave. "I had a place selected for that rug--wouldn't have sold
it for any money."

"Gee! Mighty hard luck, old man," commented Havens, sympathetically. "I
must take a look into this."

He hastily entered the cave.

The flaring pine torch revealed the fact that Old Ephraim's valuable
pelt had actually disappeared.

"Not a blessed thing to give us a clue," said Dave, gloomily. "No
handkerchief, no bit of paper, conveniently torn, so as to fit another
piece later found on the culprit, no bit of cloth hanging to a bush, no
footprints, because it's all rock. That's the way it is in real life."
He heaved a sigh, and extended his hand toward Dick Travers. "Partners
in misfortune," he said, and the two shook hands.

After one of the ducks had been dressed, Jim Havens took charge of it
and proceeded to make a record for speedy broiling.

Appetites having been sharpened by the long tramp and bracing air, the
meal was thoroughly enjoyed.

It was late before they turned in, and the sun had risen far above the
mountains when a breakfast of cold duck and coffee was disposed of.

"Our time is about over," said Bob Somers, regretfully, as they
prepared to leave. "Sam and Tommy must have their chance."

"We've had a bully trip," said Dick. "Glad that we're going to see old
Hank Merwin again."

"And if we could only run across the fellow who took that bearskin, I'd
feel better," murmured Dave.

"Don't think you'll ever lay eyes on it again," put in Havens, frankly.

The hunters kept a sharp lookout for game, and encountered plenty of
the smaller variety. A pair of gray wolves, skulking among the pines,
hastily left for other parts when Dick Travers sent a load of buckshot
rattling over their heads.

After lunch, beautiful Lake Cloud was sighted. About the same instant,
the four discovered several large white birds with long, graceful necks
swimming close in shore.

"Sh--sh!" said Havens.

"Sh--sh!" said all the rest in unison.

"Swans," whispered Jim.

"One of 'em might look well stuffed--a nice souvenir of our trip," put
in Bob.

Bob, Dick and Jim crept cautiously ahead. Afraid that the birds might
take wing, they decided to risk a long-distance shot, although Dick
felt sure that his would be wasted.

"Too far for buckshot," he whispered, "but never mind--here goes."

He fired, and then Jim followed suit. Bob Somers, whose foot had caught
in a trailing vine, looked up in time to see three white forms rising
against the background of greenish mountains. Neither shot had taken
effect.

"Well, well," muttered Havens, chagrined. "Hello!"

Bob Somers had raised his gun instantly, and fired. Scarcely believing
his eyes, he saw the flight of the nearest bird checked. With
fluttering wings, it dropped in shallow water, close to an ancient
cypress tree.

"Bully shot, Bob," cried Dick. "Simply stunning--well, what do you
think of that?"

As they started to run forward, a yellowish-gray animal suddenly
appeared in view from behind a thicket, and, with a growl, sprang
boldly out and grappled the still struggling swan by the neck.

"That's nerve for you," yelled Bob. "We'll teach the old robber a
lesson."

"Be quick," panted Dick; "he'll get away."

The wildcat speedily dragged the swan out of the water into the
thicket, and when the three boys arrived both were out of sight.

"Doesn't that beat all?" cried Bob, disgustedly.

"Hard luck, after making such a dandy shot," said Dick. "The rascal is
close by--we'll chase him out of the bushes. What are you going to do,
Bob?"

"Climb the old cypress; I'll find out where he is."

The thick trunk was gnarled, and, by the aid of a low branch, Bob
managed to reach a stout limb, bare of foliage. Sitting astride, he
worked his way carefully out over the thicket.

A harsh, rasping cry broke the stillness. Almost directly beneath, in
a tiny clearing, was the robber, with one paw on the swan. His ears
were thrown back, while the yellow eyes glared savagely and his tail
switched back and forth.

"I'll make short work of you, old chap," muttered Bob.

He unslung his rifle.

"Just one minute--all right, Dick, he's here. I'll----"

An ominous sound suddenly rang out, the limb shivered and shook, while
Bob Somers glanced wildly around. A cry came from his lips.

A crack in the limb had escaped his attention, and it was giving way
beneath his weight. His companions' startled exclamations joined in
with his own.

"Get over--quick," yelled Dick Travers, in dismay.

But, with another sharp crack, the limb broke in twain, and Bob Somers
shot downward.

An awful screech came from the wildcat.

"He'll be torn to pieces," cried Havens.

"Jehoshaphat! This is terrible," gasped Dave Brandon.

In an instant Bob landed in the midst of a mass of underbrush and
tangled vines. His fall was broken by these, and he managed to hold on
to his rifle.

The wildcat crouched and emitted another blood-curdling screech; Bob
strove to regain his feet. Then, as he got on one knee, a lithe form
launched itself in the air.

It was a critical moment. Bob's arms trembled; he had no time to bring
the rifle to his shoulder, but managed to blindly point it upward and
pull the trigger. The cat dropped heavily in the bushes and lay quite
still.

The bullet had pierced its brain.

For an instant, Bob Somers could scarcely realize his good fortune.
Then, as his excited companions pushed their way toward him, he uttered
a cry of triumph.

"I've got him, Chubby," he cried, "and with one shot, too. And never
aimed, either--what do you think of that?"

"Hurt?" came a chorus of excited voices.

"Not a bit of it. Scratched up a bit by these plagued vines--that's
all. And the swan's most as good as ever. Hurrah! Got two souvenirs,
instead of one."

"Gee whitaker, but I was scared," said Dick Travers. "Thought sure
you'd be nearly chewed to pieces."

"You hold the record now, Somers--two bully shots," broke in Havens.
"But say--as you don't need any help, excuse me from pushing any
further into this mess."

"You're a lucky chap," came from Dave. "Mighty good your first shot
settled him."

Bob found it very hard to extricate himself from the thick mass of
underbrush and creepers. He touched the wildcat gingerly with his toe,
then stooped over and examined the wicked-looking head.

"You're an awful monster," he exclaimed. "Here, Chubby--catch a few
pounds of wildcat."

He picked up the animal, and with a hard effort managed to land it near
the edge of the thicket; then the swan followed.

By the time Bob got out of his unpleasant position, he was badly
scratched up.

The swan was not seriously damaged, although the marks of the wildcat's
teeth showed plainly on its neck.

"Fellows," said Bob, proudly, "I'll have both of these stuffed--make a
group of 'em--see if I don't."

"Good," approved Dave. "This counts as another little adventure which
is going to cause Sam and Tommy to open their eyes."

Hank Merwin was not at his cabin when the four arrived. But about
sundown his lanky form appeared in view. Over his shoulder he carried a
well-filled game-bag.

"Hello, Hank!" called Jim.

"Arternoon, lads," responded the trapper, quietly. "Back ag'in, eh?"
He glanced at the wildcat and swan. "Not bad, lads. The horns is fixed
fine; I'll show ye."

He opened the door, and the boys followed him into the cabin.

In one corner stood the great moose antlers, nicely cleaned and
prepared. Dick Travers' eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"I'm ever so much obliged, Hank," he cried, seizing the trapper's
brawny hand. "Isn't it great to have things like that to show the
fellows at Kingswood, eh, Chubby?"

"Got a lot of pelts, Hank?" questioned Jim.

"Not a bad haul, lad. Mink, an' otter, an' beaver, an' a fox. But I
reckon you lads 'ud like a bit of grub."

"We'll give you a hand, Hank," said Bob. "Come on, Dick--help get a
fire started."

Hank had a treat, in shape of several trout, and these, cooked between
hot stones, were declared delicious.

The boys had a great deal to talk about. Hank listened gravely, making
but little comment, until Dave spoke about the bearskin.

"Stole, eh?" he exclaimed, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. "Tough
luck, lad. Only a pesky snake 'ud do a thing like that."

The firelight brought out the wrinkles and seams on his rugged face,
and for an instant his kindly eye flashed sternly.

"A bad business, lads," he continued. "A bad business." Then he gazed
at the smoke rings again, apparently in deep thought.

Early next morning, Hank prepared the wildcat's skin, as well as that
of the swan, and, loaded with these and the moose antlers, the boys
bade him good-bye.

"Look out fur yerselves, lads," he said. "Perhaps I may run acrost ye
ag'in."

"Certainly hope so, Hank," declared Dick. "I'll never forget you or
that jacklight trip. Three cheers for Hank Merwin!"

And the lusty shouts that followed made a faint smile play across the
impassive face of the trapper.

The moose antlers had been firmly attached to stout poles, each carried
by two boys. With such a heavy load, progress was slow.

That night they camped on the mountainside, and at noon the following
day reached the dugout.

An unpleasant surprise awaited them--the honey was gone.

"A bear's been here," declared Havens. "The old brute busted in the
door to get it."

"And I've been thinking about that honey for the last three days," said
Dave, dolefully.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                         DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE


The Ramblers had been back two days. Bob and his companions were deeply
shocked to hear about Howard Fenton, and went immediately to the Resort
House, to express their sympathy to his father, but Mr. Fenton had left
the village.

The boys found plenty to talk about. Sam Randall and Tommy Clifton
listened eagerly to the story of their chums' experiences in the
mountains, while Bob and his companions were interested to hear about
mysterious Neil Prescott and the strange bonfire which often burned on
the heights of Promontory Island.

"Nobody knows a thing about him, either," remarked Sam, as they sat
around the porch, early one morning. "When Tom and I take our trip to
the mountains, you chaps ought to do a bit of detective work."

"Guess he's only some old crank," said Bob, "not worth bothering
about."

"He's sharp enough, eh, Tommy?"

Clifton nodded.

"You bet," he said. "Whenever we start to quizzing, he always says,
'Now, youngsters, I'll spin a little yarn.' He's great at it, too."

"Couldn't beat Hank Merwin," said Dick.

"Huh--you haven't heard Neil Prescott."

"And you haven't heard Hank."

"Fellows," interrupted Bob, "let's get away from this porch. Suppose we
take a jaunt somewhere?"

The captain arose, and picked up his gun. "Saw some ducks yesterday,"
he went on. "Might get a crack at 'em."

"And I'm going to make a sketch," declared Dave.

Dick Travers accompanied him inside and walked to the drawing-room,
while the other went up-stairs for his painting materials.

The "official photographer's" eyes glowed with pride, as his gaze
rested upon a pair of moose antlers.

"And to think I brought him down," he muttered, for about the fiftieth
time. "Gee!" and he straightened himself up with a thrill of pride.

"Say, what are you doing in there?" called Tommy Clifton, suddenly
appearing in the doorway.

"Did you see my handkerchief laying around anywhere?" stammered Dick.

"No! But I see those horns," gurgled Tommy, with a sly wink.

"That will do, Tommy. If you practice a bit, maybe you'll bring down
something, too. Hello--I hear Tom Sanders' sweet voice outside."

Dave Brandon came down-stairs at this moment, with his paint box,
easel, canvas and a huge white umbrella.

"Look at the fat peddler," snickered Clifton, as they walked out on the
porch.

Tom Sanders was greatly interested.

"What a rig!" he said, loudly. "Say, are you goin' to make a paintin'?"

"Yep."

"Bartlett's pond is awful purty."

"Then let's make a bee-line for it."

"That your dog, Sanders?" asked Dave, presently.

He pointed to a large, scrawny animal which was squatting on the ground
close by. Its color was a dull yellow; of all the dogs they had seen
in Mountain Village this was quite the ugliest.

"Ain't you never seen Tige afore?" asked Sanders, in surprise. "He's a
bully dorg, he is--say! I'll lay me cap down, an' if any of you fellers
kin git away with it, it's yours."

This liberal offer was politely declined.

"He ain't afear'd of nuthin'," went on Sanders. "That dorg couldn't be
bought fur five dollars. Oncet a feller offered me fifty cents, but I
says 'no.'"

"Well, we won't tempt you to part with him," laughed Bob.

As he approached, the animal raised his head slightly, and showed a row
of gleaming teeth.

"He's got a disposition like 'Surly Joe's,'" said Dick, with a grin.

A few minutes later, the six boys crossed the baseball diamond, and
were soon on the road.

Bartlett's pond was about two miles from Rickham House, on the edge of
a fringe of woods, charmingly framed in by the distant mountains.

"Ah, this is great," murmured Dave, presently. "Ought to make a dandy
sketch."

To the left, a clump of trees overhung the pond, while in the
foreground an ancient flat-bottomed boat lay partly submerged, with
reeds and tall grass growing all around.

A canvas was placed on the easel, and then Dave began to set his
palette, surrounded by an interested group.

"Ain't them purty colors fur ye?" said Sanders.

"It's the mixing that would bother me," put in Tom Clifton,
confidentially.

At last Dave was ready.

"What's yer a-puttin' on that awful mug fur?" demanded Sanders. "D'ye
feel sick?"

"Sick?" echoed the artist.

"Sure! Mebbe the smell of paint ain't good. There was Phil Levins'
dad--started ter paint his barn, an' was took somphin' awful."

Sanders looked mildly astonished when his hearers roared with laughter.

"Bang--there it goes," said Sam, as Dave started to sketch in the
general lines with charcoal.

"Ah!" said Bob, when the first dab of color struck the canvas.

And Dave squinted his eyes and sighed, and contracted his brows, as the
surface was gradually covered.

"Don't look like nothin' ter me," said Sanders, frankly, his face
within two feet of the canvas. "'Tain't smooth."

"If," said Dave, calmly, "that paint gets on your nose, Sanders, don't
blame me."

Half an hour later, Bob Somers observed, "Looks great--doesn't it,
boys?"

"Dave, you're a wonder," added Sam.

"Don't look like nothin' ter me," repeated Sanders. "What's the use of
doin' it?"

"Thus is genius always unappreciated," smiled Dave. "Some day, Sanders,
when you hear a big noise, rolling like distant thunder, you'll know
it's my fame reaching Mountain Village."

A low growl came from Tige at this moment. A boy and a large dog were
approaching. The dog soon led. It was larger than Tige, shaggy, and
wore an expression which indicated that timidity was not a part of its
nature.

Trouble was brewing, and it came sooner than expected.

The newcomer wasted no time in preliminaries. The moment he saw Tige he
sprang for him.

All but Dave Brandon retreated--he didn't have time.

Smack! The animals backed up against the easel, sending it flying.

Bang! The canvas smote Dave Brandon on the nose, his stool tilted, and
over he went backward, while his palette dropped squarely on Tige's
back. The big umbrella, after gracefully sailing through the air,
landed a few feet away.

As Dave picked himself up, he was not pleased to find that operations
continued with great activity close around him. Each dog let out a
series of howls, barks, whines and grunts; each got knocked down, and
each knocked the other down, while eight legs waved wildly in all
directions.

"Whee!" cried Dave, as one after the other bumped into him. "It's time
they had a lesson in manners."

He seized his rest stick, and raised it aloft, aiming toward the spot
where the mixture of dog seemed thickest.

About one second later, a howl such as rarely issued from a canine
throat disturbed the atmosphere, and one dog was seen rapidly backing
away. Then the rest stick hit the other dog in the back, and the noise
in that immediate vicinity was considerably augmented.

"Don't hit my poor dorg ag'in!" screamed Sanders, rushing forward.

But Dave had not intended his blows to land. They served, however, to
keep the two howling canines from renewing their fights, and by that
time the owner of the visiting dog had come running up, hatless, and
out of breath.

"W-w-what d-d-do you m-ean?" he stammered, taking a position between
Dave's stick and his own pet.

"What does the dog mean?" demanded Dave, facetiously, again.

"I guess he was just sparring for points," laughed the newcomer,
perceiving that Dave was disposed to view the situation in a humorous
light.

At this moment several hearty peals of laughter rang out.

"Awful sorry, old man," snickered Bob, "but I can't help it. Maybe Tige
isn't a beautiful sight, and your face--wow!"

"Funniest thing I ever saw," gasped Dick.

The artist was calmly wiping his forehead and cheeks, thereby spreading
the color.

As for the owner of the dog which had caused all the trouble, he now
seized the animal by the collar, and bending forward looked at Dave
with a scared expression.

"I'm awful sorry," he said. "I----"

"Might have known your old brute would raise the mischief, Ben
Henderson," growled Sanders, aiming a kick at Tige which sent the sadly
bedaubed animal scurrying away.

"Honest--it wasn't my fault," pleaded the boy. "I'm awful sorry."

"It's all right, son," put in Dave.

"Nip's kind of out of humor to-day, and----"

"'Nip'? That's a mighty queer name."

"Yes, sir! We have another dog named Tuck, so it's Nip and Tuck."

"Thank goodness Tuck didn't come along," said Dave, as he picked up
the easel and set his sketch in place.

"Awful glad your paintin' wasn't spoiled," said the boy. "It's bully.
You're a regular artist, ain't you?"

At this remark a very wide smile played over the stout boy's features.

"I draw pictures, too," stammered Ben.

"You do?" said Dave, with interest. "See here, Ben, do you tend sheep?"

"Sure," answered the boy, in surprise. "Why?"

"Well, well," continued Dave, laughingly; "fellows, maybe we've
discovered another Giotto."

"Giotto?" echoed Ben. "Who's he?"

"Oh, an Italian artist who lived several hundred years ago," explained
Dave. "While tending sheep, he used to draw, and afterward he became
famous."

"I've drawn pictures, too, while the sheep were grazing," said Ben,
eagerly.

"Suffering catfish, how like the other Gee Otto," put in Tommy Clifton.

"I'll draw you a picture now. Oh, you needn't laugh, Tom Sanders."

Ben seized the sketch-book which Dave held out, and began to work.

"Good boy! You've got the stuff all right," exclaimed the stout boy.

Young Henderson looked pleased.

"Isn't this like my father's house, Sanders?" he asked, holding up the
sketch, and Tom admitted that it was.

"Wish Professor Mead could see it," murmured Dave. "If you want me to
give you a few pointers, come over to Rickham."

Ben was delighted.

"You bet I'll come over," he said, with sparkling eyes.

"Then I must order a pair of spectacles," said Dave, solemnly, "and
cultivate a severe frown and deep voice, and if you don't become a
second Giotto, it won't be my fault."




                             CHAPTER XXII

                         CHASING "LITTLE BILL"


Ben Henderson lost no time in taking advantage of Dave Brandon's kind
offer; in fact, the very next morning he appeared at the Rickham House,
happy and expectant.

Ben proved an apt pupil, and Dave enjoyed his new rôle as a professor.

One morning, just after breakfast, Dick Travers poked his head
out-of-doors.

"May have to stick inside all day," he grumbled. "Clouds are dark and
the wind is pretty brisk--it's going to rain."

"Well, it isn't raining now," called out Dave from the dining-room.
"Let's ramble around for an hour or two, anyway."

"Right you are, Chubby," agreed Bob. "I'm going to take my gun. Might
knock over a couple of hares."

In a few minutes, the boys were crossing the field, headed for a fringe
of woods.

As they were about to enter, Dick Travers happened to turn his head.
He stopped abruptly, and uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter, Dick?" asked Bob.

"Some fellows going out on our wharf," was the answer.

"I'll bet it's 'Little Bill' after the 'Spray' again," cried Tom,
excitedly.

"Let's watch 'em a bit," counseled Bob.

"Now's the time to put a stop to their funny business," said Bob. "Come
ahead, fellows. Guess Mr. Bill Dugan won't take the boat out to-day."

"He has awful nerve," said Dick, angrily.

"Perhaps he won't have so much when the Ramblers get through with him."

The boys, fully aroused, broke into a run, and presently recognized
"Little Bill." But Dugan and his companion, busily engaged in casting
off the ropes, did not look around until the indignant boys were almost
upon the wharf.

"Hey there, Bill Dugan," yelled Bob; "get away from that boat!"

"Well, I declare--if that isn't 'Surly Joe' with him," panted Dick.
"Crickets, but this is a surprise!"

Both the trapper and "Little Bill" wheeled sharply around at Bob's
command. Dugan's face flushed; he was evidently disconcerted and no
doubt felt like taking to his heels, but "Surly Joe's" unamiable
countenance glared defiance.

"Don't pay no attention to 'em, Bill," snarled the latter. "They hain't
got no more sense than ter skeer away a hull flock of the finest ducks
you ever see. Jump in, an'----"

"Don't do anything of the sort, Dugan," commanded Bob, firmly. "You
have no right to touch that boat!"

"What's the reason I hain't?" cried "Little Bill," with a show of
courage. "Old Barton says ter me--he says, 'Bill, if ever----'"

"Don't chin with 'em all day, but jump in," interrupted "Surly Joe,"
angrily. "Didn't you say that you an' me could have a little sail? You
ain't skeered of them young kids, I hope, Bill Dugan?"

"You don't know how to sail a boat, anyway," cried Bob. "We won't stand
any nonsense now."

"Jist listen at him--wal, did I ever hear the beat of it? If that ain't
impertinence fur ye," growled Joe Tomlin. "He's insulted, ye, Bill
Dugan--that's what he's done. Do you stand fur sich talk as that?"

"No, I don't!" yelled Dugan, fiercely.

His right hand shot out; he seized Bob Somers' rifle, and wrested it
from his grasp.

"Jump in, Joe," he cried. "Here goes!"

He leaped aboard the "Spray," and "Surly Joe" instantly followed. The
boat had been straining and tugging, with but one rope left to hold
her, and this Joe Tomlin instantly cast off.

The boys were entirely unprepared for such sudden action, and their
indignation was thoroughly aroused as the "Spray" slowly drifted away
from the wharf, and "Surly Joe" was seen hauling up the sail.

"I'll teach yer not ter be gittin' gay with me," cried Dugan. "When yer
apologizes, ye gits back yer old shootin' iron, an' not before. I'll
show you--an' that fat elephant, too."

"After them in the 'Speedy,' fellows," cried Bob.

"That's the idea!" yelled Dick.

But the boys, in their excitement and hurry, proceeded to prove the
truth of the old saying, "The more haste, the less speed." Nothing
went right. Tommy Clifton fell down and bumped his nose; the ropes were
stubborn--one of them got wedged in a crack on the wharf, and Bob,
impatient at the delay, cut it loose.

"Pile aboard, fellows!" he cried.

A strong wind was blowing, and the "Spray," headed for Promontory
Island, had a good start.

"Crickets! We'll have to go some to catch up with 'em," cried Bob.
"Give me a hand with the sail, Dick--that's it. Keep her steady, Sam."

"What's the program?" asked Dave, calmly.

"Board the 'Spray,' if necessary. When Dugan and 'Surly Joe' find we
mean business, they'll back down."

"Maybe they won't, Bob," put in Tommy Clifton, nervously.

"You might as well give it up," came floating over the air. "Little
Bill," in the stern, was waving Bob Somers' rifle tauntingly.

"If you know what's best for yourself you'll come about," shouted Bob.

"Is that elephant holding yer back?" sneered Dugan, and "Surly Joe's"
harsh laugh reached their ears.

"Jiminy, the wind's kicking up awful big waves," said Tommy Clifton a
few minutes later. "Might be better to get back."

"No siree, Tommy. It's now or never. We're not so easy as all that."

"We must get that gun, even if they lead us a chase around the two
islands," put in Sam, emphatically.

Heavy, rolling clouds shut from view the surrounding mountains; drops
of rain began to fall, and every moment the "Speedy" buried her nose in
the white-capped waves, while flying spray soaked the occupants.

The quantity of water pouring over the gunwale assumed such proportions
that Dick and Bob Somers began bailing.

Hemlock and Promontory Islands soon loomed up clearly, the latter grim
and majestic in the gray light.

"Great sport, this," cried Dave. "We're gaining fast, Bob. Mind
yourself, Sam. This boat's a bit too narrow for stormy weather. There
goes the 'Spray' into the passageway."

As the wind blew stronger and the angry, hissing water broke against
the boat with great force, Tom Clifton's fears increased. He kept
looking at the shore, and each time the "Speedy" heeled far over felt a
shiver run through him.

"Look out, Sam," he shouted, as a particularly violent gust bore down
upon them. "Look out! Jiminy, we'll be over in a minute."

But the "Speedy" bravely righted herself, and struggled ahead.

This was repeated so many times that the boys began to think they were
experiencing the worst that was in store for them, and that after all
there was no real danger.

"Fine sport--fine," said Dave Brandon, at length. "Just fierce enough
to be enjoyable."

"Right you are," added Sam, emphatically.

As the steersman was about to change his course, a sudden and
unexpected lurch tore the tiller from his grasp and sent him crashing
against the gunwale. The sail began to thrash and bang violently in the
wind, and cries of alarm instantly arose.

"Drop the sail!" yelled Bob, struggling to Sam's assistance.

The "Speedy" careened far over; before Dave Brandon and Dick Travers
could master the flapping canvas, the boom swung swiftly across. Tommy
Clifton tried to duck, but too late. His horrified chums saw him swept
backward into the choppy water.

It had happened so quickly that not a move could be made to aid him.

But Tommy's yell of terror had scarcely ceased, when Dick Travers threw
off his coat and shoes, and, without an instant's hesitation, dived
overboard.

As he rose to the surface, bravely battling against wind and
foam-crested waves, he clearly felt the grip of the treacherous current.

Tommy Clifton's head bobbed up close by, and, swimming hand over hand,
Dick made straight for him.

"Keep up, Tommy, old boy," he managed to gasp.

But the terror-stricken lad did not seem to hear. He grasped wildly at
his rescuer, who, however, knew enough to keep clear.

At a favorable moment he seized Tommy by the hair and by a quick move
turned him on his back. So far, he had been buoyed up by the hope that
the "Speedy" would immediately tack to their assistance, and, hampered
by his clothes, he strove merely to keep afloat.

The force of the wind and waves dashing in his face almost took his
breath away; his muscles ached, but he held on to white-faced Tommy
Clifton with a grip which could not be broken.

"Why don't they come?" he murmured. Then he managed to turn, and, with
a great effort, glance over the crests of the gray, storm-swept waves.

"Great Scott!"

An icy chill swept through him. Instead of the "Speedy" being close at
hand and coming to their assistance, the instantaneous glance showed
him a boat bottom up, with several figures clinging to it.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                             CANYON RIVER


The accident had thrown the Ramblers into such consternation that for
an instant all seemed incapable of action.

But the seriousness of their situation demanded immediate attention.
The "Speedy" had already passed the passageway, and each moment the
current of Canyon River and the wind were dragging it nearer the
dreaded gorge.

Bob Somers was the first to arouse himself. The yell of Tommy Clifton
seemed to be still ringing in his ears. He grasped the tiller.

"Ease over the sheet, Dave," he shouted. "We're coming about on the
starboard tack--quick!"

But the instant's delay had been fatal. Before the boat could respond
to her helm, another furious blast sent her heeling over. This time,
the tapering mast met the water; the boys shot out in all directions;
then the "Speedy" turned bottom up, and, as if rejoicing at another
victim, the current raced her swiftly along.

When they rose to the surface, the Ramblers, with one accord, struck
out for the boat; each felt that to stem the force of wind and water
was impossible. Numerous rocks studded the channel a bit further down,
and their only hope seemed to lie in reaching one of these. At any
rate, they had already gone so far that no effort at swimming could
have saved them from the turbulent water below.

Clinging to the hull, they could only glance at each other with white
faces--faces which reflected the terror that gripped their hearts.

By this time, dark, rolling clouds had blotted out the mountain tops,
and seemed to be on the point of pouring earthward a flood of rain.
Nature was, indeed, in a wild and threatening mood.

And now an ominous roar rose above the sound of wind and waves. Already
the upturned boat was sweeping past the lower end of Promontory Island.

The cliffs lashed with perpetual foam were near at hand.

Like one in a dream, Sam Randall saw flashing into view the white
rocks upon which he had stood only a short time before. Then, almost
instantly, torn like the others from their hold on the "Speedy," he was
battling for life in a seething vortex.

Exhausted by the pounding and almost blinded, he struggled desperately
to keep his head above water and reach one of the rocks. But a short
distance separated him from a haven of safety. He kept his eye fixed on
a form over which the water pounded and lashed. A few feet more, and
his hand would reach it.

At last, with the agony of despair, Sam Randall grasped hold of the
projecting point. His fingers closed tightly around it, and for an
instant it looked as if success would crown his effort.

Then he was torn away.

A deafening roar rang in his ears; he seemed to be fairly lifted above
the madly swirling water, then forced beneath, and when, gasping and
choking, he rose to the surface, it was within the gloomy gorge, with
nothing but rocky walls on either hand.

Yes, Bob and Dave were there, too.

The current was now smooth and even, and the three, notwithstanding
their exhausted condition, found little difficulty in keeping to the
surface. The "Speedy" could be seen not far ahead.

Bob Somers felt a strange calmness steal over him; the first crushing
shock had gone, and even when, a few minutes later, a steady murmur
rose above the gurgle of the lapping water, it did not seem to increase
his agitation.

The cataract was not far ahead.

The sound rapidly increased in volume, a steady droning, musical and
solemn.

The swimmers shot around a jutting crag; then Bob Somers felt like
uttering a shout. Hope swept away the unnatural calmness, and renewed
his strength.

The river widened out; on the left side a green field, dotted with
trees, sloped gently to the water's edge.

"Let's try to land there," cried Bob, and the boys struck out in that
direction. The current was swift, and they realized that an instant's
delay would result in their being swept down to the falls. Already more
than half the green shore was behind them, when Bob Somers won his
battle. He grasped an overhanging tree and pulled himself up on the
bank. Then, a bit further along, Dave Brandon crawled up on a shelving
rock, and lastly, Sam Randall.

Exhausted, the three lay perfectly still, their hearts filled with
thankfulness at their wonderful escape. Bob Somers was the first
to rise, and, in a moment, the others joined him. They were three
strange-looking boys, pale-faced, with wet, bedraggled clothing that
stuck tightly to their forms.

"We had a narrow escape, fellows," exclaimed Sam Randall, with a
shiver. "I never expected to get out of it."

"One adventure like this would last a fellow a lifetime," murmured
Dave. "We ought to thank our stars. I'll never forget how I felt when
we were in that gorge," and Dave shuddered.

"Nor I," said Bob. "If we only knew what happened to poor Tommy and
Dick."

"Travers is a good swimmer; the current doesn't run very strong there,
and they were close to Hemlock Island."

Dave's cheering words brightened the others considerably.

"Listen to the roar of that cataract," put in Sam. "It can't be far
off--sounds like a whopper."

"Suppose this valley had been on the other side of the falls, instead
of this," said Dave, reflectively.

"Don't, Chubby," and Bob shivered. "Poor old 'Speedy,' she's smashed to
bits, now--nice news for Uncle Barton. Maybe he won't have a few things
to say to Dugan."

"Fellows," said Sam, suddenly, "how are we going to get out of this
place? We may be in a fine pickle after all--let's explore a bit."

The valley seemed circular, and less than a quarter of a mile across.
Trees and all sorts of vegetation grew in the richest profusion. Above,
the cliffs were enveloped in the low, scudding clouds, and occasionally
big drops of rain spattered about them.

The three came to a halt at the end of the valley. The rocky walls
rose sheer from the water again, and all hope of escape in that
direction was cut off. A little below them, on the other side of the
river, they could see another green shore, but its extent could not be
determined on account of the cliff which jutted in front.

"Might have been better if we'd landed there," said Dave, reflectively.
"Look at that spur extending out into the stream."

"Maybe," admitted Bob. "Suppose we explore the rest of the valley."

At the end of half an hour, the boys looked at each other in dismay.
Every nook and corner of the border line had been inspected, and a
disheartening fact was forced upon them--the valley had no outlet.

"Bob, we're bottled up," said Sam, gloomily.

"An awful fix," murmured the captain, with sinking heart.

Dave glanced upward.

"Might as well think of trying to climb the sides of a house, Chubby,"
said Sam, despairingly. "Hang it--what's to be done?"

"Have lunch," answered the "poet." He pointed toward a mass of
blackberry bushes. "Better than nothing," he added.

The others thought so, too, and began an onslaught which lasted until
their hunger was considerably appeased. Then, despite a drizzly rain,
they wandered back to the river, and ran up and down the banks to keep
warm. The top of Promontory Island could be faintly seen between the
canyon walls.

"If we only had some matches, it might be worth while to build a fire,"
remarked Sam. "Old Neil Prescott would be sure to see it."

"But Bill Dugan said that no one could ascend the river from below,"
declared Bob.

"And no one's coming the way we did. What can be done, Dave?"

"Eat blackberries, and hope," counseled the "poet," and, as Sam made an
impatient gesture, he added, "Until to-morrow, at least."

"And to-morrow?" said Sam.

But his question remained unanswered.

Soon they sought shelter under a thick clump of trees.

"Seems a pity that such a beautiful little place should be hidden,"
remarked the "poet," thoughtfully. "Remember the poem,

    "'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air'?"

But neither Bob nor Sam could view the situation as cheerfully as their
companion, and remained moodily silent.

Never could the boys remember so tiresome a wait as they had beneath
the trees that afternoon. The minutes seemed to drag out interminably.
It was late when the rain stopped, and they continued their
exploration, in a vain hope that some way out of their dilemma might be
discovered.

"No use," said Sam, wearily. "We are in an awful pickle."

Dave Brandon and his chums nodded.

Toward dusk the clouds began to clear away, and when night came,
twinkling stars peeped between the flying masses. But it was a black,
gloomy night; the wind rustled the tree-tops mournfully, and the
monotonous roar of the cataract sounded louder than ever.




                             CHAPTER XXIV

                         "YOU SAVED MY LIFE!"


The sight of the overturned boat seemed to take all the strength from
sturdy Dick Travers' frame. The full realization of his own and Tommy
Clifton's peril was swallowed up for an instant in the thought of the
terrible danger which menaced his chums. For the next few moments he
simply drifted along on the current.

But fast failing strength, the helpless condition of Tommy Clifton, and
the hiss and splash of the water all around soon aroused him to a sense
of present duty.

"Help, help!" he cried, hoping that perhaps "Little Bill" and "Surly
Joe" might be within hearing.

He was just abreast of the narrow entrance to the passageway at the
foot of Hemlock Island.

Presently Dick Travers repeated the call; then he half closed his
eyes, and, with set mouth and contracted brow, renewed the battle.

Suddenly a shout reached his ears.

Dick Travers' heart bounded with hope.

"Keep up--we'll be there in a jiffy," were the words that floated over
the air.

Dick's senses were becoming benumbed; from which direction the sound
came he could not tell, but his plight had been discovered--that was
enough--and again came the encouraging cry, "Keep up!"

He summoned all his fleeting strength, but it was not sufficient to
enable him to raise himself above the waste of gray water.

Then a dark form suddenly appeared from the direction of Hemlock
Island, and he saw a boat headed straight toward them.

Nearer, nearer it came; and now he could hear the steady click of oars.

Again encouraging cries reached him.

"Great Scott! Jim Havens and Phil Levins," was the thought that flashed
through Dick Travers' mind.

Two oarsmen were rowing desperately, and, aided by the current, their
rowboat shot quickly ahead. As it loomed close above him, the figures
of the mountain boys vaguely reminded Dick of giants.

A wave larger than the rest was bearing down upon him, and in a moment
he would be buried beneath its foaming crest. Once more he summoned his
strength--he knew it would be the final effort.

Just as that terrifying line of white rose before his eyes, he felt
a strong hand grip his collar; he was conscious of seeing indistinct
forms before him, of hearing voices and of helping to lift Tom Clifton
out of the water--then a darkness obscured his vision.

When he opened his eyes again, Jim Havens and Phil Levins were gazing
eagerly in his face.

"He's all right," came from Havens. Then Dick saw that he was lying
amidst tall grasses, and that Tommy Clifton, with a dazed expression,
was sitting propped up against a rock.

"My," he whispered; "that was a narrow escape. I----"

"Quick--tell us how you got into the water," said Havens, excitedly.
"Where did your boat get to?"

"Yes, tell us," chimed in Phil.

"What's become of Bob Somers and the other boys?" asked Tom Clifton, in
a hoarse whisper.

"Then you don't know?" Dick Travers shook his head sadly. "The 'Speedy'
and the whole crowd was carried into the gorge. Isn't it awful?"

"I was afraid of that," cried Havens, in dismay. "Great Cæsar!"

"Carried into the gorge of Canyon River?" gasped Phil Levins,
breathlessly; "it can't be possible! How do you know?"

Dick Travers' voice faltered as he gave an account of their thrilling
experience, and when he had finished a silence fell upon the group.

It was broken by Dick, who inquired, "How did you happen to see us?"

"The 'Dart' is anchored in the passageway, behind that clump of trees,"
Havens explained, in a low voice. "Phil and I came over to get a few
rabbits, and hadn't been ashore but a short time when 'Little Bill' and
'Surly Joe' came along in the 'Spray.' 'Little Bill' asked us what we
thought of his 'private yacht,' and both Phil and I felt sure he'd run
off with it, as he did before.

"Well, we were loafing around, when all of a sudden your shout for help
nearly startled the life out of us."

"And it's a mighty lucky thing I borrowed Grimshaw's boat this morning
and we towed it over," added Phil Levins. "Don't believe the clumsy old
'Dart' would ever have reached you in time."

"Dick!" exclaimed Tom, abruptly, "you saved my life!"

"And Havens and Levins saved us both," said Dick, warmly. "But, oh,
isn't it awful about our fellows? I'll never get over it--never!"

"What's to be done, Dick?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," and Dick struggled to repress the emotions
which surged within him.

The sky grew darker; the trees soughed mournfully in the breeze, and
the dreary aspect of nature was in accord with their feelings. Gloomily
they sat around, with no consoling thoughts to cheer them.

"Don't you think there's a chance for Bob and the others?" ventured
pale-faced Tommy Clifton.

"You know how it was with Howard Fenton," answered Dick. "This is a
fine ending to our trip."




                              CHAPTER XXV

                         "HELLO, BOB SOMERS!"


It seemed to the boys in the canyon as if the night would never end.
At intervals, they dozed, but their slumber, disturbed by distressing
thoughts, was not refreshing.

Bob Somers, in his wakeful moments, felt the strangeness and danger of
the situation with full force. How out of the world he felt, hemmed in
between those great walls; how was it going to end? He cudgeled his
brain in vain, and occasionally rose and walked to the edge of the
river, where he tried to pierce the gloom that enshrouded them.

At dawn, a chilling air was sweeping through the canyon. The narrow
slit of sky seen between the towering heights was of a palish green. A
rosy cloud floated slowly across, and a lone hawk winged its way, high
up. They mechanically watched the bird approach, pass overhead, and
disappear.

Bob Somers drew a long breath, as he glanced aloft.

"Don't believe I ever saw anything look so high," he said.

"Let's go for our breakfast," suggested Dave.

"Blackberries," said Bob, with a sniff of disgust. "I hate
blackberries--shape, smell, taste--everything. Don't believe I shall
ever eat another."

"And I don't believe we shall ever eat anything else," observed Sam,
gloomily.

"Cheer up, fellows! While there's blackberries, there's hope,"
put in Dave, with a faint smile. "After breakfast, we'll hold a
council--something must be done."

With difficulty, the three managed to swallow the berries, and then
drink a quantity of water, as Bob said, to "take the taste out of their
mouths."

By this time, the sunlight was slanting across the tops of the
mountains.

Sam Randall seated himself on a rock, the picture of gloom and
dejection.

"Now what's what?" he asked.

"We can't climb the cliff," answered Dave. "Do you think----" He
hesitated.

"Think what, Chubby?"

"That it would be too risky to swim for the other shore?"

Bob and Sam looked at the current and listened to the roar of the
cataract. The thought of again trusting themselves to the mercy of such
waters made them shiver.

"The current is much swifter over there," said Sam, "and if we missed
that point of rock----" An expressive gesture finished the sentence.

"Guess the searching parties are out for us now," observed Bob Somers.

"Even if they discover where we are, how in the dickens could they help
us?" demanded Sam.

"You have me there. But I want to take a day off from that river. I'll
chance it with the two of you to-morrow."

"Good," said the "poet." "We won't give up till we have to. I wouldn't
mind it half so much if we had anything to eat besides----"

But Bob cut him short. "Don't say it, Chubby," he remarked dolefully.
"I'm trying to forget 'em."

"And I can't," added Sam.

The hours dragged wearily by. Sometimes they lolled on the ground,
watching the high clouds floating slowly across, then wandered around
in search of food.

"Blackberry Valley--nothing else here," sighed Bob.

As long as daylight lasted and the glow of the afternoon sun gilded the
clouds, they kept up their courage, but the approach of night filled
them with dread. It grew dark very soon within the rocky confines, and
the barren gray walls wore a cheerless aspect.

The three hungry and worried boys were again obliged to partake of the
much despised fruit, after which they returned, as before, to the river.

Sleep, in spite of their weariness, seemed out of the question. The
stars came out against the darkening sky, and shone brilliantly.

"Oh, how I hate the nights in Blackberry Valley," groaned Bob.

"No more than I," said Sam. "Maybe this is all a dream."

"You mean a nightmare."

Moodily, they sat around; conversation lagged; an hour dragged slowly
by. Then Bob Somers, who had been gazing dejectedly through half-closed
eyes, started up.

"Look, fellows--look!" he cried, excitedly.

"Where--where? What is it?" asked Dave.

"A light--don't you see? Straight ahead."

"Jiminy crickets! As I live, it's Neil Prescott's bonfire, on
Promontory Island," gasped Sam. "Gee, but that's good to see."

"Wish we knew what in the world he's up to," said Bob.

"Thought you might find out when Tommy and I went to the mountains,"
replied Sam, gloomily.

With intense interest they watched the speck of light. At intervals, it
almost disappeared, then shone forth again, and finally burned steadily
like a beacon against the dark sky.

"Mighty strange," murmured Bob.

"There's some reason for it," put in Dave. "As sure as you live, it's a
signal."

"But to whom?"

"Gee! I don't know. It's a mystery I'd give a lot to solve."

The Ramblers kept their eyes eagerly glued to the one link which still
bound them to civilization, and breathed a sigh of regret as it began
to slowly fade from view. At length but a tiny glimmer remained, and
finally night blotted this out.

"It's gone," breathed Sam. "Old Neil Prescott is a jolly good
fellow, and--great Scott--say! Am I awake or dreaming? Pinch me,
somebody--quick!--What's that?"

Sam excitedly raised his voice to a shout, and sprang to his feet,
while the others, with wild exclamations, followed.

"What in the world is it?" cried Bob Somers.

A light was springing into view on the opposite shore, apparently on
the jutting point.

With throbbing hearts, the three watched it grow. For a moment, not
a word was spoken. It seemed so unreal, so extraordinary, that they
almost doubted their eyes.

"A fire, down here in the gorge!" gasped Bob Somers. "It doesn't seem
possible."

"A fire!" echoed Sam, in amazement.

"By all that's wonderful!" murmured the "poet."

Yes--flames were growing larger, curling and twisting; a ruddy light
was spreading around--it meant that they were not alone in the terrible
gorge.

The restoration from despair to hope sent such a wave of thankfulness
into the minds of each that they felt like dancing with joy. Then their
united voices rose in a volume of sound which echoed and reëchoed
throughout the narrow confines with startling clearness.

They paused, and waited anxiously.

For an instant, there was no response. Then, "Hello, hello! Who are
you?" came a voice, the tones of which seemed to indicate the greatest
amazement.

Saved--saved! What a blessed thought!

"Hurrah!" yelled Bob.

"Who are you?" repeated the speaker across the river.

His voice had a strangely familiar sound.

"It can't be possible," said Bob, excitedly. "I wonder if--but no----"
He stopped, and peered eagerly toward the fire, which, flaring up,
revealed two figures.

"I'm Bob Somers!" he shouted. "Dave Brandon and Sam Randall are with
me. Who are you?"

This announcement was followed by another pause. Then came an amazing
response.

"Hello, Bob Somers--I'm Howard Fenton."




                             CHAPTER XXVI

                          ACROSS THE CURRENT


"Howard Fenton--I thought it was his voice," gasped Bob. "Great Scott!"

"Howard Fenton!" exclaimed Dave, while Sam Randall uttered a joyous
shout, ejaculating, "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of."

"And the finest," declared Bob, enthusiastically. "Chubby, I can
scarcely believe it's true."

"Nor I," declared the delighted Dave.

Volleys of questions were hurled back and forth, but the noise of the
waterfall made conversation difficult, and it was decided to postpone
explanations until the following morning.

They learned one thing, however--Howard Fenton was not hemmed in as
they were, and he was not alone.

What a difference a few minutes had made. When the tumult of emotions
had subsided, the boys talked and laughed until weariness could no
longer be denied.

Hunger was forgotten, and they slept until the rosy glow of early
morning was tingeing the clouds. Faces were washed in the clear water,
and they felt somewhat better.

This had scarcely been finished, when a cheery shout greeted their
ears. Howard Fenton and his companion had appeared in view. The latter
carried a long rope.

"I said, Dave, that I'd take a chance with you this morning, and try
for the other side," said Bob. "It's good-bye to Blackberry Valley,
now. Hello, Howard!" he shouted.

Fenton again waved his hand, and shouted, "Are you ready to come over?"

"Yes!"

"Listen! It's a dangerous swim, unless you're feeling pretty husky. It
wouldn't do to take any chances."

"We'd starve over here--nothing else for us to do, Howard."

"The cataract is about a quarter of a mile below," went on
Fenton. "If you should miss the ledge where we had the fire last
night--well--nothing can save you. But when you get near enough, we'll
throw a line. Grab it and hang on for all you are worth."

Fenton tried to speak lightly, but his tones showed a suppressed
agitation which the boys did not fail to notice.

"Well," said Sam, in an undertone, gritting his teeth and glancing at
the gurgling water, "we aren't out of the woods yet."

"We'll be in 'em sure enough when we strike the water," observed Dave,
with a faint smile.

"I'll go first," announced Bob, "and the best place to start from is
the upper end of the valley." Then, raising his voice, he yelled, "Are
you ready, Howard? Got your rope?"

Quickly, the three walked to the most favorable point on the beach.

"Good-bye, fellows, I'll see you on the other side."

It was a moment that none of the little group would ever forget. Dave
Brandon and Sam Randall gripped the captain's hand.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, Bob, old man," whispered the "poet."

Bob Somers drew a long breath. It took all the courage he possessed to
deliberately launch himself into Canyon River, but he waved his hand
to the others, and took the plunge.

In an instant he was buffeting the powerful current. Again he saw the
gray walls flying swiftly by; again the water lapped and splashed
around him and murmured and sang.

The swimmer kept his eyes fixed on the opposite cliff and its rugged
outline rising from the ledge where Howard Fenton and his companion
awaited him. Already he was approaching it; the boom of the falls
suddenly seemed to grow louder.

"Here comes the rope--look out for it!" he heard a voice cry.

Bravely battling, Bob Somers caught a momentary glimpse of the lariat
hurtling through the air. With a hiss, it fell a few feet in front--the
one thing which stood between him and the dreaded cataract.

But the throw had been well-timed, and the captain, with his nerves set
to the keenest tension, grasped the line just as it was beginning to
sink.

Desperately, he clung to it.

[Illustration: DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT.]

"We'll have you ashore in a moment, Bob," called Howard Fenton; "hang
on to it."

Dave and Dick's yell of exultation followed--Bob Somers was safe at
last.

A slight pull on the rope swerved him sufficiently from his course,
and he swung in directly toward the ledge; then, a few seconds later,
willing hands dragged him ashore, where he lay panting and exhausted.

"My stars, but I am thankful for this!" exclaimed Fenton, fervently.

"A good swim," said his companion, with an approving nod.

The first thing Bob Somers did upon rising was to shake his rescuers
warmly by the hand.

"Well, Howard," he gasped, "this is a mighty strange meeting."

"You bet it is, old man," exclaimed the New York boy. "But say, Bob,
I guess you'd better not do much talking till you get a bite to eat.
Ready, eh?"

"For a mile of anything but blackberries," smiled Bob.

"Out in the wilds, I was forgetting my parlor manners--Bob, this is
Stuart Wells."

The two again shook hands.

"And now," laughed Wells, "those other castaways are getting
impatient. Who's that yelling?"

"Sam Randall," said Bob. "Hi, hi!" he shouted. "Ready, eh? Come ahead!"

Stuart Wells stood calmly, with lariat in hand. He watched Sam Randall
spring into the water, and at the critical moment again sent the rope
in a graceful curve through the air.

Bob Somers drew a breath of relief when he saw his chum seize it.

No sooner had Sam been assisted to a place of safety on the ledge than
Dave Brandon followed his example, and the good-natured "poet" soon
joined the group.

It was a happy reunion, but even in their thankfulness the Ramblers
could not forget the clamoring of nature.

"I'm burning up with curiosity to hear about everything, Howard," said
Bob, "but----"

"Not a word till we pilot you to Canyon restaurant," laughed the other.
"All meals out in the open."

"Um--um--lead us to it right away," cried the dripping Dave.

Howard led the way around a thick clump of trees, and they saw, close
to the bluff, a well-built lean-to. Picks, shovels and other tools
were scattered about, while just to one side was a great pile of broken
stones.

Soon the hungry boys were engaged in disposing of cold rabbit,
crackers, cheese and hot coffee, and before this pleasant occupation
was brought to an end, Bob Somers briefly acquainted Fenton and Stuart
Wells with the facts.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Fenton, when he had finished, "'Little Bill'
responsible, eh? He's the cheekiest young rascal I ever met. Mighty
lucky Wells and I happened to be here, eh? I tell you I was never more
surprised in my life than when I heard you shout last night."

"You must have been," admitted Bob. "Now, Howard, for goodness' sake,
tell us all about it."

"Yes! We can't wait a minute longer," put in Sam, impatiently.

"Well, it was this way," began Howard, settling himself comfortably on
a log. "The 'Dauntless' was pretty close to the passageway, when, all
of a sudden, I found that something was wrong with the rudder. The
wind was pretty fresh that day--remember, Sam? Well, I didn't take in
the sheet right away, as I should have done, but went to work to find
out what was the trouble. Close by, I saw a floating log."

"Bumped in to it, eh?" asked Sam.

"I had come about on a tack, and think the rudder must have struck it
squarely, for I found that it was broken loose and wouldn't respond to
the tiller. It was some minutes before I realized that it was damaged
beyond repair.

"All the while, the wind and current were taking me toward the gorge
and I soon discovered what a serious blunder I'd made. Down came the
sail in a jiffy--but too late. I'll never forget how I felt when the
'Dauntless' made straight for the entrance to the river."

Fenton lowered his voice and shivered.

"Awful," murmured Bob.

"Tommy and I saw you," cried Sam.

"I didn't see anything but that terrible gorge," continued Howard. "The
'Dauntless' wobbled and twisted, and nearly keeled over when we passed
White Rocks. Whew!--'fearful' is about the word that hits it. The boat
shot into the canyon and I gave up hope."

"We know what sensations you had," exclaimed Bob Somers. "Don't see how
they could be worse."

"As luck would have it, the 'Dauntless' was so close to the opposite
cliffs when the first valley was reached that I was afraid to risk a
swim. So I stayed where I was, and it turned out to be a mighty good
thing that I did. The boat hit that jutting point over there, and I
didn't lose any time in getting off."

"How about the 'Dauntless'?" questioned Sam.

"She swung around, started off again, and went over the fall."

"Must be a big one," commented Dave.

"A crackerjack," said Howard. "We'll go down and see it, after a while."

"Keep on with your story," urged Sam.

"Needn't tell you how thankful I was for getting on solid ground
again," went on Fenton. "When my nerves stopped shaking I looked about,
and found----"

"Blackberries?" said Bob.

"Yes," laughed the other, "and, I might as well tell you, traces of
silver in the rocks."

"Of silver?" echoed the boys, in surprise.

"Yes, sir! I've studied a bit on those subjects. Told you I was going
to take a course in college--remember, Bob? Well, it didn't take long
for me to be satisfied that there was plenty of it, too."

"Gee!" said Sam.

"Mighty interesting," murmured Bob, while Dave stood straight up and
stared at the rocks.

Fenton resumed:

"But, fellows, it wasn't very long before I forgot all about
silver--thought I was bottled up for sure."

"And how did you get out at last?" questioned Sam, eagerly.

"I'm coming to that. Talk about being scared--I had to stay all night
in the blooming valley. Early next morning I began to hunt around for
a place to climb out, and, at length, found one that wasn't so bad. It
took a long time to get to the top of the cliff, and once near got an
awful shock."

"How?" asked Sam, with interest.

"Came to a wide ledge, with a big, round pile of rock above--it looked
like my finish; I couldn't see any way around it."

"Gee!" said Sam again.

"Had a pretty hard time of it," remarked Bob, sympathetically.

"But I was desperate--thought that the ledge was wide enough to catch
me, if I fell--and so kept right on. Luckily, there were enough
irregularities to afford a foothold."

"Guess you were glad when you reached the top?" said Dave.

"You bet I was; and exhausted, too."

"What did you do after that?" asked Dave.

"Started right off. I had a compass and a pretty fair idea of the
direction. I blazed a trail--believe that's what you call it--so as to
know the place again."

"How?" queried Sam.

"With a big jack-knife. In about two hours I came across some
loggers. By that time I was so played out with hunger and excitement
that I collapsed completely--don't believe I could have gone a step
further, Bob. Of course I was an object of curiosity, but they were a
good-hearted lot, and gave me all I wanted to eat. Beans, bacon and
coffee tasted good, I can tell you. Well, it was simply great."

"Guess it fixed you up all right," said Bob.

"No, it didn't. I was so stiff and sore and had such a headache that it
was a bunk for me the whole of that day and most of the next. One of
the men, Jake Lawson, took a letter to the railroad station. Of course,
it was to my father, and in it I told him that if he cared anything
about a pile of silver it might be well to keep the whole thing quiet
for a while."

"Then you didn't tell the loggers what had happened to you?" exclaimed
Bob, in great astonishment.

"No--they thought I had merely wandered off and become lost in the
woods."

"How did your father manage to find the place?"

"Oh, Jake Lawson met him at the station and piloted him through the
woods. I tell you, he was glad to see me alive and well, for by that
time I was all right again."

"I'll bet he was," commented Dave.

"My tale about the silver impressed him very much, and he thought it
worth while to investigate fully. He did two things right away--sent
for a mining expert," Fenton paused and waved his hand toward Stuart
Wells, "then for one of his trusted old watchmen, Neil Prescott."

"Ah, ha! Now we're coming to something," exclaimed Sam, with interest.
"We know Neil Prescott, all right."

Howard smiled.

"Father only consented to my returning to the valley on condition that
I would keep in constant communication with Neil, and----"

"Bully!" interjected Sam.

"Never attempt that climb unless it was absolutely necessary. As
for going up and down, carrying provisions and making an indefinite
stay--well, he wouldn't hear of it."

"Don't wonder a bit," said Sam.

"Anyway, we hit upon a splendid scheme. I happened to remember that
log hut on Promontory and suggested that Neil might fix it up and stay
there a while."

"Well, well--also, did you ever!" cried Bob.

"I got up a code of signals; and another dandy thing was the way Neil
managed to----"

"Now I see the whole thing," put in Sam, with a grin. "He floated down
your provisions. Aha! That explains all his mysterious doings--now we
know why your father happened out on the lake that night."

"Yes! You've learned the whole story," laughed Fenton.

"Mighty interesting," observed Dave Brandon. "And the silver?"

"It's going to pan out well," said the mining expert. "I guess Howard's
discovery will add a few dollars to his father's pocket-book."

"I hope so," put in Fenton. "Of course the pater and Wells here knew
how to go about things, and we have our claim fully protected. Probably
a company will be formed in a short time, and the three of us may be
out here a good deal, later on. Wells has plans already made for a
hoist up the cliff, and a road from there won't be hard to make."

"I'm jolly glad to hear of your good luck, Howard," said Bob, his eyes
sparkling.

"Count me in on that," added Dave, warmly.

"And Sam Randall is as much pleased as anybody," exclaimed the owner of
that name.

"Enjoy it down here, all bottled up?" asked Bob Somers.

"Oh, yes--of course--but not until I found that the cork was out."

Howard smiled faintly, while several of his hearers laughed, and the
former then added, "We were going to let you know as soon as possible
that I was very much alive. Pater said it was a downright shame not to
tell you fellows right away. Honestly, it was my fault--but it's all
right, isn't it, eh?"

"All right, old man," said Bob, and they shook hands all around.




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                             UP THE CLIFFS


After lunch, the Ramblers accompanied Fenton to "Mystery Falls," as
they termed the cataract. To reach it, they had to pass around a ledge
of rock into a third valley.

"My!" observed Sam, striving to make his voice heard above the roar and
his face paling a little, "isn't it awful to think of what----"

"Don't think of it, Sam," interrupted Dave, with a laugh, "but enjoy
the scene."

And all agreed that it was a spectacle well worth seeing. The water of
Canyon River, in the shadow of the great walls, roared and thundered,
as it dashed with mighty force over the brink, to madly froth and
seethe and bubble and swirl away two hundred feet below.

All felt a tremor when they thought of the fate of the "Dauntless" and
"Speedy" and the awful plunge which each boat must have taken.

It was a long time before the boys could tear themselves away from the
fascinating spectacle. Naturally, they were anxious to return to the
village. Now that their own dangers were past, they felt so terribly
worried about Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton that any real enjoyment
was out of the question.

Howard Fenton agreed to accompany them to Mountain Village on the
following day.

That night, he again exchanged signals with Neil Prescott, the boys
being deeply interested spectators of the proceeding.

The eventful morning arrived, and the four set out early, leaving
Stuart Wells at the camp.

Fenton led the way toward a gully and began scrambling up the side.

"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Bob. "Work ahead, Chubby."

And Dave's only reply was a long drawn-out groan.

A bit further up, a patch of scrubby firs and bushes stood out sharply
against their gray surroundings, and above that there was nothing but
barren rock.

From ledge to ledge, the four made their way. Fortunately, footholds on
the steep, sloping sides were numerous, otherwise their task would have
been almost impossible.

"Whew--hot work," panted Dave.

"But we're getting up, Chubby," said Bob. "The river begins to look
like a creek."

They stood on a shelving rock, with somewhat the feeling that an
explorer experiences when gazing upon a newly-discovered land for the
first time.

"Mighty few people have seen this," quoth Dave. "Pretty little valley,
Fenton."

"Yes it is, Dave."

"And there's Wells--looks just like an ant. Can't you hear his voice
plainly? Wonderful how sounds carry in a place like this."

Stuart had seen them, and was giving a parting salutation.

Up, up, slipping, sliding and scrambling; now on hands and knees,
then drawing themselves almost by main force over rugged rocks, they
progressed slowly toward the top.

Each was, of course, provided with a heavy stick, or "alpen-stock," as
Dave called it, and these proved very useful.

At length, the toilsome climb was nearly over. They had reached the
rounded projection of which Howard had spoken. It rose from a wide
ledge, and looked so dangerous that the Ramblers' respect for the city
boy's prowess was greatly increased.

"Nice job ahead of us," grumbled Sam. "My stars!"

"You fellows get up and throw me a rope," said Dave. "I shall recommend
this for an air-ship station. My! A fellow needs wings to get around
anything like that."

"Guess you understand why I felt stumped," laughed Fenton. "But wait
till you see it from the top."

"Don't wonder Silver Valley hasn't many visitors," sighed Bob. "I feel
like calling for help."

After a long rest, Howard Fenton started ahead, while the others
watched. It was hard, toilsome work, but, at length, they saw him drag
himself laboriously over the top, and disappear from view. Then a shout
of approval went up.

"Here comes a rope, fellows," announced Fenton, a few minutes later.

It dangled downward over the smooth rock.

"I've fastened it up here, all right."

Howard poked his face over the barrier, and peered down. "Come ahead,
Chubby," he called. "Don't depend too much on the rope."

The stout boy, with an alarming series of sighs and groans, obeyed.

At last all stood safely on the top, and agreed with Howard that no one
who did not know the lay of the land would care to venture down.

"Howard, you have a pile of courage," said Bob, and Fenton smiled at
the compliment.

After another short stop, he piloted them into the forest, following
his blazed trail without difficulty.

The logger's hut was soon reached. Jake Lawson proved to be a rough,
raw-boned mountaineer with an original manner of speech. He was
profoundly astonished at the arrival of the boys, and still more
astonished when he learned of their adventure in the canyon.

"Wal, wal," he exclaimed, elevating his shaggy eyebrows; "if this hyar
keeps up, they'll be a-sendin' pleasure parties through the gorge, an'
takin' up tickets at t'other end."

The four partook of a good, square meal of bacon and beans at the
cabin, and then resumed their march.

Late in the afternoon, weary, dusty and footsore, they arrived at the
Resort House.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII

                             ALL TOGETHER


Never before had Mountain Village experienced such a sensation. The
news of their arrival spread like lightning. All had been given up for
lost, their thrilling accident had been discussed and rediscussed, and
was still the principal topic of conversation.

But the boys paid little attention to the questions hurled at them by
the excited people, until assured of the safety of Dick Travers and Tom
Clifton. They were rejoiced to hear of their rescue by Jim Havens and
Phil Levins.

They also learned that "Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin had
been arrested and taken to the town of Penton, some ten miles distant,
to await the action of the authorities.

The Ramblers soon tore themselves away from their interested auditors,
and hurried toward Rickham House.

On the porch they saw Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton, who stood for
an instant motionless, then, with loud shouts of joy, rushed down the
steps.

Two sad, dejected-looking boys were suddenly transformed into the
happiest of mortals. They danced around, hugged their chums who had so
fortunately escaped the perils of Canyon River, and, altogether, acted
as if they had taken leave of their senses.

Little Tommy Clifton, in his joy, actually broke down and began to cry,
but the others pretended to take no notice.

"By all that's wonderful!" gasped Dick, wringing Bob's hand for the
tenth time, "somehow or other, I felt in my bones that it must come out
all right. And Fenton here, too? Great Cæsar, but I'm happy--hurrah,
hurrah!" and Dick began another wild jig.

"This is the best thing that ever happened," laughed Tom Clifton,
excitedly. "Whoop la!" and he slapped Dave Brandon so energetically on
the back that the "poet" declared it was almost a case of assault and
battery.

And just as they were about to step on the porch, another yell nearly
startled them out of their senses.

Sam Bins, with wildly rolling eyes, stood at the doorway.

"Good land--golly! Mr. Somers an' gemmen!" he cried. "Oh, dis chile can
hardly believe it. You hain't never been in dat awful gorge, nohow. It
was all a joke, eh?" and Sam's eyes rolled alarmingly. Then he began to
laugh, and go through the same kind of antics in which Dick and Tommy
had indulged a few moments before.

"Not much joke about it, Sam Bins," said Bob, with a smile, "but come
out on the porch and hear the whole story. Hello--people coming, eh?"

"Christopher, a regular mob," chimed in Sam Randall. "Guess we've made
some stir in Mountain Village."

For that afternoon, the Resort House was deserted. All who habitually
settled affairs of state to their own satisfaction, discussed crops
and weather, and speculated about new arrivals, betook themselves to
Rickham.

Even old Sile Stringer had hobbled over, when Bob Somers began to
graphically relate the story of their trip. Many gasps of astonishment
came from his listeners, as he told of first one thrilling experience
and then another.

"I always know'd a feller could git through that gorge," quavered old
Sile; "always--said so many a time."

Howard Fenton finally had a chance to speak of his own adventures, and
it was dark when the last of their visitors departed.

In this happy way was ended an experience which none of the boys would
ever forget. And there were a couple of others, too, who were likely to
remember the part they had taken in it.

"Little Bill" and "Surly Joe" were a badly frightened pair. Fairly
stunned by the catastrophe, and fearful of the consequences of their
act, they passed several very unpleasant days.

Their astonishment and relief were, therefore, unbounded at the good
news, and soon after came the welcome intelligence that the Ramblers
would not press any charges against them.

Even gratitude had a part in the make-up of "Little Bill" and "Surly
Joe." When the boys next saw them, they looked very different from the
bold spirits who had so defiantly sailed away on the "Spray."

"Surly Joe" in particular seemed ill at ease, and a worried look had
replaced the scowl which usually rested upon his countenance.

After having, in his awkward fashion, thanked the boys, he motioned Bob
to one side.

"Pardner," he began, in a husky whisper, "I've got somphin' partic'lar
ter say."

"All right, Joe," said Bob. "Fire away."

The trapper scratched his head, looked down on the ground, and
hesitated.

"Fact is, pardner, I 'most hates ter tell ye," he said, "but speakin'
frankly--meanin' no offense, yer understands,--I--I----"

"Go ahead, Joe," encouraged Bob.

"Wal, I didn't like you fellers--kinder struck me as bein' a bit too
perky, an' when you scares them ducks away, an' that leetle feller
hollers--wal, pardner, I ain't got the best disposition in the world,
an' it riled me more'n I was able ter stand."

"That's all right, Joe. You didn't know us," laughed Bob.

"'Tain't all right, pardner--not by a long shot, it ain't."

"Surly Joe" paused, his eyes shifting uneasily.

"Wal, I may as well out with it," he said, desperately. "You fellers
killed a b'ar?"

"Sure we did," cried Bob, in surprise. "How did you know?"

"'Cause I seen yer a-luggin' ther hide in the cave," was the surprising
answer.

"Well, well," said Bob. "This is a surprise, all right. Where in the
dickens were you, Joe?"

"Pretty close by, pardner. But that ain't all--honest, pardner, I hates
ter tell yer. I says, says I, 'A hard workin' trapper needs the b'ar's
pelt more'n a parcel of sassy young snipes; an' they ain't treated me
right, nuther; an'--wal, I ups and takes it. Thar, it's out now," and
Joe wiped his perspiring face, and shifted uneasily from one foot to
the other.

"Jiminy crickets--another surprise," murmured Bob.

"I never done nuthin' like it afore," confessed the unhappy Joe.

"And if you never do again, Joe, it's all right," said Bob. "Maybe Dave
Brandon won't be glad to hear about this."

"As sure as me name's Joe Tomlin, I'll fetch it to yer; an'--an'--say,
pardner, is it all right?"

"Sure thing," cried Bob. "Hello, Dave!"

"Oh, ho, but I am glad!" exclaimed the latter, when he had heard the
news. "It's simply great! I know just where I'm going to put that rug,
Bob. Sure, it's all right," and he slapped the trapper good-naturedly
on the back.

For once, Joe Tomlin's face wore a pleased expression, and when he
turned away, Dave murmured, sotto voce, "No longer 'Surly Joe,' but
happy Tomlin."

A few days later Dave Brandon was in possession of Old Ephraim's pelt.

After Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by Jim Havens, had
paid their visit to the mountains, and returned to tell of wonderful
exploits, a grand dinner was given in the old Rickham House. The guests
were Howard Fenton, his father, Stuart Wells, Jim Havens, Hank Merwin
and Neil Prescott.

Sam Bins, in honor of the occasion, did himself proud, as Dick Travers
expressed it. After the meal the trapper and Neil Prescott told
several stories; Bob Somers sang a popular song, while Dave Brandon,
after a great deal of urging, delivered a recitation.

It was Dick Travers, however, who provided the sensation of the
evening. The day before, he had received a package from Portland, but
jealously guarded its contents. Now they were exposed to view.

Delighted exclamations came from all. The official photographer's
snap-shots had turned out remarkably well.

First in interest was that woodland tragedy, the buck fight. One
animal had sunk to its knees in the water, while over him stood his
antagonist, with lowered head.

"Truly extraordinary, Dick," said Mr. Fenton. "Allow me to congratulate
you. Such a rare picture ought to make a sensation."

"Perfectly bully," cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically.

Next in interest was Old Ephraim in the rôle of a fisherman, while the
third showed the group with Hank Merwin in front of the dugout. It was
a proud and happy night for the "official photographer."

Hank Merwin's delight knew no bounds when three nicely mounted prints
were placed in his hands.

At Mr. Fenton's special request Dick also made him a similar present.

"I suppose," said the gentleman, smilingly, "that I am at liberty to do
what I please with these pictures, and if I decide to present them to
any one, I may say that it is in your behalf?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Dick, wondering at the request.

One afternoon, while they were sitting on the porch of the Resort House
"Big Bill" Dugan's "rattleboard" and a cloud of dust appeared in view.
In a few minutes the coach came to a stop, and the stage-driver climbed
down.

"Hope there's some letters for us," said Bob. "Got much mail, Dugan?"

"Ain't it easy ter wait an' see?" growled Bill, as he flung the bag on
the counter.

"One for Somers," said the postmaster, presently; "you too, Travers."

Dick glanced at his curiously.

"Wonder what the dickens this can be, fellows?" he said, as he saw
on the outside of the envelope the name of a famous natural history
museum in the East.

"One way to find out is to open it," suggested Dave.

Dick did so, and spread out a formidable-looking letter.

"Great Scott! Look at this, fellows," he cried.

His interested chums read the following:

    "_Mountain Village, Oregon._

    "MR. RICHARD TRAVERS:

    "_Dear Sir_:--Some days ago we received from Mr. George Fenton, in
    your behalf, two photographs taken by you in the mountains of
    Oregon.

    "The Natural History Society wishes to express its appreciation of
    your gift, and to say that, as far as we know, the picture of
    fighting bucks stands unrivaled.

    "Enlargements of both prints have been made and are hung in a
    prominent place, with your name attached.

    "Should you at any time come East, the society would be glad to
    have you pay them a visit."

"Great Scott! What do you think of that?" gasped the delighted Dick.

"It's simply immense," cried Bob, enthusiastically. "Fellows, three
cheers for Mr. Fenton and the official photographer of the Rambler
Club!" And they were given with a will.

And Mr. "Big Bill" Dugan, about ready to crack his long whip, was heard
to remark, "Huh! Canyon River an' the gorge didn't seem to take no
spirit out of that lively crowd."

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Other books in this Series are:

                        THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT

                    THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP

                  THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH