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32164	----	http://www.fadedpage.com _By George Palmer Putnam_ The Southland of North America (_See Announcement at Back of this Volume_) [Illustration: The Columbia River Valley and Mount Adams Copyright, Gifford, Portland, Ore.] In the Oregon Country Out-Doors in Oregon, Washington, and California Together with some Legendary Lore, and Glimpses of the Modern West in The Making By George Palmer Putnam Author of "The Southland of North America" etc. With an Introduction by James Withycombe Governor of Oregon With 52 Illustrations G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1915 COPYRIGHT, 1915 BY GEORGE PALMER PUTNAM The Knickerbocker Press, New York * * * * * Dedicated to THE EMBLEM CLUB * * * * * [Illustration] INTRODUCTION When one has lived in Oregon for forty-three years, and when one's enthusiasm for his home increases year after year, naturally all that is said of that home is of the most vital interest. Especially is it acceptable if it is the outgrowth of a similar enthusiasm, and if it is well said. For a considerable span of time I have been reading what others have written about the Pacific Coast. In the general western literature, it has seemed to me, Oregon has never received its merited share of consideration. Just now, with the Expositions in California attracting a worldwide interest westward, and with the Panama Canal giving our development a new impetus, it is especially appropriate that Oregon receive added literary attention. And it is reasonable to suppose that the stranger within our gates will find interest in such literature, provided it be of the right sort, just as Oregonians must welcome a sound addition to the State's bibliography, written by an Oregonian. So, because I like the spirit of the following pages, admire the method of their presentation, and deeply desire to promote the success of all that will tend toward a larger appreciation of Oregon's possibilities, I recommend this book to the consideration of dwellers on the Pacific Coast, and those who desire to form acquaintance with the land it concerns. [Illustration: hand written signature] _Governor of Oregon._ SALEM, OREGON, _January 20th, 1915._ PREFACE Often enough a preface is an outgrowth of disguised pretentiousness or insincere humility. Presumably it is an apology for the authorship, or at least an explanation of the purpose of the pages it introduces. But no one is compelled to write a book; and, in truth, publishers habitually exert a contrary influence. It is a fair supposition, therefore, when a book is produced, that the author has some good reason for his act, whether or not the book itself proves to be of service. Among many plausible apologies for authorship, the most reasonable is, it seems to me, a genuine enthusiasm for the subject at hand. If one loves that with which the book has to do the desire to share the possession with readers approaches altruism. In this case let us hope that the enthusiasm, which is real, and the virtue, which is implied, will sufficiently cloak the many faults of these little sketches, whose mission it is to convey something of the spirit of the out-of-door land they picture--a land loved by those who know it, and a land of limitless welcome for the stranger who will knock at its gates. The Oregon Country, with which these chapters are chiefly concerned, has been the goal of expeditioning for a century and a quarter. First came Captain Robert Gray in 1792, by sea. Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, twelve years later, tracked 'cross country from the Missouri to the mouth of the Columbia. In 1810, the Astor expedition, under Wilson and Hunt, succeeded, after hardships that materially reduced the party, in making its way from St. Louis to the Columbia and down the river to the mouth, where was founded the town of Astoria. Finally, after a half-century of horse-and-wagon pioneering, the first railroads spanned the continent in 1869. But the Union Pacific and Central Pacific were more the concern of California than of Oregon, for the Northwest had no iron trail to link it with the parent East until in 1883 the Northern Pacific Railway, under the leadership of Henry Villard, reached Portland. So Oregon was discovered by sea and land, and finally, as highways of steel replaced the dusty trails of the emigrants, she has come into her own. From within and without she has builded, and what she has done for her sons, and offers to her settlers, has established a place for her in the respectful attention of the world. Now, in the year nineteen hundred and fifteen, a new era is dawning for Oregon and for all our Western Coast, through fresh enterprise, this time again by sea. The waters of the Atlantic and Pacific have been joined at Panama, our continental coast line, to all intents and purposes, being made continuous, and the two Portlands, of Oregon and Maine, become maritime neighbors. Our East and our West have clasped hands again at the Isthmus, and comparative strangers as they are, there is need for an introduction when they meet. Not strangers, perhaps; better brothers long separated, each unfamiliar with the attainments and the developed character of the other. The younger brother, the Westerner, has from the very nature of things changed most. His growth, in body, mind, and experience, is at times difficult for the Easterner to fathom. A generation ago, he was such an immature fellow, so lacking in poise, in accomplishments, and even in certain of those characteristics which comprise what the East chooses to consider civilization; and his country, compared with what it is to-day, was so crudely developed. The Easterner this year is the one who is coming to his brother of the West, because of the Canal, the Expositions celebrating its completion, and an immediate inclination to "see America first" impressed upon our public for the most part by the present war-madness of Europe. It would be rank presumption for any one person to pretend to speak a word of explanation to that visitor on behalf of the Coast. As a fact, no explanation is required; the States of the Pacific are their own explanation, and their people must be known by their works. Secondly, the Coast is such a vast territory that what might be a reasonably intelligent introduction to one portion of it would be utterly inapplicable elsewhere. So this little book does not undertake to present a comprehensive account of our westernmost States, or even of the Oregon Country. It is intended simply to suggest a few of the many attractions which may be encountered here and there along the Pacific, the references to which are woven together with threads of personal reminiscence pertaining to characteristic phases of the western life of to-day. For the stranger it may possess some measure of information; it should at least induce him to tarry in the region sufficiently long to secure an impression of the byways as well as of the highways. For the man to whom Oregon, California, or Washington stands for home, these pages may contain an echo of interest--for we are apt to enjoy most sympathetic accounts of the things we love best. But for visitor or resident, or one who reads of a country he may not see, the chief mission of these chapters is to chronicle something of their author's enthusiasm for the land they concern, to hint of the pleasurable possibilities of its out-of-doors, and, mayhap, to offer a glimpse of the new West of to-day in the preparation for its greater to-morrow. G. P. P. BEND, OREGON, December 25, 1914. ACKNOWLEDGMENT Some of the material in this book has been printed in substantially the same form in _Recreation_ whose Editor has kindly sanctioned its further utilization here. For the use of many photographs I am indebted to the courtesy of officials of the Oregon-Washington, and Spokane, Portland and Seattle railways. G. P. P. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I.--"OUT WEST" 1 II.--THE VALLEY OF CONTENT 9 III.--THE LAND OF LEGENDS 19 IV.--THE LAND OF MANY LEAGUES 37 V.--HOW THE RAILROADS CAME 54 VI.--THE HOME MAKERS 64 VII.--ON OREGON TRAILS 76 VIII.--UNCLE SAM'S FORESTS 90 IX.--A CANOE ON THE DESCHUTES 105 X.--OLYMPUS 116 XI.--"THE GOD MOUNTAIN OF PUGET SOUND" 130 XII.--A SUMMER IN THE SIERRAS 153 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE THE COLUMBIA RIVER VALLEY AND MOUNT ADAMS _Frontispiece_ Copyright, Gifford, Portland, Ore. "THE MAN FROM BOISÉ DESCRIBES GOD'S COUNTRY IN TERMS OF SAGEBRUSH AND BROWN PLAINS" 2 "THE PALOUSE DWELLER PICTURES WHEAT FIELDS." THE GRAIN COUNTRY OF EASTERN WASHINGTON 2 From a photograph by Frank Palmer, Spokane, Wash. A WESTERN MOUNTAINEERING CLUB ON THE HIKE 6 From a photograph by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. ALONG THE WILLAMETTE 12 MOUNT SHASTA 12 From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore. MOUNT HOOD FROM LOST LAKE 20 Copyrighted photo by W. A. Raymond, Moro, Ore. NATIVES SPEARING SALMON ON THE COLUMBIA 22 Copyright 1901 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore. COASTING ON MOUNT HOOD 22 From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore. THE PACIFIC 24 Copyright 1910 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. ALONG THE COLUMBIA. "GROTESQUE ROCKS RISE SHEER FROM THE RIVER'S EDGE" 24 Copyright 1910 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. CELILO FALLS ON THE COLUMBIA 28 Copyright 1902 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore. THE NORTH ABUTMENT OF THE BRIDGE OF THE GODS 28 Copyright 1902 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore. WHERE THE OREGON TRUNK RAILWAY CROSSES THE COLUMBIA. "THE RIVER ROLLS BETWEEN BANKS OF BARRENNESS" 30 Copyright 1912 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. COLUMBIA RIVER. THE LAND OF INDIAN LEGENDS 30 Copyright 1909 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore. THE DALLES OF THE COLUMBIA 32 From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore. ALONG THE COLUMBIA RIVER. "A REGION OF SURPASSING SCENERY" 34 Copyright 1912 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. CENTRAL OREGON TRAVEL IN THE OLD DAYS 38 A CENTRAL OREGON FREIGHTER. "YOU WILL FIND THEM EVERYWHERE IN THE RAILLESS LAND, THE FREIGHTERS AND THEIR TEAMS" 38 IN THE DRY-FARM LANDS OF CENTRAL OREGON. "SERRIED BY VALLEYS, WHERE THE GOLD OF SUN AND GRAIN, AND VAGRANT CLOUD SHADOWS, MADE GORGEOUS PICTURINGS" 42 CROOKED RIVER CANYON, NOW SPANNED BY A RAILROAD BRIDGE 56 IN THE DESCHUTES CANYON. "THE RIVER WINDS SINUOUSLY, SEEKING FIRST ONE, AND THEN ANOTHER, POINT OF THE COMPASS" 56 Copyright 1911 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. ALONG THE CANYON OF THE DESCHUTES 62 Copyright 1911 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. IRRIGATION--"FIRST, PARCHED LANDS OF SAGE; THEN THE FLOW" 68 Series Copyright 1909 by Asahel Curtis IRRIGATION--"NEXT, WATER IN A MASTER DITCH AND COUNTLESS MAN-MADE RIVULETS BETWEEN THE FURROWS" 68 "IT WAS A VERY TYPICAL STAGECOACH" 70 IN THE HOMESTEAD COUNTRY 70 A VALLEY OF WASHINGTON. "THE BIG WESTLAND SMILES AND RECEIVES THEM ALL" 74 From a photograph by Frank Palmer, Spokane, Wash. A TRAILSIDE DIP IN A MOUNTAIN LAKE 78 "SLIDING DOWN SNOW-FIELDS IS FUN, THOUGH CHILLY" 78 ON THE TRAIL IN THE HIGHLANDS OF THE CASCADES 80 "A SKY BLUE LAKE SET LIKE A SAPPHIRE IN AN EMERALD MOUNT" 80 THE TRAILS ARE NOT ALL DRY-SHOD 84 "OUR TRAIL WOUND BENEATH A FAIRY FOREST" 84 AN OREGON TRAIL 86 From a Photograph by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. "PACKING UP" AT A DESERTED RANGER STATION 96 USING THE FOREST FIRE TELEPHONE AT A RANGER STATION 96 AN OREGON TROUT STREAM 100 From a Photograph by Raymond, Moro, Ore. CANOEING AND DUCK SHOOTING MAY BE COMBINED ON THE DESCHUTES 108 ON A BACKWATER OF THE DESCHUTES 108 ALONG THE DESCHUTES, THE "RIVER OF FALLS." "IT ROARS AND RUSHES, IN WHITE-WATERED CASCADES" 112 Copyright 1911 By Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. "CANOEING IS THE MOST SATISFACTORY METHOD OF TRAVEL EXTANT" 118 THE PACK TRAIN ABOVE TIMBER LINE 118 From a photo by Belmore Browne "THE HUMES GLACIER, OVER WHICH WE WENT TO MOUNT OLYMPUS" 128 "OUR NATURE-MADE CAMP IN ELWHA BASIN" 128 THE "GOD MOUNTAIN" OF PUGET SOUND 132 Copyright 1910 by L. G. Linkletter "THE LIVE OAKS OF BERKELEY'S CAMPUS" 156 From a photograph by Wells Drury, Berkeley, Cal. LOOKING ACROSS THE CLOUDS TO MOUNT ADAMS FROM THE FLANKS OF RAINIER 156 Copyright 1909 by L. G. Linkletter "WE GLORIED IN THE SHEER MIGHTINESS OF EL CAPITAN" 158 "A VAST FLOWER GARDEN MAINTAINED ENTICINGLY BY DAME NATURE" 160 Copyright 1912 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore. LIGHT AND SHADOW IN YOSEMITE 160 SUNRISE AT HETCH-HETCHY 164 THE GOVERNMENT ROAD THAT LEADS TO MOUNT RAINIER 164 In the Oregon Country CHAPTER I "Out West" "What is the most pronounced difference between East and West?" A Bostonian once asked me that. I was East after a year or two of westerning, and he seemed to think it would be easy enough to answer off-hand. But for the life of me I could find no fit reply. For a time that is--and then it struck me. "Everyone is proud of everything out West," said I. "Local patriotism is a religion--if you know what I mean." You who have lived on the Pacific Slope will understand. You who have visited the Pacific Slope will half-understand. Did you ever hear of a New Jersey man fighting because his town was maligned? You never did! Have you yet encountered a York State small-town dweller who would devote hours to proving that his community was destined to outdistance all its neighbors because God had been especially good to it--and ready to back his boast to the limit? No indeed! Yet most of us have seen Westerners actually come to blows protecting the fair name of their chosen town, and I know scores of them who can, and will, on the slightest provocation, demonstrate that their particular Prosperity Center is the coming city of destiny. In short every Westerner is inordinately proud of his town and his country. On trains you hear it, in hotel lobbies, on street corners. The stranger seated at your side in the smoking compartment regales you with descriptions of his particular "God's Country." If ever there was an overworked phrase west of the Missouri, it is that, and the inventor of a fitting synonym should reap royal rewards, in travelers' gratitude if nothing else. The man from Boisé describes "God's Country" in terms of sagebrush and brown plains; the Palouse dweller pictures wheat fields, mentioning not wind storms and feverish summer mercury; the Californian sees his poppy-golden hills; the eyes of the Puget Sound dweller are bright with memories of majestic timber and broad waterways, unclouded by any mention of gray rain; the man from Bend talks of rushing rivers and copper-hued pines, his enthusiasm for the homeland unalloyed by reference to summer dusts; the orchard owner of Hood River or Wen-atchee has his heaven lined with ruddy apples, and discourses amazing figures concerning ever-increasing world market for the product of his acres; he who hails from the Coast cities, whose all-pervading passion is optimism, weaves convincing prophecies of the golden future. And so it goes. Each for his own, each an enthusiast, a loyal patriot, a rabid disciple. Eastern travel acquaintances produce the latest photograph of their youngest offspring, but the Westerner brings forth views and plats of his home town; no children of his own flesh are more beloved. Yes, truly, it is a bore. The thing is overdone. There is too much of it. And yet--well, it is the very spirit of the West, a natural expression of the pride of creation, for these men of to-day are creating homes and towns, and doing it under fiercely competitive conditions. They have builded upon their judgment and staked their all upon the throw of fortune. They are pleased with their accomplishments and vastly determined to bend the future to their ends. It is arrogance, no doubt, but healthy and happy, and the very essence of youthful accomplishment. And its very insistency and sincerity spell success, and are invigorating to boot. [Illustration: "The Palouse dweller pictures wheat fields." The grain country of eastern Washington From a photograph by Frank Palmer, Spokane, Wash.] [Illustration: "The man from Boisé describes God's country in terms of sagebrush and brown plains"] The old differences between East and West are no more, of course. Except for a trifle more informality under the setting sun, clothes and their wearing are the same. The Queen's English is butchered no more distressingly in California than in Connecticut. Proportionately to resources, educational opportunities are identical. Music and the arts are no longer strangers where blow Pacific breezes, nor have they been for decades. The West is wild and woolly no more, railroads have replaced stagecoaches, fences bisect the ranges, free land is almost a thing of the past. Yet, withal, existence for the peoples of the two borders of our continent is not cast in an identical mold. "Back East" residents are apt to regard the West as a land of curiosities, human and natural. "Out West" dwellers are inclined to be supercilious when they mention the ways of the Atlantic seaboard. All statements to the contrary notwithstanding, East is East, and West is West, no matter how fluently they mingle. The difference between them is not to be defined by conversational metes and bounds. It is not merely of miles, of scenery, or of manners, or even of enthusiasm. It is, in fact, quite intangible, and yet it exists, as anyone who has dwelt upon both sides of our continent realizes. Aside from the trivialities--which are wrapt up in such words as "culture," "custom," "precedent," and the like--the fundamental, explanatory reason for the intangible differences is one of years. Most of the West is buoyantly youthful, some of it blatantly boyish. Much of the East is in the prime of middle age, some of it senile. Naturally the East is inclined to conservative pessimism--an attribute of advancing years--and the West to impulsive optimism. Do not foster the notion that the term "extreme" West really applies, for it doesn't. The West, as I have seen it, is too nervous, socially speaking, to dare extremes. It is too inexperienced to essay experiments, too desirous of doing the correct thing. While it wouldn't for the world admit the fact, socially it is quite content to keep its intelligent eyes on the examples set back East, and even then its replica of what it sees is apt to be a modified one. If this bashfulness holds good socially, it emphatically does not commercially. For in things economic there is far more dash and daring, and bigness of conception and rapidity of realization in Western business affairs than in those of the East. Opportunity is knocking on every hand, and those who think and act most quickly become her lucky hosts. The countries of the West are upbuilding with a rapidity for the most part inconceivable to Europe-traveled Easterners, and affairs move at a lively pace, so that the laggards are left behind and only the able-bodied can keep abreast of the progress. And with all the dangers of the happy-go-lucky methods, the pitfalls of the inherent gambling that lies beneath the surface of much of it, Western business life undoubtedly offers the favored field for the young man of to-day who has, in addition to the normal commercial attributes, the ability to keep his head. [Illustration: A Western mountaineering club on the hike From a photograph by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] Greeley's advice was never sounder than to-day; revised, it should read: "Come West, young man, and help the country grow." The start has just been made. Perhaps the days of strident booms are over (let us trust so), and it may be that the bonanza opportunities are for the most part buried in the past, together with the first advent of the railroads, the discoveries of gold, and the exploitation of agriculture, which gave them birth. But the West is getting her second wind. The greater development is yet to come; the Panama Canal, with quickened immigration, manufacturing, and a more thorough-going cultivation of resources than ever in the past, spell that. What has gone before is trivial and inconsequential in comparison with what is to come. Pioneering is along different lines than in the old days, but it still is pioneering, and the call of it is as insistent for ears properly tuned. I hear the tread of pioneers Of cities yet to be, The first low wash of waves where soon Will roll a human sea. The waves have wet the shores, but their true advance has scarce begun. CHAPTER II The Valley of Content Oregon--the old Oregon Territory of yesterday and the State of to-day--is our very own. It was neither bought, borrowed, nor stolen from another nation. It is of the United States because our fathers came here first, carved out homes from the wilderness, and unfurled their flag overhead; through the most fundamental of rights--that of discovery, coupled with possession and development. The New England States we inherited from Britain, although the will was sorely contested. For Louisiana we paid a price. Texas and California we annexed from Mexico, and purchased New Mexico and Arizona. Alaska was bought from Russia for a song. Alone of all the United States the old Oregon Territory became ours by normal acquisition. Thence, perhaps, is the compelling attraction for the native-born of Oregon to-day. Mayhap a touch of historic romance clings about the country; or it may be simply the feeling of bigness, the broad expansiveness of the views, the mightiness of mountains, the splendor of the trees, and the air's crisp vitality that make Oregon life so worth while. Whatever the explanation, it is assuredly a pleasant place in which to live, this land of Oregon, and the transplanted Easterner cannot but be conscious of its attractions, just as he is of the myriad delights of the entire Coast country. A land of delight it is, from Puget Sound to the riviera of California, from the snow mountains to the sagebrush plains, where rose the dust of immigrants' "prairie schooners" not so many years ago. The guardian of Oregon's southern gateway is Shasta, and close beside its gleaming flanks rolls the modern trail of steel whereon the wayfarer from San Francisco passes over the Siskiyous into the valleys of the Rogue and the Umpqua. Shasta displays its attractions surpassingly well. An appreciative nature placed this great white gem in a wondrously appropriate setting of broken foothills and timbered reaches that billow upward to the snow line from the south and west, with never a petty rival to break the calm dominance of the master peak, and nothing to mar the symmetry of the cool green woodlands. For Shasta stands alone, and from its isolation is doubly impressive. One sees it all at once, as the train clambers up the grades towards Oregon, not a mere peak among many of a range, but an individual cone, neighborless and inspiring. Shasta has a volcanic history, and but a few hundred years ago bestirred itself titanically, casting forth balls of molten lava which to-day are encountered for scores of miles roundabout, weird testimonials to the latent strength now seemingly so reposeful beneath the calm crust of the earth. Up and still up, into the timbered mountains, you are borne, until the very heart of the tousled Siskiyous is about you. Then all at once the divide lies behind and with one locomotive instead of several the train swings downward and northward into Oregon, winding interminably, and twisting and looping along hillsides and about the heads of little streams, which grow into goodly rivers as you follow them. Slowly the serried mountains iron out into gentler slopes dimpled with meadows, and here and there are homes and cultivated fields, and steepish roads of many ruts. Then the rushing Rogue River is companion for a space, and orchards and towns dot the wayside. More rough country follows, the Rogue and the Umpqua are left behind in turn, and the rails bear you to the regions of the Willamette. A broad valley, rich, prosperous, and beautiful to look upon, is the Willamette, and a valley of many moods. Neither in scenic charms nor agricultural resourcefulness is its heritage restricted to a single field. There are timberland and trout stream, hill and dale, valley and mountain; rural beauty of calm Suffolk is neighbor to the ragged picturesqueness of Scotland; there are skylines comparable with Norway's, and lowlands peaceful as Sweden's pastoral vistas; the giant timber, or their relic stumps, at some pasture edge, spell wilderness, while a happy, alder-lined brook flowing through a bowlder-dotted field is reminiscent of the uplands of Connecticut. Altogether, it is a rarely variegated viewland, is this vale of the Willamette. [Illustration: Along the Willamette] [Illustration: Mount Shasta From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore.] You have seen valleys which were vast wheat fields, or where orchards were everywhere; in California and abroad you have viewed valleys dedicated to vineyards, and from mountain vantage points you have feasted your eyes upon the greenery of timberland expanses; all the world over you can spy out valleys dotted with an unvaried checkerboard of gardens, or green with pasture lands. But where have you seen a valley where all of this is mingled, where nature refuses to be a specialist and man appears a Jack of all outdoor trades? If by chance you have journeyed from Medford to Portland, with some excursioning from the beaten paths through Oregon's valley of content, you have viewed such a one. For nature has staged a lavish repertoire along the Willamette. There are fields of grain and fields of potatoes; hop yards and vineyards stand side by side; emerald pastures border brown cornfields; forests of primeval timber shadow market garden patches; natty orchards of apples, peaches, and plums are neighbors to waving expanses of beet tops. In short, as you whirl through the valley, conjure up some antithesis of vegetation and you must wait but a scanty mile or two before viewing it from the observation car. As first I journeyed through this pleasant land of the Willamette, a little book, written just half a century ago, fell into my hands, and these words concerning the valley, read then, offered a description whose peer I have not yet encountered: The sweet Arcadian valley of the Willamette, charming with meadow, park, and grove! In no older world where men have, in all their happiest moods, recreated themselves for generations in taming earth to orderly beauty, have they achieved a fairer garden than Nature's simple labor of love has made there, giving to rough pioneers the blessings and the possible education of refined and finished landscape, in the presence of landscape strong, savage, and majestic. Then Portland. Portland, the city of roses and the metropolitan heart of Oregon, stands close to where the Willamette, the river of our valley of content, meanders into the greater Columbia. Were this a guidebook I might inundate you with figures of population, bank clearings, and land values, all of them risen and still rising in bounds almost beyond belief. I might narrate incidents of the city's building--how stumps stood a half dozen years ago where such and such a million dollar hostelry now rises, or how so-and-so exchanged a sack of flour for lots whose value to-day is reckoned in six figures. But these are matters of business, and business was divorced years ago from the simple pleasures of the out-of-doors. Portland is a city of prosperity. That fact strikes home to the most casual observer. Blessed above all else--especially in the eyes of an Easterner--is its freedom from poverty. There are no slums, no "lower east side" like New York's rabbit warrens, no Whitechapel hell holes. It is a clean, youthful city, delightfully located on either side of its river and rising on surrounding hills of rare beauty. Its metropolitan maturity, indeed, is all the more remarkable for its youth, as seventy years ago the site of the town was a howling wilderness, set in the midst of a territory peopled at best by a few score whites. It was in 1845 that the first settler, Overton by name, made his home where now is Portland. Close after him came Captain John H. Couch, who located a donation land claim where is now the northern portion of the city. And from that beginning gradually grew the city of to-day which in the California gold rush of the early fifties received her first notable impetus through her position as a commanding supply point for the fast-crowding and lavishly opulent sister State to the south. Born at the hands of pioneers and weaned with the gold of California, the city was sturdily founded, and to-day the strength of the pioneer blood and the glow of the golden beginnings are still upon her. The fairest of fair Portland is seen from her show hilltop, Council Crest. The days are not all sunny, but when they are and neither "Oregon mist"--which is a local humor for downright rain--nor clouds obscure the outlook, the easterly skyline from Council Crest is a superbly pleasing introduction to the State. Over the mists of the lowlands you see Mount Hood, and to have seen Mount Hood, even from afar, is to have tasted the rarest visual delight of all the Northwest land. Shasta, to the south, was an imposing welcomer to the empire of surpassing views, but Hood outdoes Shasta and its snow-crowned neighbors of the old Oregon country as completely as the pinnacles of Switzerland overshadow their lesser companions of the Italian Alps. Hood, somehow, breathes the very spirit of the State it stands for; its charm is the essence of the beauty of its surroundings, its stateliness the keynote of the strength of the sturdy West. It is a white, chaste monument of hope, radiantly setting for its peoples roundabout a mark of high attainment. A city of destiny its friends call Portland, and a mountain of destiny surely is Hood--its destiny to diffuse something of the spirit of healthful happiness and fuller ideals for those, at least, who will take time from the busy rush of their multiplying prosperity. And here again, on Council Crest, I venture to turn back to 1860; venture at least again to quote from the literary heritage of Theodore Winthrop, who saw Oregon's mountains then and wrote of them and their influences these lines: Our race has never yet come into contact with great mountains as companions of daily life, nor felt that daily development of the finer and more comprehensive senses which these signal facts of nature compel. That is an influence of the future. The Oregon people, in a climate where being is bliss,--where every breath is a draught of vivid life,--these Oregon people, carrying to a new and grander New England of the West a fuller growth of the American Idea, under whose teaching the man of lowest ambitions must still have some little indestructible respect for himself, and the brute of most tyrannical aspirations some little respect for others; carrying there a religion two centuries farther on than the crude and cruel Hebraism of the Puritans; carrying the civilization of history where it will not suffer by the example of Europe,--with such material, that Western society, when it crystallizes, will elaborate new systems of thought and life. It is unphilosophical to suppose that a strong race, developing under the best, largest, and calmest conditions of nature, will not achieve a destiny. Be that as it may, no man, seeing Hood from Portland for the first time, could but experience a longing to answer the call of the beckoning mountain, and to find for himself the secrets of the land that lies beyond it. And so Hood was the piper which called us to the hinterland of Oregon, where, quite by chance, we stayed, until now we find we are Oregonians, by adoption and by choice. CHAPTER III The Land of Legends The nomenclature of the Northwest suffered at the hands of its English-speaking discoverers, for much that was fair to the ear in the Indian names has been replaced with dreary commonplaces, possessing neither beauty nor special fitness. Two Yankee sea captains tossed a coin to decide whether they would name the city Portland or Boston. The Boston skipper lost, and "Multnomah," which was the old Indian name for the place and means "Down the Waters," became prosaic Portland. Because some Methodist missionaries preferred a name with a Biblical twang to the Indian "Chemeketa," meaning the "Place of Peace," Oregon's capital of to-day became Salem and the title which the red men gave their council ground was abandoned. The Great River was first known as the Oregon, just why no authority seems to tell us reliably but later became the Columbia when the ship of that name sailed across its bar. Jonathan Carver's choice in names, however, if no longer bestowed upon the river, soon became that of all its lower regions, and they acquired the lasting title of the Oregon Country. The old Oregon, the Columbia of to-day, was the gateway to the Pacific for the explorers and the immigrants of yesterday. For Lewis and Clark it opened a friendly passageway through the mountain ranges, and likewise for the human stream of immigration which later followed its banks from the East. So is it too a modern portal of prosperity for Portland, as this greatest river of the West concentrates the tonnage of much of three vast states by water grades at Portland's door, and two transcontinental railroads follow its banks, draining the wealth of the Inland Empire while enriching it, just as the river itself physically drains and adds wealth to the territory it traverses. [Illustration: Mount Hood from Lost Lake Copyrighted photo by W. A. Raymond, Moro, Ore.] To us the Columbia was a gateway to the hinterland, for our pilgrimage upon it was easterly, up into the land of sunshine beyond Mount Hood and the Cascade mountain range, starting, on an impulse, after viewing the snow-covered barriers from the heights of Portland. And as we journeyed easterly up the great river, whose water came from lakes of the Canadian Rockies distant fourteen hundred miles, we found ourselves at once in a region of surpassing scenery and a land of quaint Indian legends. A great wall of mountains shuts off the coastal regions from eastern Oregon and Washington. The two divisions are as dissimilar in climate and vegetation as night and day. To the west is rain and lush growth; to the east, drought and semi-arid desert. West of the Cascades are fir forests cluttered with underbrush and soggy with springs, while east are dry pine lands, park-like in their open beauty. The high plains of the hinterland are yellow grain fields chiefly, and irrigation is the right hand of agriculture; in the Willamette Valley, nature brings forth all things in a revel of productivity. The Columbia cleaves this great wall asunder, breaking through the mountains in a gorge some three thousand feet deep. Here was the mythical bridge of the gods, which, legend narrates, once spanned the river from one mountainous bank to the other until ultimately it fell and dammed the stream. You come upon the site of the legendary bridge where Government locks now circumnavigate the cascades, a fall in the river of wondrous beauty, hemmed in on north and south by timbered mountains. Sunken forests hereabout indicate that at one time the river's course was checked by some great dam or volcanic convulsion, and every evidence in the geological surroundings points to stupendous natural cataclysms which distorted the face of nature leaving the sublime formations of the present. As the train or boat bound up the Columbia progresses through this weird portal, fortunate you are if told the myths of this region which so truly is a land of legends, as we were; of the mythical struggle between Mount Hood on the south and Mount Adams on the north, in whose progress Hood hurled a vast bowlder at his adversary which fell short of its intended mark, destroying the bridge; of the quaint fire legend of the Klickitats which later I chanced upon in print in Dr. Lyman's entertaining book _The Columbia River_. [Illustration: Natives spearing salmon on the Columbia Copyright 1901 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore.] [Illustration: Coasting on Mount Hood From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore.] A father and two sons came from the East to the land along the Columbia, and the boys quarreled over the division of their chosen acres. So, to end the dispute, the father shot an arrow to the west and one to the north, bidding his sons make their homes where the arrows fell. From one son sprang the tribe of Klickitats, while the other founded the nation of Multnomah. Then Sahale, the Great Spirit, erected the Cascade Range as a barrier wall between them to prevent possibility of friction. The remainder of Dr. Lyman's pretty myth is best told in his own words: But for convenience' sake, Sahale had created the great tamanous bridge under which the waters of the Columbia flowed, and on this bridge he had stationed a witch woman called Loowit, who was to take charge of the fire. This was the only fire of the world. As time passed on Loowit observed the deplorable condition of the Indians, destitute of fire and the conveniences which it might bring. She therefore besought Sahale to allow her to bestow fire upon the Indians. Sahale, greatly pleased by the faithfulness and benevolence of Loowit, finally granted her request. The lot of the Indians was wonderfully improved by the acquisition of fire. They began to make better lodges and clothes and had a variety of food and implements, and, in short, were marvellously benefitted by the bounteous gift. But Sahale, in order to show his appreciation of the care with which Loowit had guarded the sacred fire, now determined to offer her any gift she might desire as a reward. Accordingly, in response to his offer, Loowit asked that she be transformed into a young and beautiful girl. This was accordingly effected, and now, as might have been expected, all the Indian chiefs fell deeply in love with the guardian of tamanous bridge. Loowit paid little heed to any of them, until finally there came two chiefs, one from the north called Klickitat and one from the south called Wiyeast. Loowit was uncertain which of these two she most desired, and as a result a bitter strife arose between the two. This waxed hotter and hotter, until, with their respective warriors, they entered upon a desperate war. The land was ravaged, until all their new comforts were marred, and misery and wretchedness ensued. Sahale repented that he had allowed Loowit to bestow fire upon the Indians, and determined to undo all his work in so far as he could. Accordingly he broke down the tamanous bridge, which dammed up the river with an impassable reef, and put to death Loowit, Klickitat, and Wiyeast. But, inasmuch as they had been noble and beautiful in life, he determined to give them a fitting commemoration after death. Therefore he reared over them as monuments the great snow peaks; over Loowit, what we now call Mt. St. Helen's; over Wiyeast, the modern Mt. Hood; and, above Klickitat, the great dome which now we call Mt. Adams. [Illustration: The Pacific Copyright 1910 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] [Illustration: Along the Columbia--"Grotesque rocks rise sheer from the river's edge" Copyright 1910 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland. Ore.] Up through timbered hillsides, from green fields, from the verdure of the western flanks of the Cascades, winds the great river. The banks become steeper, the mountains behind them more rugged. Fairy threads of silver, falling water, flutter down from cliffs. Grotesque rocks, mighty monuments erected by a titan fire god when the world was young, rise sheer from the river's edge. Cumbersome fish wheels revolve sedately where the silver-sided salmon run in the springtime. The railroads cling close to the stream, perforce tunneling where nature has provided no passageway, and the boat ploughs against the current which here and there is swift and swirling as the cascades are approached. Then through the locks you go, or by them if you travel by the steel highways, and quickly the scenes change, these new ones painted in a vastly different vein from those that have gone before. The lofty, steep-walled hills become more gentle, and their cloak of green timber merges into brown grass. The river rolls between banks of barrenness as we emerge on the western rim of the land of little rain, for the moisture-laden clouds from the Pacific are thwarted in their eastern progress by the mountain barrier, along whose summits they cluster weeping, in their baffled anger, upon the wet westerly slopes, while the dry sunny eastland mocks their dour grayness. Close beside the river is the harshest of all this rainless land; sand blows, the cliffs are bare and black, the hillsides bleak and brown. But ever so little away from the barren valley bottom are rich regions of orchards and green fields, and easterly, in the countries of Walla Walla, Palouse, and John Day, far-reaching fields of grain abound. Farming is upon a bonanza basis, and the bigness of it all is reminiscent of the Dakotas, were it not for the majestic mountain skylines, blessed visual reliefs lacking altogether in the continental mid-regions. The volume then, is bound misleadingly, and those who see naught but its unprepossessing exterior gain no inkling of its charming hidden chapters. Then come The Dalles of the Columbia, close to the town of the same name, where the river, a sane waterway for a half a thousand miles above, suddenly goes mad for a brief space of lawless waterfall and rock-rimmed cascades. At Walla Walla--whose very name means "where the waters meet"--the two chief forks of the old Oregon River converge, the Columbia proper and the Snake, the one draining a northern empire, the other swinging southerly through Idaho, "the gem of the mountains" as the Indians baptized it. Thence the great stream flows westerly some one hundred and twenty miles until it reaches the outlying ridge of the Cascade chain, there encountering a huge low surface paved with glacier-polished sheets of basaltic rock. These plates, says Winthrop Parker, who saw them as a trail follower in the early 'sixties, gave the place the name _Dalles_, thanks to the Canadian voyageurs in the Hudson Bay service. A brief distance above this flinty pavement the river is a mile wide, but where it forces tumultuous passageway through the rocks it narrows to a mere rift compressed, if not subdued, by the adamantine barriers it cannot force asunder. Where the sides grow closest through three rough slits in the rocky floor the white waters bore, each chasm so narrow that a child could cast a stone across. On either hand are monotonous plains, gray with sagebrush and brown with sunburned grass. Rough hills rise northerly, in Washington. Eastward roll lower broadening lands, but turbulent with lesser hills. West is the great ridge of the Cascade Range, with Hood rising majestic guardian over all, and the broad Columbia vanishing into the very heart of the shadowed mountains, unchecked on its seaward quest. The summer sunlight is blinding bright and the sky ethereal blue. An Indian hovel, or a ragged home of a fish-spearer beside the rushing waters, furnishes contrast--that of puny humanity in the face of nature at her mightiest. The view is at once compellingly beautiful and weirdly repelling. Few would live along the great river or thereabout from choice; and yet the view of it--the startling, colorful panorama--is golden treasure beyond the dreams of avarice. It is this setting which marked the old-time entrance into Central Oregon. Those words "old-time," are characteristic of the swift-moving country; for using them, I refer to but six years ago, when Oregon's hinterland was a wilderness so far as railroads were concerned. These dalles of the Columbia, a milepost on the old transcontinental trail, are a place seen and passed to-day by those who rush on rails in brief hours where the pioneers of fifty years ago labored weeks. Also were these dalles prominent in Indian life in the quiet midyears of the last century, when beavers were more plentiful than palefaces. Indeed, back to the very beginnings of Northwestern Indian lore their story goes, coming to us, like so much else of the misty past of the Oregon Country, in a quaint legend. [Illustration: Celilo Falls on the Columbia Copyright 1902 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore.] [Illustration: The north abutment of the Bridge of the Gods Copyright 1902 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore.] In the late 'fifties Theodore Winthrop made his way 'cross country from Port Townsend, on Puget Sound, to The Dalles on the Columbia. His book, _The Canoe and the Saddle_, describes that pioneer excursion through Indian land, traversing what was in reality an untrodden wilderness. Its charm of literary expression is in no whit less fascinating than the wealth of its adventurous material, but the two, like the writer, are far behind us, and all of the pleasant account I would refer to here is the last chapter, which concerns the arrival at The Dalles, then an outpost of civilization. Looking down upon the valley of The Dalles, Winthrop writes a half century ago: Racked and battered crags stood disorderly over all that rough waste. There were no trees, nor any masses of vegetation to soften the severities of the landscape. All was harsh and desolate, even with the rich sun of an August afternoon doing what it might to empurple the scathed fronts of rock, to gild the ruinous piles with summer glories, and throw long shadows veiling dreariness. I looked upon the scene with the eyes of a sick and weary man, unable to give that steady thought to mastering its scope and detail without which any attempt at artistic description becomes vague generalization. My heart sank within me as the landscape compelled me to be gloomy like itself. It was not the first time I had perused the region under desolating auspices. In a log barrack I could just discern far beyond the river, I had that very summer suffered from a villain malady, the smallpox. And now, as then, Nature harmonized discordantly with my feelings, and even forced her nobler aspects to grow sternly ominous. Mount Hood, full before me across the valley, became a cruel reminder of the unattainable. It was brilliantly near, and yet coldly far away, like some mocking bliss never to be mine, though it might insult me forever by its scornful presence. [Illustration: Columbia River. The land of Indian legends Copyright 1909 by Benj. A. Gifford, The Dalles, Ore.] [Illustration: Where the Oregon Trunk Railway crosses the Columbia. "The river rolls between banks of barrenness" Copyright 1912 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] Evidently it was while held captive by the "villain malady" that Winthrop learned from the Indians the legend of The Dalles, which he told so well that to paraphrase it would be folly. Here I give it, as extracted from the thumb-marked little book whose publication date is 1863: The world has been long cycles in educating itself to be a fit abode for men. Man, for his part, has been long ages in growing upward through lower grades of being, to become whatever he now may be. The globe was once nebulous, was chaotic, was anarchic, and is at last become somewhat cosmical. Formerly rude and convulsionary forces were actively at work, to compel chaos into anarchy and anarchy into order. The mighty ministries of the elements warred with each other, each subduing and each subdued. There were earthquakes, deluges, primeval storms, and furious volcanic outbursts. In this passionate, uncontrolled period of the world's history, man was a fiend, a highly uncivilized, cruel, passionate fiend. The northwest was then one of the centres of volcanic action. The craters of the Cascades were fire-breathers, fountains of liquid flame, catapults of red-hot stones. Day was lurid, night was ghastly with this terrible light. Men exposed to such dread influences could not be other than fiends, as they were, and they warred together cruelly, as the elements were doing. Where the great plains of the Upper Columbia now spread, along the Umatilla, in the lovely valley of the Grande Ronde, between the walls of the Grand Coulee, was an enormous inland sea filling the vast interior of the continent, and beating forever against ramparts of hills, to the east of the desolate plain of the Dalles. Every winter there were convulsions along the Cascades, and gushes of lava came from each fiery Tacoma, to spread new desolation over desolation, pouring out a melted surface, which, as it cooled in summer, became a fresh layer of sheeny, fire-hardened dalles. Now as the fiends of that epoch and region had giant power to harm each other, they must have of course giant weapons of defence. Their mightiest weapon of offence and defence was their tail; in this they resembled the iguanodons and other "mud pythons" of that period, but no animal ever had such force of tail as these terrible monster fiendmen who warred together all over the Northwest. As ages went on, and the fires of the Cascades began to accomplish their duty of expanding the world, earthquakes and eruptions diminished in virulence. A winter came when there was none. By and by there was an interval of two years, then again of three years, without rumble or shock, without floods of fire or showers of red-hot stones. Earth seemed to be subsiding into an era of peace. But the fiends would not take the hint to be peaceable; they warred as furiously as ever. Stoutest in heart and tail of all the hostile tribes of that scathed region was a wise fiend, the Devil. He had observed the cessation in convulsions of Nature, and had begun to think out its lesson. It was the custom of the fiends, so soon as the Dalles plain became agreeably cool after an eruption, to meet there every summer and have a grand tournament after their fashion. Then they feasted riotously, and fought again until they were weary. [Illustration: The Dalles of the Columbia From a photograph by Weister Co., Portland, Ore.] Although the eruptions of the Tacomas had ceased now for three years, as each summer came round this festival was renewed. The Devil had absented himself from the last two, and when, on the third summer after his long retirement, he reappeared among his race on the field of tourney, he became an object of respectful attention. Every fiend knew that against his strength there was no defence; he could slay so long as the fit was on. Yet the idea of combined resistance to so dread a foe had never hatched itself in any fiendish head; and besides, the Devil, though he was feared, was not especially hated. He had never won the jealousy of his peers by rising above them in morality. So now as he approached, with brave tail vibrating proudly, all admired and many feared him. The Devil drew near, and took the initiative in war, by making a peace speech. "Princes, potentates, and powers of these infernal realms," said he, "the eruptions and earthquakes are ceasing. The elements are settling into peacefulness. Can we not learn of them? Let us give up war and cannibalism, and live in milder fiendishness and growing love." Then went up a howl from deviltry. "He would lull us into crafty peace, that he may kill and eat safely. Death! death to the traitor!" And all the legions of fiends, acting with a rare unanimity, made straight at their intended Reformer. The Devil pursued a Fabian policy, and took to his heels. If he could divide their forces, he could conquer in detail. Yet as he ran his heart was heavy. He was bitterly grieved at this great failure, his first experience in the difficulties of Reform. He flagged sadly as he sped over the Dalles, toward the defiles near the great inland sea, whose roaring waves he could hear beating against their bulwark. Could he but reach some craggy strait among the passes, he could take position and defy attack. But the foremost fiends were close upon him. Without stopping, he smote powerfully upon the rock with his tail. The pavement yielded to that titanic blow. A chasm opened and went riving up the valley, piercing through the bulwark hills. Down rushed the waters of the inland sea, churning boulders to dust along the narrow trough. The main body of the fiends shrunk back terror-stricken; but a battalion of the van sprang across and made one bound toward the heart-sick and fainting Devil. He smote again with his tail, and more strongly. Another vaster cleft went up and down the valley, with an earth quaking roar, and a vaster torrent swept along. Still the leading fiends were not appalled. They took the leap without craning. Many fell short, or were crowded into the roaring gulf, but enough were left, and those of the chiefest braves, to martyr their chase in one instant, if they overtook him. The Devil had just time enough to tap once more, and with all the vigor of a despairing tail. [Illustration: Along the Columbia River. "A region of surpassing scenery" Copyright 1912 by Kiser Co., Portland, Oregon.] He was safe. A third crevice, twice the width of the second, split the rocks. This way and that it went, wavering like lightning eastward and westward, riving a deeper cleft in the mountains that held back the inland sea, riving a vaster gorge through the majestic chain of the Cascades, and opening a way for the torrent to gush oceanward. It was the crack of doom for the fiends. A few essayed the leap. They fell far short of the stern edge, where the Devil had sunk panting. They alighted on the water, but whirlpools tripped them up, tossed them, bowled them along among floating boulders, until the buffeted wretches were borne to the broader calms below, where they sunk. Meanwhile, those who had not dared the final leap attempted a backward one, but wanting the impetus of pursuit, and shuddering at the fate of their comrades, every one of them failed and fell short; and they too were swept away, horribly sprawling in the flood. As to the fiends who had stopped at the first crevice, they ran in a body down the river to look for the mangled remains of their brethren, and, the undermined bank giving way under their weight, every fiend of them was carried away and drowned. So perished the whole race of fiends. As to the Devil, he had learnt a still deeper lesson. His tail also, the ensign of deviltry, was irremediably dislocated by his life-saving blow. In fact, it had ceased to be any longer a needful weapon! Its antagonists were all gone; never a tail remained to be brandished at it, in deadly encounter. So, after due repose, the Devil sprang lightly across the chasms he had so successfully engineered, and went home to rear his family thoughtfully. Every year he brought his children down to the Dalles, and told them the terrible history of his escape. The fires of the Cascades burned away; the inland sea was drained, and its bed became a fair prairie, and still the waters gushed along the narrow crevice he had opened. He had, in fact, been the instrument in changing a vast region from a barren sea into habitable land. One great trial, however, remained with him, and made his life one of grave responsibility. All his children born before the catastrophe were cannibal, stiff-tailed fiends. After that great event, every newborn imp of his was like himself in character and person, and wore but a flaccid tail, the last insignium of ignobility. Quarrels between these two factions embittered his days and impeded civilization. Still it did advance, and long before his death he saw the tails disappear forever. Such is the Legend of The Dalles,--a legend not without a moral. CHAPTER IV The Land of Many Leagues It was a very "typical" stagecoach. That is, it was typical of the style Broadway would have expected in the production of a _Girl of the Golden West_ or _The Great Divide_. Very comfortably you may still see them in moving picture land--a region where the old West lives far woolier and wilder than it ever dared to be in actual life. However, this stage was neither make-believe nor comfortable. It was very real and very comfortless. The time was six years ago and the place the one hundred miles of worse than indifferent road between Shaniko and Bend, in Central Oregon. "Do you chew?" asked the driver. I who sat next to him, plead innocence of the habit. "Have a drink?" said he later, producing a flask. And again I asked to be excused. "Don't smoke, neither, I suppose?" The driver regarded me with suspicion. "Hell," said he, "th' country's goin' to the dogs. These here civilizin' inflooences is playing hob with everythin'. Las' three trips my passengers haven't been fit company for man or beast--they neither drank nor chawed. Not that I mean to be insultin'"--I assured him he was not--"but times certainly have changed. The next thing along 'll come a railroad and then all this goes to the scrap heap." His gesture, with the last word, included the battered stage, the dejected horses, and the immediate surroundings of Shaniko Flats. For the life of me I could see no cause for regret even supposing his prophecy came true to the letter! Twenty hours later, when the springless seat, influenced by the attraction of gravitation in conjunction with the passage of many chuck holes, had permanently warped my spinal column, I would have been even more ready to endorse the threatened cataclysm. [Illustration: Central Oregon travel in the old days] [Illustration: A Central Oregon freighter. "You will find them everywhere in the railless land, the freighters and their teams"] Since that day when the old driver foresaw the yellow perils of "civilizin' inflooences" they have indeed invaded the land for which, until a couple of years ago, his four horses and his rattletrap stage formed the one connecting link with the "outside." The "iron horse" has swept his old nags into oblivion, and two great railroads carry the passengers and packages which he and his brothers of the old Shaniko line transported in the past. The change has come in five short years. Those, who, like myself, went a-pioneering for the fun of it, making for Central Oregon because upon the map it showed as the greatest railroadless land, have seen the warm breath of development work as picturesque changes there as ever in the story-book days when the West was in its infancy. We are young men, we who chanced to Oregon's hinterland a few seasons gone by, yet already can we spin yarns of the "good old days" which have a real smack of romance to them and cause the recounters themselves to sigh for what has gone before and, betimes, to pray for their return--almost! Almost, but not actually. For who prefers twenty odd hours of stagecoaching to travel in a Pullman? or seriously bemoans the advent of electric lights, running water, cement sidewalks, and other appurtenances of material development? Yet, of course, I realize full well how tame and inconsiderable the "pioneering," if by such a name it can be dignified, of Central Oregon in the last decade must appear in the eyes of Oregon's real pioneers, who came across the plains and staked out the State with monuments of courage driven deep with privation and far-sighted enterprise. Yet, while half our Eastern cousins believe the West utterly prosaic, and half are confident that some of it is still the scene of dashing adventure, and the dwellers of the Coast cities themselves are morally certain that all Oregon conducts itself along metropolitan lines, the fact remains that most of the big land between the Cascades and Blue Mountains was untouched yesterday and is to-day the pleasantest--and the least hackneyed--outdoor playland available in all the West. Central Oregon occupied an eddy in the stream of Western progress. On the north the Columbia flowed past her doors, and the stream of immigration, first following the water and later the railroads, ignored the uninviting portals. Rock-rimmed toward the Columbia, lined with hills on the east, hedged in by the Cascades on the west, and remote from California's valleys on the south, this empire of 30,000,000 acres has been a giant maverick, wandering at will among the ranges neglected by development. In 1911 the railroads roped the wanderer, when they forced their way southward from the Columbia up the canyon of the Deschutes. But my stage journey was two years prior to that. Shaniko was a jumping-off place. It was the end of the Columbia Southern railroad, which began at Biggs--and if a road can have a worse recommendation than that I know it not! Biggs, under the grassless cliffs beside the Columbia, baked by sun, lashed by wind, and blinded with sand, was impossible; and had it not been for the existence of Biggs one truthfully might call Shaniko the least attractive spot in the universe! The transcontinental train deposited me at Biggs and the Columbia Southern trainlet received me, after a brief interval dedicated to bolstering up the inner man with historic ham sandwiches and coffee innocent of history, served in a shack beside a sand dune. Seventy miles separates Biggs from Shaniko, and a long afternoon was required to negotiate the distance. For an hour the diminutive train panted up oppressive grades, winding among rain-washed coulees, where the soil was red adobe and the rocks were round and also tinged with red. Stunted sagebrush clothed the hillsides scantily, their slopes serried by cattle trails as evenly as contour lines upon a map. Then, the rim of the Columbia hills gained, away we rattled southward, more directly and with some pretense of speed, across a rolling plateau of stubble fields and grain lands, dotted here and there with homes and serried by rounded valleys where the gold of sun and grain, and the gray of vagrant cloud shadows, made gorgeous picturings. Westerly, beyond the drab and golden foreground and the blue haziness of the middle distance, the Cascade Range silhouetted against a sky whose tones became richer and more cheerful as evening approached. With the evening came Shaniko. "The evil that men do lives after them," said Mark Antony, "the good is oft interred with their bones." So let it not be with Shaniko, for then in truth, of this town whose brightest day has gone little indeed would survive. [Illustration: In the dry-farms lands of Central Oregon. "Serried by valleys, where the gold of sun and grain, and vagrant shadows, made gorgeous paintings."] Shaniko was the railroad point for all Central Oregon when I first made its acquaintance, and from it freighters hauled merchandise to towns as far distant as two hundred miles. Stages radiated to the south, and, in 1909, a few hardy automobiles tried conclusions with the roads. The sheep of a sheepman's empire congregated there, giving Shaniko one boast of preëminence--it shipped more wool than any other point in the State. With streets of mud or dust, according to the season, a score or so of frame shacks, its warehouses, livery barns, corrals, shipping pens, and hotels, Shaniko in its prime was a busy lighting place for birds of passage, a boisterous town of freighters, cowmen, and sheep herders. It, like its stagecoaches, was typical, I suppose, of the town found a decade or so ago upon our receding frontiers, and still encountered in the fancies of novelists whose travels are confined to the riotous territory east of Pittsburg. "Where are you bound?" my table neighbor asked me at supper. "I'm not sure," said I truthfully. "Oh, a land seeker. Well, when it comes right down to getting something worth while--something for nothing, you might say--the claims down by Silver Lake can't be beat. They--" and he launched into a rosy description of the land of his choice which lasted until the presiding Amazon deftly transferred the fork I had been using to the plate of pie she placed before me, a gentle lesson in domestic economy. My informant was a professional "locator" whose business it is to combine the landless man and the manless land with some profit to himself, in the shape of a fee for showing each "prospect" a suitable tract of untaken earth hitherto the property of Uncle Sam. Another neighbor took me in hand. The odor of gasolene about him--it was even more pungent than the fumes of other liquids, taken internally--proclaimed him an auto driver. "If you don't know where to go, let me show you," was the offer of this would-be guide and philosopher--I assume him a philosopher on the ground that any pilot in Central Oregon in those days must be one. In answer to my inquiries he bade me hie straight to Harney County. It was two hundred and fifty miles away. But I lost heart, stuck to my original half-resolve, and declared Bend my objective point. In later experience it was borne home to me that those pioneer auto men of Shaniko always sang loudest the praises of the most distant point; their rate was ten or fifteen cents per mile per passenger, and on the face of it their business acumen is apparent! One hundred miles of staging--five hundred and twenty-eight thousand feet of dust, if it be summer, or mud, if it be winter; Heaven knows how many chuck holes, how many ruts, how many bumps! The ride, commencing at eight one evening, ended about six the next. No early Christian martyr was more thoroughly bruised and stiffened at the hands of Roman mobs than the tenderfoot traveler on the memorable Shaniko-Bend journey! And there were so many rich possibilities--nay, probabilities--of diversion. Winter blizzards on Shaniko Flats were to be expected, while after thaws the heavy stages "bogged down" with aggravating regularity. The steep villainous road of the Cow Canyon grade upset many a vehicle, and well I recall one January night, when a two-day rain had turned to snow, when the air was freezing but the mud was soft, how the up-stage and the down-stage met in the awful hours where there was no turning out: clothing was ruined that night, and dispositions warped beyond repair, while passengers labored and swore and labored again until at last one stage had been snaked out of the way on a hand-made shelf, so to speak, and a passing effected. Later, we, who were Shaniko bound, were capsized in the mud. Half-frozen, wholly exhausted, we finally reached the railroad one hour after the day's only train had departed! But those were incidents of the road. * * * * * I think I never before saw a man lose his eye and recover it. Yet that was the optical antic played by my companion "inside." He was a horse buyer, and I attributed his leer to a cast of character one naturally connects with horse-trading, until all at once he was groping on the floor. "Lost something?" I inquired politely. "My eye." On bank holidays I have heard 'Arry say that to 'Arriet at 'Ammersmith, but as an exclamation, not an explanation. "My eye, he's lost something valuable, and is British in his expression," thought I innocently. So I inquired if I could help him in the search. "And er--what was it you lost?" I added. "My eye!" He glowered up at me, and the flicker of the match I held showed a one-eyed face--the eye that had stared at me askew a few minutes before was missing! Finally the glass optic was recovered, and he explained that the dust, working in about it, irritated him, so that occasionally he slipped it out for cleaning with his handkerchief. During such a polishing it had slipped to the floor. "I never get caught," he added with a touch of pride, "here's number two, in case of accidents," and he fished a substitute from his pocket. That second eye, I noted by daylight later, was blue, while his own was brown. No doubt it is difficult to get eyes that match. As we bumped along a valley bottom, shrouded in our tenacious cloud of dust, the driver, with whom I rode again, pointed out a couple of ultra-prosperous appearing ranches. "Millionaires row," he chuckled. "They don't pay interest, but they're real wild and western when it comes to frills. Further up the line you'll see somethin' rich, perhaps." The promised attraction was a young gentleman in a silk shirt and white flannels following a plow down a furrow, and in turn followed by an aristocratic-looking bulldog. "The dawg," explained my companion, "is blue blood Borston. His pedigree's a heap longer than mine and valued at more thousand dollars than I dare tell. His boss there has a daddy worth a million or so, and when he himself ain't farmin' he scoots around in a five-thousand-dollar ortermobile. But mostly he plays rancher an' makes hay an' beds down the hawses an' all the rest of it. It's a queer game. Crazy's what I call it. There's a whole nest of 'em hereabouts." So we saw the un-idle rich laboring in the fields. In the nature of things the old-timers regard the species with amusement, figuring, now and then, how many cuttings of alfalfa it would take to pay for the Boston bull, and attempting to determine why anyone with an income should elect such an existence, with the wide world at their beck! This was my introduction to the land of great distances--twenty odd hours of toil over rolling plains of sagebrush, green-floored valleys, timbered hill lands, always--their indelible influence is the first impression of the newcomer whose outlook is a fraction higher than the earth he treads--always with the mountains of the western skyline dominating whatever panorama presented itself. Peaks turbaned with white, tousled foothills, olive green, their limitless forests of pine surging upward from the level of the sage-carpeted, juniper-studded plains. The land of many miles, and of broad beautiful views, is Oregon's hinterland. Many miles? Aye, truly. My friend Kinkaid drives his auto trucks to Burns, one hundred and fifty miles to the southeast. Southwards to Silver Lake is another truck line, ninety miles long, which daily bears Uncle Sam's mails to the inland communities, a notable example of the pioneering of this age of gasolene. Each morning automobiles start from Bend, the railroad's end, for paltry jumps of from fifty to three hundred miles, and the passengers drink their final cup of coffee with the indifference a Staten Island dweller accords a contemplated trip across the bay. Viewed sanely, the contempt for distances is appalling--at least as distance is measured elsewhere. An instance, this: Burns is one hundred and fifty miles from Bend; a year or two ago, through the enterprise of citizens of the two communities, a new road was "opened" between--scarcely a road, but a passageway among the sagebrush navigable with motor-driven craft. It is to celebrate! So some forty citizens of Bend, in a fourth that many cars, make the little jaunt to Burns. They leave at dawn: they reach Burns that night: they are dined and wined and the road-marriage of their town is fittingly celebrated; then, another dawn being upon them, they deem it folly to waste time with trivialities like sleep, they crank their cars, and they are back at Bend, and lo! it is but the evening of the second day! The past, naturally, was worse than the present, so far as the difficulties of great mileage are concerned. The little town of Silver Lake in south-central Oregon, to-day is in the lap of luxury, transportationly speaking, being but a beggarly ninety miles from a railroad. But in the early 'nineties no one but a centipede would have considered frequent calls at Silver Lake with any equanimity. Then all the freight came from The Dalles, two hundred and thirty miles to the north, and the tariff often showed four cents a pound, which must have contributed fearfully to the high cost of living, not to mention the cost of high living, with wet goods weighing what they do. When the roads were good and teamsters moderately sober the round trip occupied forty days, one way light, the return loaded. In all the two hundred and thirty miles Prineville was the only town, and some of the camps were dry. "Th' town couldn't help but grow," an oldtimer confided to me. "Yer see, it was such a durn fierce trip, after a feller tried it once he never wanted ter repeat--so he stayed with us!" Burns, over in Harney County, in the southeastern portion of the State, is another example of what the long haul means. During the summer of comparatively good roads the one hundred and fifty miles to the railroad isn't especially serious, but when winter comes the "outside" is far away indeed, and often for two months no freight at all contrives to negotiate the gumbo, snow, and frozen ruts. So, late in the autumn the Burns merchant lays in a winter stock, while the auto trucks hibernate, and the burdens of such forehandedness, no doubt, are shifted to the shoulders of his customers. Modernity has not swept the field clean, even to-day, and gasolene scarce yet outranks hay as a fuel for the mile makers. The settler and the land looker move on their restless rounds in the white-canvassed prairie schooner of old, and the great freighting outfits, which have borne the tonnage of the West since there was a white man's West, still churn the dust with the hoofs of their straining horses and the wheels of their lurching wagons. You will find them everywhere in the railless lands, the freighters and their teams. They are camped by the water-hole in the desert, or where there is no water, and they must depend upon barrels they bring with them. The little fire of sagebrush roots or greasewood shows the string of wagons--two, three, or four--strung out by the roadside with the horses, from four to twelve, munching hay. They are in the timber, in the country of lakes to the south, on the grassy ranges. In fact, you find the freighters where there is freight to be hauled, and that is--where men are. But to-day all of Central Oregon is not railroadless land, the trail of steel has pushed to the heart of the country, and what a contrast to the old Shaniko stage days it is to roll smoothly into Bend over ninety-pound rails! Picturesque, too, was the sudden breaking of the long spell when the transportation kings constructed their lines up the Canyon of the Deschutes. Twice, as they built, I walked the length of that hundred-mile-long defile, seeing the dawn of progress in the very breaking, and viewing what is to me the most stupendously appealing river scenery in all the Northwest--this same Canyon of the Deschutes. CHAPTER V How the Railroads Came When the West moves, it moves quickly. The map of Oregon had long shown a huge area without the line of a single railroad crossing it. This railless land was Central Oregon, the largest territory in the United States without transportation. Then, almost over night, the map was changed. Normal men, if they are reasonably good, hope to go to Heaven. Westerners, if they are off the beaten track, hope for a railroad; and if they have one road they hope for another! You who dwell in the little land of suburban trains and commutation tickets have no conception of the vital significance of rail transportation in the Land of Many Miles. In Central Oregon the railroad question was one of life and death. The country had progressed so far without them, and could go no farther. Farm products not qualified to find a market on their own feet were next to worthless, timber could not be milled, irrigation development was at a standstill. The people had seen so many survey stakes planted and grow and rot and produce nothing, and had been fed upon so many railroad rumors, that there was no faith in them. * * * * * "I think it's a railroad!" gasped the telephone operator as she called me to the booth. Her eyes were bright. It was as if a Frenchman had said, "Berlin is taken!" But I, a skeptic hardened by many shattered hopes, smiled incredulously. Nevertheless, I took the receiver with a tremor born of undying optimism--the optimism of the railless land. "It's long distance," whispered the operator, torn between a sense of duty and a desire to eavesdrop. "Hello!" The only answer was a grinding buzz; a mile or two of Shaniko line was down--it usually was. Then Prineville cut in and The Dalles said something cross and a faint inquiry came from Portland, far away. Yes, I was waiting. "Hello, Putnam?" The speaker was the managing editor of a Portland newspaper. "Gangs have broken loose in the Deschutes Canyon," said he. "One of 'em is Harriman, we know, but the others are playing dark. Think it's Hill starting for California. You go--" then the buzz became too bad. Finally The Dalles repeated the instructions. I was to go down the Canyon of the Deschutes and find out all about it. The head and nearest end of the Canyon was fifty miles away, and the Canyon itself was one hundred miles long. Glory be! But it was a railroad, and before I started the town was in the first throes of apoplectic celebration. I went to Shaniko by auto, and thence by train to Grass Valley, midway to the Columbia. From Grass Valley a team took me westward to the rim of the Canyon of the Deschutes. There were fresh survey stakes and a gang of engineers working with their instruments on a hillside. Very obliging, were those engineers; they would tell me anything; they were building a railroad; it was headed for Mexico City and they themselves were the owners! Below was a new-made camp, where Austrians labored on a right of way that had come to life almost over night. This was a Harriman camp; orders were, apparently, to get a strangle hold on the best line up the narrow Canyon--to crowd the other fellows out. But the mystery surrounding those "other fellows" clung close. From water boy to transit man they knew nothing, except that they were working for a famous contracting firm and that they emphatically were not in the employ of Hill interests. [Illustration: Crooked River Canyon, now spanned by a railroad bridge] [Illustration: In the Deschutes Canyon. "The river winds sinuously, seeking first one, and then another, point of the compass" Copyright 1911 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] This, which was no news at all, I 'phoned to Portland, and then set about visiting the suddenly awakened Canyon. It is the only entrance from the north to the plateaus of Central Oregon, a deep gorge cut by the river through the heart of the hills. So one fine morning in July, 1909, after a generation of apathy, suddenly the two great systems, whose tracks follow opposite banks of the Columbia, threw their forces into the field, attempting to secure control of this strategic gateway. Altogether, it was a very picturesque duel; the quick move was characteristic of the country, and the very unexpectedness of it somehow was half-expected. And in the end, after all the strategy and bluff and blocking tactics with shovels and with law briefs, the duel was a draw, and to-day each railroad follows the waters of the Deschutes. During my observation of this picturesque battle of the Canyon, I walked its length twice, and saw amusing incidents in plenty. At one point the Hill forces established a camp reached only by a trail winding down from above, its only access through a ranch. Forthwith the Harriman people bought that ranch, and "No trespassing" signs, backed by armed sons of Italy, cut off the communications of the enemy below. At a vantage point close to the water both surveys followed the same hillside, which offered the only practical passageway. One set of grade stakes overlapped the other, a few feet higher up. The Italian army, working furiously all one Sabbath morning, "dug themselves in" on the grade their engineers had established in most approved military style. But while they worked the Austrians came--these literally were the nationalities engaged in this "Battle of the Hillsides," unrecorded by history!--and hewed a grade a few feet above the first, the meanwhile demolishing it. That angered Italy, whose forces executed a flank movement and started digging still another grade _above_ the hostiles, inadvertently dislodging bowlders which rolled down upon the rival workers below. Then a fresh flanking movement, and more bowlders and nearly a riot! And so it went, until the top was reached, and there being no more hillside to maneuver upon, and no inclination to start over again, the two groups called quits and spent the balance of the day playing seven-up, leaving settlement of their burlesque to courts of law. And there were times when "coyote holes"--which are tunnels of dynamite--exploding on one side of the river, somehow sent shattered rock and pebbles in a dangerous deluge upon the tents across the stream. The struggle for transportation supremacy was bitter enough, and comic, too, in spots. But the stage set for its acting was superb beyond compare. Not without reason, the defile of the Deschutes has been called the "Grand Canyon of the Northwest." For a full one hundred miles the river races at the bottom of a steep-walled canyon, its sides here and there pinching in to the water's very edge, and often enough with sheer cliffs towering mightily, their bases lapped by the white foam of rapids. Great rounded hills, green in spring, brown in summer, and white under the snows of winter, climb into the sky a thousand feet and more on either hand. Their sides are ribbed with countless cattle trails, like the even ripples of the wind and tide on a sandy beach. Strange contorted rock formations thrust forth from the lofty slopes, and occasional clutters of talus slides spill down into the water. Rich hues of red and brown warm the somber walls, where prehistoric fires burned the clay or rock, or minerals painted it. White-watered, crystal springs are born miraculously in the midst of apparent drought, offering arctic cold nectar the year around. The river winds sinuously, doubling back upon itself interminably, seeking first one, and then another, point of the compass, a veritable despair for railroad builders whose companion word for "results" must be "economy." Despite the stifling oppressiveness of that canyon bake-oven in July, with breezes few and far between and rattlesnakes omnipresent, the ever-changing grandeur was enough to repay for near-sunstroke and foot weariness. However, enjoyment of the scenery was not my mission. I was supposed to discover, authentically, who was backing that other road--where the millions were coming from. If it was Hill, it meant much to Oregon, for as yet the "Empire Builder" had never truly invaded the state, and if now he planned a great new line to California the railroad map of the West would indeed be disrupted. But at the end of ten days I knew no more than on the first. At the farmhouse where they took me in to dinner mine host was highly elated, for the survey crossed the corner of his southern "forty" and he saw visions of a fat right-of-way payment and of a railway station. Later--his optimism was characteristic--surely a city would spring up, with corner lots priced fabulously. "Then," said he to Mandy, "we'll go to Yerrup." It was, of course, long before Yerrup became a shambles. The old man was reminding me of the growth of Spokane--that universal example of the West!--which expanded from nothing to more than one hundred thousand in thirty years, when Mandy interrupted the universal pastime of counting your lots before they are sold by producing a soiled printed form. "Can you tell me if this has any value now?" she asked. It was a voucher of the Great Northern Railroad. "Where did you get it?" She narrated how a crew had laid out the preliminary survey, now followed by the mysterious workers, coming through there secretly the previous autumn. "They told us they was surveyin' water power," said she. "The papers never said nothing about it, and neither did we. They bought buttermilk here, an' when the Ol' Man cashed in the slips he forgot this one. Wonder if it's too late to get it paid?" I told her it wasn't. In fact, I bought it myself, paying face value. It was $1.40. Then I made tracks for the 'phone, eighteen miles away. Here, at last, was positive evidence that the Great Northern, the Hill system, was the power behind the new line. Six months ago while Oregon slept, they had made the secret survey upon which they were now constructing. A very pretty scoop, as western newspapering goes! I offered my driver an extra dollar for haste's sake. [Illustration: Along the Canyon of the Deschutes Copyright 1911 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland. Ore.] The managing editor listened while I outlined my beat over the wire. His silence seemed the least bit sad. "Dandy story," said he. "If we'd had it yesterday it would have been fine. But--" There was no need for him to go further; I knew the worst. An afternoon paper had wrecked my yarn. The emissary of the Hills, who had traveled secretly and under an assumed name all through the Interior determining whether or not the new line should be undertaken, had that morning told his story. The Hills were in the open as the backers of the Oregon Trunk. By a matter of hours a precious scoop was ancient history! That man built much of the Panama Canal. He is one of the world's best-known construction engineers and railroaders. But I shall never forgive his tell-tale interview--it was premature. And some day I shall present for payment that voucher for $1.40, mentioning also the dollar I gave the driver, to John F. Stevens. CHAPTER VI The Home Makers The horses are ill mated, the wagon decrepit. Baling wire sustains the harness and the patched canvas of the wagon top hints of long service. "How far to Millican's?" says the driver. He is a young man; at least, his eyes are young. His "woman" is with him and their three kiddies, the tiniest asleep in her mother's lap, with the dust caked about her wet baby chin. The man wears overalls, the woman calico that was gaudy once before the sun bleached it colorless, and the children nameless garments of uncertain ancestry. The wife seems very tired--as weary as the weary horses. Behind them is piled their household: bedding, a tin stove, chairs, a cream separator, a baby's go-cart, kitchen utensils, a plow and barbed wire, some carpet; beneath the wagon body swings a pail and lantern, and water barrel and axe are lashed at one side. We direct them to Millican's. "Homesteading?" we inquire. "Not exactly. That is, we're just lookin'." There are hundreds like these all over the West, "just lookin'," with their tired wives, their babies, their poverty, and their vague hopefulness. They chase rainbows from Bisbee to Prince Rupert. Some of them settle, some of them succeed. But most of them are discontented wherever Fortune places them, and forever move forward toward some new-rumored El Dorado just over the hill. There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. That, of course, is rather picturesque, and, taken all in all, your average wanderer of the wagon road merits little heroics. His aspirations are apt to be earthy, and too often he seeks nothing loftier than a soft snap. In the final analysis some of our western gypsies desire nothing more ardently than a rest. The wanderer is the shiftless land seeker, and is to be distinguished from the sincere home seeker who fares forth into strange lands with his family and his _penates_, and who finds vacant government land and proceeds to "take it up." The best of all the free acres went years ago, along with the free timber and the other compensations for pioneering, but here and there remote areas worth having still remain. About the last of these, and by all odds the greatest, was in Central Oregon when the railroads opened the doors of immigration a few years ago. Before the railroads came I went from Bend southeasterly through what is now well called the "homestead country," and in all the one hundred and fifty miles traversed we saw three human habitations: the stockman's, George Millican, the horse breeder, Johnny Schmeer, and the sheepman's, Bill Brown. The rest of it was sagebrush and jack rabbits, with a band of "fuzz-tails" stampeding at the sight of us and a few cattle nipping the bunch grass. My companions were a locator and a man who took up one of the first "claims" in all that country, at Hampton Valley, one hundred and thirty miles from a railroad. To-day there are schools out there, homes, fences, and plowed fields. Some of it is very good land, and the modern pioneers are prospering. Some of it is not so good, and there have been failures and disappointments as in all the homestead districts of all the West, past and present. For there is truth in the old saying that for the most part the first crop of homesteaders fails, and the success of the late comers is built upon the broken hopes of the pioneers. However that may be, the battle against the odds set up by a none too bountiful nature is often enough pitiful, and occasionally heroic. Picture an unbroken plain of sagebrush. Low hills, a mile distant, are fringed with olive-green juniper trees; all the rest is gray, except the ever blue sky which must answer for the eternal hope in the hearts of the home makers--God smiles there. In the midst of the drab waste is a speck of white, a tent. A water barrel beside it tells the story of the long road to the nearest well--no road, but a trail, for this is well off the beaten path and such luxuries as surveyed highways are yet to come. The tent is the very outpost of settlement, a mute testimonial of the insistent desire to possess land of one's very own. Our car stops to inquire the way, and a woman appears. Yes, it is forty miles to Brookings' halfway house, as we had guessed. "And to Bend?" We ask what we already know, perhaps because the woman--a girlish woman--so evidently would prolong the interruption to her solitude. "About one hundred and twenty--a long way!" She smiles, adding, simply, "John's there." Small wonder she clutches at us! John has been gone a fortnight, and for two days she has not even seen the Swansons, her "neighbors" over the hill, three miles away. Like a ship in the night, we all but passed her--passed with never a greeting for which her heart hungered, never a word from the "outside" to break the hard monotony. She is utterly alone, except for the rabbits and the smiling sky. Her husband is wage earning. And she sticks by their three hundred and twenty acres and does what she can with a mattock and a grubbing hoe. They have a well started, and some fence posts in the ground. Some day, she says, they will make a home of it. [Illustration: Irrigation--"First, parched lands of sage; then the flow" Series Copyright 1909 by Asahel Curtis] [Illustration: Irrigation--"Next, water in a master ditch and countless man-made rivulets between the furrows"] "We always dreamed of having a home," she explains a bit dreamily. "But it never seemed to come any closer on John's wages. So when we read of getting this land for nothing it seemed best to make the try. But of course it isn't 'free' at all--we've discovered that. And oh! it costs so much!" We commiserate. We would help, and vaguely seek some means. Help? Yes, gladly she will accept it, says the little woman--but not for herself. "Good gracious, why should I need it?" Nor have we the heart to offer reasons. But if we have a mind to be helpful, she continues, there is a case over in eighteen-eleven--she names the section and township--where charity could afford a smile. She tells us, then, of a half-sick woman with three infants, left on the homestead while the husband goes to town. There, instead of work, he gets drink, and fails to reappear with provisions. But the woman will not give up the scrap of land she has set her heart on, and doggedly remains. When the neighbors find her, she and the children have existed for five days solely on boiled wheat. "And we needed it so for seeding," is her lament. Our hostess of the desert stands by the ruts, waving to us through the dust of our wake, the embodiment of the spirit of pioneering, which burns to-day as brightly as ever in the past, could we but search it out and recognize it. Such as she are home makers. However, the free lands are overridden with gamblers in values, with incompetents, with triflers. They are the chaff which will scatter before the winds of adversity. The others will succeed, just as they have succeeded elsewhere on the forefronts of civilization; the pity of it is that their lot may not be made easier, surer. Returning from that trip I read a chapter in a book, newly published, dealing with this selfsame land. Concerning the homesteader I found these words: I have seen many sorts of desperation, but none like that of the men who attempt to make a home out of three hundred and twenty acres of High Desert sage.... A man ploughing the sage--his woman keeping the shack--a patch of dust against the dust, a shadow within a shadow--sage and sand and space! [Illustration: "It was a very typical stagecoach"] [Illustration: In the homestead country] The author is a New Englander, who had seen Oregon with scholastic eyes. The harsh frontier had no poetry, no hope, for him--only hopelessness. But the woman in the tent, the Swansons over the hill, and the hundreds of other Swansons scattering now, and for many years gone by, over the lands of the setting sun, know better, though their grammar be inferior and their enthusiasm subconscious. Men saw and spoke as did the New Englander when Minnesota was being wrested from the wilderness, when people were dubbed insane for trying conclusions with the Palouse country, when the Dakotas were considered agricultural nightmares. In the taming of new empires unbridled optimism is no more prevalent than blinded pessimism. Closer to home I know another woman, a farmer, too. Hers is an irrigated ranch, and she works with her shovel among the ditches as sturdily as the hired man. Poor she is in wealth, as it is reckoned, and her husband poorer still in health, for he was rescued from a desk in the nick of time. He is fast mending now, and confesses to a rare pleasure in making two blades of grass grow where none at all grew in the unwatered sands. And in truth, simply watching the accomplishments of irrigation is tonic enough to revive the faint. First, parched lands of sage; the grub hoe and the mattock clear the way, and then the plow. Next, water, in a master ditch and countless, man-made rivulets between the furrows. Finally--presto! the magic of a single season does it--green fields of clover and alfalfa smile in the sun! But Heaven forbid that this should smack of "boosting"! (There, by the way, you have the most-used, and best-abused, word in all the West.) It is not so intended, for the literature of professional optimism is legion, and needs no reinforcement. The Oregon country is no more wedded to success than many another, nor is it a land where woman can wrestle with man's problems more happily than elsewhere. The incidents of these pages mean simply that beneath the dull surface may be found, ever and anon, a glow of something stirring; prick the dust, and blood may run. The West, which is viewed here chiefly as a playland, is a mighty interesting workaday land, too, and numberless are the modern tragedies and comedies of its varied peoples at their varied tasks. Rules and precedents are few and far between; it is each for himself in his own way. The blond Scandinavian to his logged-off lands, the Basque to his sheep herding; the man from Iowa dairies, and the Carolinian, who never before saw alfalfa, sets about raising it; the Connecticut Yankee, with an unconscionable instinct for wooden nutmegs, sells real estate; the college man with poor eyes or a damaged liver, as the case may be, becomes an orchardist at Hood River or Medford. Somehow, some place, there is room for each and every one, and the big Westland smiles and receives them all, the strong to prosper and the weak to fail, according to the inexorable way of life. Some come for wealth and some for health--a vast army for the latter, were the truth always known. The highness and the dryness of the hinterland draw many to it in their battle against the White Plague, and while victory often comes, there comes, too, defeat. An empty shack I know could tell such a tale--the tragedy of a good fight lost. They were consumptives, both of them, and they lived in a lowland city, west of the mountains. The Doctor gave the old, old edict: the only chance was to get away from the damp, to live out of doors in a higher, sunnier climate. The boy--he was scarcely more than that--bade farewell to his sweetheart and came over the mountains, where he found land and built the shack that was to be their home and their haven--where they were to become sun-browned and robust. The self-evident conclusion outruns the tale, I fear. The girl, who smilingly sent her lover eastward, dreaming of the happiness so nearly theirs, was distanced in her race for the sunny goal by Death. To-day the shack stands vacant. [Illustration: A valley of Washington. "The big Westland smiles and receives them all" From a photograph by Frank Palmer, Spokane, Wash.] A friend, who knew the girl and the story, and loves the land she hoped to see, wrote this to hearten her when the doctors realized that the home upon whose threshold she wavered was far, far distant from the one her lover fashioned "over the eastern mountains": Over the eastern mountains Into a valley I know, Into the air of uplands, Into the sun, you go. Warm is a day in the upland; Warm is the valley, and bright; Glittering stars are shining Over the valley at night. Here in the western lowland Patiently I remain, Under the clouds, in darkness, Under the dismal rain. Patient I wait, well knowing The joy that is to be: Into the east you're going To build a home for me. Rather would I go with you, But, staying, I smile and sing, For winter is almost over, And soon will come the spring. Then to the home you have made me, Singing, still singing, I'll go Over the eastern mountains Into a valley I know. CHAPTER VII On Oregon Trails At Shaniko I denied being a land seeker. Yet such I actually was, although seeking Oregon, a land of plenty Where one dollar grows to twenty not because of the financial fruitfulness the verse implies, but rather because it was a land where outdoor pleasures are readily accessible. The logical outcome of land seeking is home making, and so in due course we became Oregonians; and now from our Oregon home we pilgrimage along the varied trails of the Pacific Playland, whose beginnings are but across our doormat, when fancy leads and the exchequer permits. All of us read with envy of the "big trips," the splendid outings to the ends of the earth, made by scientists and sportsmen, and those who are neither but possess the instincts, income, and the inclination. Simply because we cannot follow such examples is no reason to suppose they appeal to us less than to the fortunate adventurer _de luxe_ for whom African expeditioning, Labrador or Alaskan game trails, mountain scaling in Peru, or hunting along the Amazon are matters of every-year routine. Some day, we, too, hope for such mighty vacationing--when our ship comes in, or the baby gets big enough to be left behind, or the boss lengthens our vacation, as the case may be. But for the present there is a "when" or an "if" not to be ignored. So we content ourselves with lesser adventures in contentment, which after all, for solid pleasureable happiness, are perhaps the best. And we who live in the Pacific Playland find mountain, forest and river, fish and game, to our hearts' content; with a modicum of enterprise it is no trick at all to devise trips worth taking, whether viewed from the standpoint of woodsman, mountaineer, hunter, or fisher, and all within a hundred miles of home. Therein, indeed, lies the answer to this query, which a transplanted Easterner hears ever and anon: Why do you live in the West? For when it comes right down to the truly important things of life, like fly-fishing, mountaineering, and canoeing, the Pacific Coast is a region of unsurpassed satisfaction. Out-of-doors is always on tap, and when the hackneyed call of the red gods comes, it is easily answered. Adventures in contentment truly--the utter content of simplicity and isolation. Also, ventures in optimism, for where the trails wind mountainward there is just one place for the pessimist, and that is at home. [Illustration: A trailside dip in a mountain lake] [Illustration: "Sliding down snow-fields is fun, though chilly"] The infallible Mr. Webster defines success as "the prosperous termination of an enterprise." Mr. Webster is wrong, however, when it comes to camping, as my friend Mac and I recently demonstrated beyond possibility of argument. The prime object of the trip in question was game. We were out ten days and returned with no game; the venison we counted ours still roams the hills, and the grouse are sunning themselves--except the half-dozen the puppies ate! It came about in this wise. We started in sunshine and forthwith encountered the business end of a storm, comprised, in about equal parts, of blizzard, tropical downpour, and tornado. It continued for four days, soaked and half-froze us, and swept the highlands clean of game, in preference for sheltered valleys, far away and inaccessible to us. We hunted persistently, however, and walked countless miles. Incidentally, we lost our horses, and spent one strenuous day tracking them. Finally Fortune relented a trifle and we bagged a half-dozen grouse, which we treasured and bore homeward for our family tables. But a persistently unkind fate elected that we sleep beside a forest ranger's cabin where also reposed a litter of spaniel puppies, who forced an entrance to our packs in the night and devoured every vestige of grouse except a few of the less nutritious feathers. Assuredly that enterprise had no prosperous termination; yet, somehow, in the illogical way of the woods it seemed to us a success--we had enjoyed it so! After all, camping is a queer game, totally inexplicable to the uninitiated. As with some kinds of sinning, the more you do the more you desire. Assuredly it is a madness--a species of midsummer madness, in whose throes the sufferer renounces most of the comforts of civilization, assuming instead all the discomforts of the wilderness. These campers are lovers of the Open, and like lovers the world over, there is no reason in them. In the wooing season they hie in pursuit of their beckoning mistress, who permits closest approach, seemingly, where the trails are the least trodden, the timber the tallest, and the mountains the mightiest. There are many delightful methods of taking such pilgrimages, but none more alluring than a-horseback, with all one's worldly goods lashed to the back of a pack-horse, so that freedom of movement is limited only by one's will and one's woodcraft. Typical of western mountain lakes is Cultas, which nestles on the eastern flanks of the Cascades not far from the summit. A wooded mountain of its own name rises from its southern rim, and elsewhere it is bordered by sandy strands as white as Cape Cod beaches, by stretches of marsh and meadow and by higher banks studded with giant pines, whose trunks nature painted golden copper and the sun burnishes each day. There we cast adrift from civilization; the trail ended and our riding horses took to the water at the lakeside, knee-deep wading over round, slippery rocks being preferable to battling through the thickets of lodgepole pine which cluttered the bank. [Illustration: On the trail in the highlands of the Cascades] [Illustration: "A sky blue lake set like a sapphire in an emerald mount"] A lake of trout and sky-blue water is Cultas, where the leisurely may pitch permanent camp to their hearts' content, and revel in the luxuries of perfect outdoor loafing, tempered to suit the taste with fly-casting excursions 'round on rafts, and hunting tramps through the timber, where one need go no great way to spy the tracks of deer and occasional bear, or surprise grouse perched fatally low. Further westerly, though, the grouse-shooting is better, and an average rifle-shot can bag a plenty of the big fat birds in September. Poor grouse! "The good die first," said Wordsworth, and so with birds; for the good are the fat, who, through an excess of avoirdupois, lag in flight and alight on lower branches and are easiest shot. From Cultas there was no trail other than such a one as mother sense advised and the compass indicated was properly directioned. Our objective point was the north and south trail reputed to follow the summit of the Cascade Range, up whose eastern flanks we were laboring. Finally we found it, though of trail worthy of the name there was none; a scattered line of aged blazes alone indicated where the trail itself once had been. With some floundering over down logs, many a false start and mistaken way, and a deal of patient diligence, we contrived to hold to the blazes, winding beneath a fairy forest of giant fir, tamarack, spruce, and pine, here and there skirting a veritable gem of a sky-blue lake set like a sapphire in an emerald mount, and occasionally tracking across a gay little mountain meadow, until at last we hunted out tiny Link Lake, where we camped beneath trees whose trunks were streaked with age wrinkles long before Astor pioneered his way down the Columbia. And so it went for several days; there were miles of pleasant trails, each mile unlike its predecessor and each holding in store some of those always expected unforeseen surprises which make trails, fly-fishing, and (reportedly) matrimony, so fascinating. There were camp places by lake, stream, and meadow, each and every one delightful, all entirely attractive either by the glow of the camp-fire or viewed in the dawn light as one peered out from the frosted rim of the sleeping-bag--frosted without, but deliciously warm within. Trails and camps, indeed, so satisfying that any one of them might merit weeks of visitation, instead of hurried hours. A word concerning trails, here--offered with the diffidence of an ardent amateur! Primarily, I suppose, trails are made to be followed; that, at least, seems the logical excuse for their existence. Yet my advice is to lose them as speedily as possible--temporarily, at least. So long as there is grass and water (there is always fuel, and your food is with you) no harm can befall, and assuredly losing the trail, or letting it lose you, is an admirable way to drop formality and get on an intimate footing with the country traversed. One method is like rushing along the highways of a strange land in an auto; the other approximates a leisurely following of the byways on your own two feet. The comparison is overdone, no doubt, but it has the virtue of fundamental truth. People who "never lose the trail" and always proceed on schedule are to be regarded with suspicion and pity; suspicion because they probably prevaricate, and pity because they don't know what they miss! A schedule should be left behind, in the world of business appointments, time-tables, and other regrettable impedimenta of civilization. So long as you know when mealtime comes, to plan further is folly. Maps, also, are not to be taken over-seriously, or followed too religiously. Despite their neat lines, and scale of miles and inherent air of authority, they are deceivers ever, and apt to prove hollow delusions and snares when given the acid test of implicit confidence. Sometimes only annoyance results, but occasionally the outcome of misplaced trust is serious. Every one who has been above the snow line, under his or her own power, so to speak, understands that there is no satisfaction quite like that of getting to the top of a mountain. The most leisurely and unambitious mortal, once he finds the 500-foot contour lines slipping away behind him, acquires something of the true mountaineering itch. We inherited that itch from previous attacks of the mountain malady. So standing knee-deep in the rank grass of the Sparks Lake prairies, and seeing the snow fields crowding down close to us, seemingly just behind the timber which fringed our meadow camping place, we realized full well that to-morrow's work held for us some five thousand feet of climb. [Illustration: The trails are not all dry-shod] [Illustration: "Our trail wound beneath a fairy forest"] Once, in Central America, I stood upon a peak whence were visible both the Atlantic and the Pacific. Again, in western Washington, from the summit of Mt. Olympus, I have seen the silver waters of Puget Sound to the east and the Pacific Ocean westward. From the South Sister we saw no ocean--no water other than the myriad lakes nestling broadcast among the foothills. No water, but two seas--eastward a brown sea of sagebrush and grain lands, the plateau of Central Oregon, and westward the billowing sea of smoky Willamette Valley lowlands, blue and hazy and softly tinted as any soberer canvas of the color-master Turner. Two vast panoramas of land reaching to the horizon, the one bounded by the truly blue Blue Mountains that marked the whereabouts of Idaho, the other by the low cloud banks hovering over the coast hills flanking the Pacific--those we gazed down upon to the east and west, while north and south straggled the great ridge of the Cascade Range, cleaving the old Oregon country into two astonishingly dissimilar halves. South we glimpsed the pride of California's mountains, glorious Shasta. North, a filmy white spectre, harassed by a turmoil of darker cloud, was the peak of Mt. Adams, some two hundred and fifty miles distant. Nearer--yet scarcely close at hand, for almost two hundred miles separated us--stood Hood, guardian of the Columbia, whose valley could be guessed by the shadowed depressions in the hill lands. Nearer were Jefferson, Squaw Mountain, Broken Top, and lesser peaks. As mountain views go, it was perfection--and all mountain views are perfect. We ate our snack of lunch, drank our canteen dry, smoked our pipes, and reveled in viewing the world below us. Then, like the hackneyed army of the Duke of York, we marched right down again. Only be it noted that the descent was a marvel of rapid transit, especially where the long snow slopes were concerned. If you have done it, you know. If you haven't, suffice it to say that one sits upon a portion of one's architecture designed for general repose, and upon it slides to lower altitudes with a speed that often takes breath away and always materially dampens that afore-mentioned anatomical portion, if not one's ardor. Snow sliding, however negotiated, is exhilarating and great fun--even if the slider becomes tangled with the attraction of gravitation, completing his descent head foremost! [Illustration: An Oregon Trail From a photograph by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] At dusk, we reached the camp, with tired legs and a mighty hunger. It was late--too late to attempt much in the way of an elaborate meal, even as "elaborateness" is reckoned when you have been on the trail for a fortnight. So we compromised on a "light" repast, which included, if I remember aright, such infinitesimal items as a couple of quarts of coffee, a panful of bacon, a can of peaches, a package of raisins, and sundry other lesser matters. "To-morrow," we agreed, "we will have a feed. A real feed, worthy of the name. A feed that will go down in campers' history. A feed, in short, that will make us feel that we have been FED." With that resolution we set to work. It was tiresome and sleepy work, to be sure, but thorough for all that. It was, indeed, as if we made our gastronomic will before ending the trip, for ere we clambered into our blankets the pride of the larder, the best of what was left in the pack-saddles, was placed in our biggest pot. It was to be a mulligan--a mighty mulligan. In it there were venison, ham, bacon, potatoes, onions, a dash of corn, a taste of tomatoes, remnants of bannocks, some persistent beans, and a handful of rice; it was freckled with raisins and seasoned to the king's taste. Almost devoutly we laid it to rest, placing the big pot upon the fire and reinforcing the dying blaze with lasting knots. Then, with contented sighs, we dove into sleeping-bags and blankets, and forthwith passed into the land of dream-mountains, where one coasted for eons down comfortably warm snow slopes, and venison mulligan flowed in the streams instead of water. Alas for dreams! Like the proverbial worm, the log turned--and with it the pot, bottom up. In the wee small hours the sound of sizzling ashes waked us, and we roused to discover the fragrant juices of our precious mulligan oozing into the hungry ground. Tragedy? Truly yes; a sad, sad campers' tragedy. But what could we do? It avails nothing to cry over spilt mulligan. So once more we nestled in the blankets and drifted off into the Land of Nod, dreaming sadly of wrecked mulligan and gladly of future excursions in the wondrous, pleasant mountain land of Oregon. CHAPTER VIII Uncle Sam's Forests Once we reached a certain ranger station after sundown. It was the end of a long trail day, our horses were tired, we were fagged, and darkness was hard upon us. The only good grass in sight was the forty-acre fenced pasture surrounding the Forest Service cabin. So opening the gate we entered the forbidden land, unsaddled, and turned the horses lose. Just as we had the fire started and the coffee boiling, up came the ranger, with a star on his shirt and an air of outraged authority about him. "You can't make camp here," said he. My partner had a legal turn of mind, and came back quickly with the observation that we had already done so. "Well, you'll have to unmake it, then," continued Uncle Sam's representative. "This here isn't for campers; it's reserved for the Service." And thereafter, with considerable bluntness, he told us to "git," and quickly. Our arguments were in vain. The fact that it was dark, that we were played out, that there was no other horse feed near, availed not at all. With him it was no case for logic. Like a good and faithful servant he always came back to the beginning with the statement, "Them's the rules and I gotter enforce 'em." But in the meantime the coffee boiled and the horses wandered farther from us. The ranger became exasperated. "You're trespassing," he expostulated. "This is private property and----" "Whose property?" My partner hit the nail on the head. But the ranger didn't see the rocks ahead. "Property of the Forest Service, of course," said he. "And who is the Forest Service?" "Why, it's--it's--" the ranger stuttered a bit, seeking adequate explanation. "It's the Government, of course." The ranger swelled with pride--after all, hadn't he demonstrated himself the representative of our omnipotent nation? But pride precedeth falls. "And who is the Government?" persisted my partner, as he poured his cup full of coffee from the battered pot. But before an Armageddon of violence was reached I interrupted and dispelled the threatened storm. For as it happened we were privileged characters, of a sort, and our note from the District Supervisor extending the special courtesies of the Service turned the rising wrath of our ranger into the essence of hospitality. We never again heard of the rules from him. However, my friend had expressed a monumental conclusion. Our pasture was the property of the Forest Service, the Service was a part of the Government, and the Government is of and for the people--us common people. Therefore that pasture was ours--Q.E.D.! Of course the principle doesn't work out in practice, because the Service, in the proper conduct of its affairs, must have strict property rights like any other organization or individual. But, broadly speaking, that is the truth of the matter. And in justice to the new spirit of the Forest Service, and the aims and methods of its employees of to-day, it is well to state that the ranger in question was of the old school, which regarded its reserves as its own sacred property and operated somewhat on the antedated motto of some railroads of the past, "The public be damned." For whatever one's feeling regarding the economic phase of national forests, from the casual camper's standpoint there is no doubt that their conduct to-day is admirable. Viewed from this angle they are great playgrounds, and as in Oregon alone the national forests embrace an astounding total of more than sixteen million acres, their importance to the recreationist is evident. On the doors of the ranger stations are signs which read: "Property of the United States. For the use of officers of the Forest Service." Leaving off the trespass warning which concludes the text of the cloth notices, one might change the other sentence thus: "For the use of whomever enjoys out-of-doors"; then you would have the meaning of the Western forest reserves in a nutshell, so far as campers are concerned. If you are a settler who unsuccessfully seeks "elimination" of a homestead on the ground that it is "more valuable for agricultural purposes than for timber," or a timber speculator, or even a mill owner desirous of cheap logs, your enthusiasm for "conservation" may be a negligible quantity. Certainly if you are a vote-seeker you will damn it whenever opportunity affords, for that is politically fashionable, and always safe--unlike woman suffrage, prohibition, and tariff questions; conservation is an architectural phenomenon, for it is a fence with only one side in a West whose people consider themselves robbed of their heritage of natural wealth, which most of them are all for turning into dollars as fast as logging-roads and band-saws can contrive. "To-day for to-day; let the morrow care for itself," they say. But if you are merely a foolish camper, with a secret dread of the time when the old earth will be divested totally of her timber covering, you may actually be grateful for the manner in which the reserves are administered. Your playground is cared for and guarded and improved. Maps, often accurate, are obtainable. The trails are well blazed and well kept, and new trails and roads are constantly being installed for the double purpose of making the forests more accessible to the public and to simplify fire fighting. For above all, of course, the great good work is the ceaseless battle against fire--now far more one of prevention than of extinction. Visible and arresting signs of the fire-war are encountered everywhere--notices warning against the risks and losses of forest fires, exhortations on the criminal dangers of leaving camp-fires burning, reminders to the smokers about forgotten cigarettes. These, and a score more, stare the trail follower in the face at intervals upon his way, until hostility to the plundering fire god is so thoroughly drummed home as to become a sort of second nature. The more frequented trails, as I have said, are plastered with fire warning signs. Once one of them all but broke up a contented camping trip, in this wise: After a two days' ride in a driving rain storm and a night in wet blankets, we came to a deserted ranger station, and in it found a welcome refuge. Our blankets spread in a dry corner, we set to work upon a fire, just beyond the overhang of what had once been a porch roof. That fire was a task! If we were soaked, the woods were wetter still, and everything normally inflammable seemed as water-logged as a dishrag. However, Mac fared forth with his double-bitted axe, and in due course secured some near-dry chips from the sheltered side of a dead tree. However, the chips showed no overweening desire to ignite, despite Mac's most tender efforts. The rain beat on his face, mud plastered his knees, water from the shake roof trickled down his neck, and matches and temper approached exhaustion while he struggled coaxingly with the stubborn fire god. On a tree just behind the would-be fire maker was a Forest Service sign, whose large letters read: "Beware of Setting Fires!" Glancing up from Mac at his sodden task to that sign a latent sense of humor somewhere within my damp person overbalanced discretion, and I burst into uproarious laughter. Somehow Mac took my levity quite to heart. "Well," said he--or something with the same number of letters--"if you think you can make this dodgasted fire burn better'n I can, come out and try--the water's fine." There were embellishments, too, not fit to print in a modest book, regarding a loafer who would hang back in the dry places while the only intelligent member of the party, etc. But when he saw the sign even irate Mac had to laugh, too. "Whoever posted that warning," said he, "ought to be compelled to come in September and try to set a fire hereabout! He'll get a medal for incendiarism if he succeeds!" At all events the National Forests occupy an all-important place in the Pacific Playland, if mountains and woods figure at all in your itinerary. The Californian Sierras are in the "reserves," as are the Cascades and much of the coast mountains of Oregon and Washington. There are countless other outing places in the three States, of course, for many prefer the automobile to the pack-horse, and the beach to the highlands, and for such, the road maps of the automobile associations and the shore line of the Pacific open an endless field of pleasure. In hunting and fishing, too, the sportsman need not confine himself to the mountain regions, and whether the hunter use gun or camera there are regions throughout the three States where his rewards for patient diligence will be ample. Ducks and geese abound, from the Sacramento marshes to the sloughs of the Columbia and the myriad shooting grounds of Puget Sound, and there are deer and bear and occasionally a cougar or cat scattered through the hills. Coyotes roam the sagebrush plains, devastating neighbors to the sage hens and rabbits, grouse lurk in the timbered foothills, and gay Chinese pheasants are prospering--where they have been "planted" by the State game authorities. With all the rivers, and all the lakes, of the three States to choose from, it would be folly to list any special ones of marked piscatorial virtue, even if one were able where superlatives are appropriate in describing so many. Suffice to say that from actual experience I know that there are streams in the Sierras, in the Oregon Cascades, and in the Olympics of Washington whose very contemplation would make Izaak Walton long for reincarnation. Back East--in New Brunswick and Cape Breton, for instance--one often catches as many and as large trout, and sometimes more and larger, than in the Western streams. But after all, the fish are a small part of the fishing. The tame sameness of the surroundings of the down-east waters compares ill with the theatrical bigness and infinite variety of setting of most of the Western rivers, where half the delight is the recurring glimpses of snowy peaks and the majestic companionship of colossal trees. Beside a little lake not far from the summit of the Cascades is a small cabin. It is squatty in appearance and strongly constructed, but has neither the earmarks of a ranger's station nor of a trapper's winter home. A few yards away, where a little creek enters the lake, a rather elaborate dam adds to the mystery. "It's a fish station," explained Mac cryptically. Later I heard arrangements made for the transportation of half a ton of grub to the cabin--a matter of fifty miles of wagon haul, twelve by pack-horse, and five by boat. The supplies were to be brought in before the snows came in the Fall, and buried beside the cabin so that the canned stuff and the potatoes would not freeze. Then the occupants who were to eat the rations would put in their appearance about April 1st, when the trails were hidden beneath many feet of snow and packing would be nearly an impossibility. For the cabin represented the first link in the work of trout propagation, as conducted by the State Fish and Game Commission. Two experts go to it when the first spring thaws attack the drifts and the little creek grows restless beneath its winter quilt of snow and ice. The first year they waited too long, and when they came and built their dam the female fish already had gone up the creek to lay their eggs. But this year they dared the rear-guard of winter, and arrived in time to trap hundreds of trout fat with roe. For six weeks they labor collecting the eggs which later are sent to the State hatchery at Bonneville to be hatched. Later the fingerlings are distributed where most needed throughout Oregon. The fisherman who pays his license fee often enough knows next to nothing of the good work that is being done for him by those who aim not only to keep the streams from being "fished out," but also to improve the fishing. This cabin by the lakeside represents the start of the work, and bitter hard work some of it is, too. [Illustration: An Oregon trout stream From a photograph by Raymond, Moro, Ore.] The fish car, "Rainbow," with its load of cans filled with trout fry, reaches the railroad point selected for distribution. There the local warden has gathered a legion of volunteer automobiles in which the cans are rushed to the streams and lakes near by and their contents planted. That is the easy simple "planting." The difficulties come when the streams or lakes are scores of miles from a railway or even a road, and the carrying must be done by pack-train. In 1912 and 1913, for instance, one hundred and sixteen lakes scattered throughout the Cascade Mountains were stocked; that is, waters suitable for trout culture but hitherto without fish were prepared for the fisherman of next summer, and an ever-increasing number of desirable fishing places provided. And in the cases numbered here, every can of fry used was carried many miles on pack-horses; one trip occupied eight days, and even then, thanks to many changes of water, out of ten thousand fry only fifty died! Hunting is an out-of-door pursuit all to itself. The man who at home would lift a beetle from his garden walk rather than crush it becomes an ardent murderer when he camps. Probably there are no adequate apologies. And yet we all get the fever at some time or another, and taste the fascination of pitting our wits and woodcraft against the native cunning of the wild thing we stalk. Your ethical friend--who probably is a vegetarian to boot!--here at once objects. He says the contest is cruelly uneven; that the odds of a high-powered rifle spoil the argument. Which, in a way, is quite true. But Heaven knows we would never taste venison or have bear rugs before our den fires if their capture was left to our naked hands! However, this is dangerous ground, and most of us brush past it when vacation time comes, and take out our hunting license as automatically as we make up our order for corn-meal and bacon. From our rods we expect full creels, and hope for game from the guns. "Any luck?" That is the first question when you get home, and a negative answer implies defeat. Unless you get something, be prepared for the I-thought-as-much expression when your friend sympathizes with you. An incentive and a temptation it is--some of the worst of us and some of the best of us have nearly fallen (nearly, I say) and offered gold to a small boy with the basket which was full of fish when ours was empty. And the game laws--there, in truth, is where sportsmanship at times is forced into tight corners! We had hunted deer for two solid, leg-wearying days. But the woods were very dry, and the deer heard us long before we saw them, except for a doe or two, uncannily aware of the safety of their sex. On the morrow we hit the homeward trail, and were disconsolate at the prospect of a venisonless return. Crackle! Something moved in the thicket below me. Another stir and the "something" resolved itself into a deer. Up came the light carbine--the weapon _par excellence_ for saddle trips--while I sighted across seventy yards of sunshine at the brown beast moving gracefully about, nipping at hanging moss and oblivious of danger. But the carbine did not speak. Conscience and familiarity with the game laws battled for some thirty seconds with inclination and desire for venison. Then conscience won, and the doe continued her dainty feeding, undisturbed. In days gone by, our copy-book mottoes told us that "Virtue is its own reward." As a general thing such automatic recompense is unsatisfactory, so when really first-class examples of more tangible returns for virtue arise, they deserve recording. And this was one of them. For no sooner had I formed the good resolve, and acted on it, venison or no venison, than there came another soft _crack-crackle_ of dry twigs, and a second brown animal appeared. Bang! The first shot hit just abaft the shoulder and the fine buck lay dead before he knew his plight. And if that was not immediate reward for virtue, I defy explanation! CHAPTER IX A Canoe on the Deschutes There are larger rivers than the Deschutes, and wilder, and some better for the canoe; many shelter more ducks, and a few more trout than does Oregon's "River of Falls." But if there are any more beautiful or varied I have yet to make their acquaintance. The Columbia is, of course, a continental stream whose very mightiness prevents any adequate comprehension of its entity; it must be enjoyed by sections, in small potions. The Willamette is almost pastoral, a sterner Western edition of the English Thames, with a score of rollicking tributaries, rough as the mountains that breed them. The Sacramento, like linked sweetness, is long drawn out, and the boisterous brooks of the Sierras seem rather upland freshets than substantial rivers. Superlatives are risky tools on the Pacific Slope where they appear appropriate so often, but even so, with no apologies to the Pitt, the Snake, the Williamson, the Rogue, and other neighbors, greater and lesser, the Deschutes appeals to me as the richest of them all in scenery and pleasurable attractions. From the snow banks of its birth to the Columbia I have played companion to its waters on horseback, in canoe, in automobile, driving, afoot, and on a train, and with familiarity has come no contempt, but ever-increasing admiration. The Deschutes is a river of many rôles: it roars and rushes in white-watered cascades, it sparkles gently in a myriad rippling rapids, it is sedate as a mill pond; sometimes its banks are fields flanked with flowers, sometimes steep slopes with black pools below and great trees above, sometimes lined with alders or with the needle-carpeted forest marching out to the very water's edge. Such it is for the first hundred miles. Below, leaving the land of trees and meadows, it plunges for a second century of miles through a spectacular canyon, walled in by cliffs and abrupt hillsides, often rising almost sheer a thousand feet. "The Grand Canyon of the Northwest," those who know it call this stretch of the Deschutes. Above, billowing back from the rim, is a great golden-brown land of wheat fields, with a marvelous mountain westerly skyline. On the river's western flank, between it and the Cascade Range, is a playland of beautiful pine timber, crystal lakes, and mountained meadows, bounded on one hand by snow-capped peaks and on the other by the broad plains that sweep eastward to Idaho. One August we foregathered in this happy hunting ground with our canoe and our grub, near the headwaters of the Deschutes, in the heart of a region of sunshine, mountain prairie, glorious trees, and laughing water. One hundred miles of liquid highway lay before us, and we envied no one. Crane Prairie is a broad mountain meadow, hemmed in by timbered foothills that climb to the snow mountains, glimpsed here and there from the prairie land. The Deschutes divides into three streams, each meandering down from little lakes tucked away in the timber at the base of the snow slopes that feed them. All around the prairie is a delightful region intersected by trails, dotted with lakes and meadows; altogether a pleasant place for ramblings, either on foot or horseback, with fishing, hunting, and mountain climbing as tangible objectives. The first stage of our outing was a stationary one, so far as the canoe was concerned, for a week was devoted to expeditioning here and there upon and around Crane Prairie. There was excellent fishing, and we saw just enough of the trails and the mountains to realize something of their possibilities. Then one morning, before the sunlight had filtered over the hills and down through the pine boughs, we launched the _Long Green_, our canoe which had made the transcontinental trip from Oldtown, Maine, and started it upon a more venturesome, if less lengthy trip. Ours, by the way, was an equal suffrage outing. Its feminine better-half paddled as strenuously, cast a fly as optimistically, and "flipped" hot cakes as diligently as did the male member. Altogether, she demonstrated beyond a doubt that the enjoyment of an Oregon canoe trip need not depend upon one's sex or previous condition of servitude. [Illustration: Canoeing and duck shooting may be combined on the Deschutes] [Illustration: On a backwater of the Deschutes] Comfortable canoeing is the most entirely satisfying method of travel extant. It is noiseless, it is easy, and there is enough uncertainty and risk about it to lend a special charm. Just as the best of fishing is the unknown possibility of the next cast--your biggest trout may rise to the fly!--so it is when you drift down stream in a canoe, for every turn discloses a fresh vista and behind every bend lurks some rare surprise. It may be an unsuspected rapid, requiring prompt action; perhaps a tree has fallen across the river, necessitating a flanking portage or a hazardous scurry beneath it; mayhap a particularly inviting pool will appear, when one must "put on the brakes" and "full speed astern" ever so hastily before a fatal shadow spoils the fishing chances. There are other possibilities without number, some of them realities for us, as when we came face to face with a deer, to our vast mutual astonishment, or, quietly drifting down upon a madam duck and her fluffy feathered family, gave them all violent hysterics. The little birds were unable to fly, and the mother, who would not desert them and lacked courage to hide along the bank, herded her family down stream for many miles with heartbreaking squawks and much splashing of wings. A portage is either one of the interesting events of a canoe trip or its most despised hardship, according to the disposition of those concerned--not to mention the length, breadth, and thickness of the portage itself! Regarded in its most pessimistic light, a portage is a necessary evil, and, like a burned bannock, is swallowed with good grace by the initiated. In Eastern Canada, the land of _patois_ French, a portage is a portage. In Maine, and elsewhere, it is apt to be a "carry." West of the Rockies, one neither "portages" nor "carries," but "packs" the canoe, for on the Pacific Slope everything borne by man or beast is "packed," just as it is "toted" south of the Mason and Dixon line. But portage, carry, or pack, the results are the same. Reduced to their lowest equation, it usually means a sore back and a prodigious appetite--there should be a superlative for prodigious, as all camping appetites are that; dare one say "prodigiouser"? Our hundred miles of river included but two portages of consequence, both around falls. Fortunately in each instance the packing was across a comparatively level stretch, free from underbrush, as is almost all of this great belt of yellow pine that follows the eastern slopes of the Cascades from the Columbia to California. There were minor carries, once over a low bridge, where the bands of sheep cross to the mountain summer ranges of the forest reserves, and several times an easy haul, with canoe loaded, around the end of a fallen tree or crude forest ranger's bridge made of floating logs held together for the most part with baling wire. Now and again the river was bordered by nature-made fields, knee-deep with flowers; there were purple lupin everywhere and vermilion Indian paint-brush, and a score of other gay blossoms. Often for the pleasure of tramping through this pretty outdoor garden, we would let the canoe follow its own sweet will at the end of a rope, while we walked down the bank, perhaps intimately investigating the households of beavers or casting a royal coachman along the shadowed water close beside the edge. The special delight of camping, as anyone knows who has tried it, is that life all at once becomes so simple away from the high-pressure world of telephones, time-tables, dinner engagements, and other necessary evils. That is the essence of outing pleasure. The fishing, the canoeing, the hunting, climbing, or what-not are really relegated to obscurity in comparison with this one great boon. When our physical system runs down, we take medicine; when our mental system gets out of gear, we crave a dose of the open, which means of simplicity. A canoe trip is simplicity personified. In the first place, you are launched into the wide world of out-of-doors with your entire household, from dining table to bed, concentrated in a couple of bundles that repose amidships in the craft which is the beginning and the end of your transportation possibilities. The rest is "up to you." If you would get somewhere, it is necessary to paddle, always exercising due diligence to keep the craft right side up and escape fatal collisions with vexatious rocks and snags. In that department--locomotion--there is just enough active responsibility to keep it thoroughly worth while, and more than enough relaxation, as the current carries the canoe along with only now and then a guiding dip of the paddle, to make it all a most pleasurable loaf. Every stopping place was a new experience, and, it should be said, each seemed even more beautiful than its predecessor. "There's a bully place. See--there under the big pine." [Illustration: Along the Deschutes, the "River of Falls." "It roars and rushes, in white-watered Cascades" Copyright 1911 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] With a stroke or two of the paddles the _Long Green_ arrived gently at the bank beneath that pine, and out would come the box of grub, the gunny sack of pots and frying pans, and the rolls of bedding. Then the canoe was drawn from the water, and, inverted, pressed into double service as a table and a rain shelter, in case of need. Our waterproof sleeping-bags were supposed to do as much for us, and on two occasions showers dampened our slumbers, if not our spirits. The important work of camping, which is not work at all, but play, is in the commissary department. It has four stages: lighting the fire, cooking, eating, and cleaning up; the third is, by all odds, the most popular. Concerning fire making, volumes have been written. It is quite possible to learn from these incendiary publications exactly how to prepare the proper, perfect kind of a fire under any and all circumstances. Study alone is required to master the art--on paper! But in reality, making a quick and satisfactory camp-fire, like creating frying-pan bread, is a subtle attainment that can be mastered only by practice. No two people agree; it is easier to start a dispute over the details of a camp-fire than about anything imaginable, not even excepting the "best trout fly made"--and that, every fisherman knows, is a matter of piscatorial preference that has disrupted humanity since the days of Izaak Walton. Camp cooking is another art. There, again, place not all thy faith in books, for they are deceivers when it comes to a bit of bacon, a frying pan, some corn-meal and flour, and a pinch of baking powder. The only satisfactory rule is to have as few ingredients as possible and to have plenty of them. Flour, corn-meal, bacon, dried apples, butter, hardtack, sugar, salt, coffee, baking powder, beans--those form the essential foundation. There is an endless list of edibles that may be added, which run the gastronomic gamut from molasses to canned corn. But the way to learn real camp cooking, and by all odds the best procedure for happiness in transportation, is to take a small variety and keep each article in a cloth bag, which insures few troublesome packages and no disastrous leaks. "Cleanin' up" is no trick at all, when there is a river full of water a dozen feet from the fire, and it is simply a matter of two pots and two tin plates. There, indeed, the joys of camp life come home to the feminine member of the expedition most forcibly of all. "Isn't it heavenly! Only two plates to wash!" expressed the essence of her satisfaction. Two plates to wash, two paddles to manipulate, two healthful, happy weeks of out-of-doors, all as enjoyable for a woman as for a man--that was our Deschutes River canoe trip. And there are a score or more of other Oregon outings as delightful. CHAPTER X Olympus In the hilly residential section of Tacoma is a studio-workshop. On a certain September morning its inward appearance indicated the recent passage of a tornado--a human tornado of homecoming after a long campaign of camping. From dunnage bags, scattered about the floor, showered sleeping-bags, ruck sacks, a nest of cook pots, "packs," the rubber shoes of the north country, belts, knives, ammunition, and a thousand and one odds and ends. In a corner was an oiled silk tent, the worse for wear. Elsewhere, a clutter of ice axes, snowshoes, glacier spikes, guns, photographs, and hides occupied the available space. The room and its contents smacked of the regions that lie about the Arctic circle, and thence, indeed, they had just come. For Mine Host was barely back from Mt. McKinley and many months of venturesome exploration in Alaska. Next to watching the other fellow prepare his camping kit and discuss plans for the Big Trip, when you yourself are to stay at home, I think the most exasperating experience is to hear the good tales told by the man fresh returned from some thrilling expedition. As you listen to the story of the big untrodden places, the routine of your everyday life seems woefully petty, and you are all at once distracted with a mad resolve to go and do likewise. It is a dangerous symptom, and should be prescribed for immediately--though the only real remedy I know is to close one's eyes and ears and flee from the place of temptation. For this is the Wanderlust, the joyful plague of the sinner who has lost all count of time and ties in following some wilderness trail, and desires nothing more than to lose them again. If McKinley and Alaska were out of reach, across Puget Sound lay a closer land of mountains and little-trodden trails. "Why not try Olympus?" The suggestion was no sooner made than accepted. Before I entered the room six months of stay-at-home was my unquestioned outlook, but all at once a hike to Olympus appeared the most reasonable thing in the world. Mine Host, upon whom the blame rests, was out of the running, for he started East the next day. But his companion, the Mountain Climber, although scarcely yet with a taste of civilization after months in the wilderness, was in a receptive frame of mind. It took us two minutes to decide definitely upon the excursion. Twenty minutes more and we had picked outfits from the wealth of paraphernalia all about us, and at midnight we saw the lights of Seattle's water front vanish astern as a Sound steamer bore us toward Port Angeles on the Olympic peninsula. At times on our journey the Mountain Climber reminded me that on his inland voyaging Stevenson traveled with a donkey. Inasmuch as our pack animal was a horse, that rather hurt my feelings; the inference was so obvious. However, that horse was more than half mule, so far as disposition is concerned. We hired him at Port Angeles and Billy was his name. "And when I walk, I always walk with Billy, For Billy knows just how to walk," chanted the Mountain Climber as we started out blithely. But long ere we crossed the divide separating the town from the valley of the Elwha River we realized that if Billy knew how to walk he emphatically refused to put his knowledge into practice. For Billy was a stubborn loafer until it came to night time, when he bent his pent-up energy to getting as far from camp as possible between dusk and sun-up. [Illustration: "Canoeing is the most satisfactory method of travel extant"] [Illustration: The pack train above timber line From a photo by Belmore Browne] There are three distinct methods of travel on the trail. You may ride horses and carry your supplies on a pack-horse. You may walk and let the pack animal do the burden bearing. Or you may be a host unto yourself and bear your entire household on your back, with your own legs supplying locomotion. On this trip we chose the middle course, and walked, while Billy was our common carrier. Back packing is a strenuous undertaking where many miles are to be covered, and yet a superfluity of horses is a nuisance if the going is rough and instead of gaining speed with many animals you actually lose it. So it seemed to us the best way was to go afoot, with a single pack-horse. The brawling Elwha was our guide to Olympus, for its headwaters spring almost from the base of the mountain, and our trail wandered up the bank of the stream until, perhaps a dozen miles beyond our departure point from the highroad, we came to an appetizing meadow, and the pleasantest mountain home imaginable. It was the log house of the "Humes Boys," who seem as much of an institution in the Olympics as the mountains themselves. Bred in the Adirondacks the Humes migrated westward and hit upon this isolated homestead in the corner of Washington, where a growing influx of hunters and fishermen finds them out and they are kept busy during the summer months as guides and packers to the many vacationists who know them and their knowledge of the surrounding regions. In the winter they trap and--I imagine from the evident tastes of Grant Humes--read good books on out-of-door subjects, close to the glowing stove, while the winds whistle up and down the valley and the snow piles high. Gardeners, too, they are in a modest way, raising all their vegetables. And cooks! What cooks! In years gone by some pioneer settler had planted plum trees, and when we first saw Grant Humes no housewife was busier with jelly-making than he. "It's a bother now, and I don't suppose I enjoy it more than any other man likes such work," said he. "But when we're here in January and February, pretty well shut off from the world, and there's a great sameness about the food, I tell you a hundred glasses of plum jelly look almighty good--not to mention tasting!" I can vouch for the taste of it in September; if the midwinter season improves the flavor I'm in a most receptive mood for a Christmas invitation to the cabin on the Elwha! For those who have the right sort of taste, existence such as the Humes's must seem quite Utopian. Their garden and their rifles, supplemented by importations from the store "down below," feed them; their meadows supply hay for their stock; fuel of course is everywhere, and a little captivated stream brought to the house in a hand-hewed flume supplies an icy approximation of "running water." Hemming in the meadowland oasis are giant hills, their neighboring flanks hidden by mighty timber, their summits gray and brown beneath mantles of brush and berry, closing in the valley so resolutely that its hours of sunlight are almost as meager as in the cavernous fjord lands of Norway. After Humes's the trail wound through abysmal forest depths, skirting fir and pine and cedar of unbelievable girth, or making irksome detours where some fallen monarch blocked the way. Needles and ferns there were underfoot, a drapery of moss overhead, and everywhere a penetrating silence. The most _silent_ woods imaginable are those of the wet coast country, where the trees are enormous and set close together, thickets and ferns clutter the ground beneath them, and moss clings to the lower limbs; sunlight, if not a total stranger, at best is but an itinerant acquaintance. When the whim seized it the fickle trail deserted one bank of the Elwha for the other, one of us leading Billy across while his companion, in vain effort to keep dry-shod, essayed perilous crossings on logs, often as not resulting in disaster. Toward evening of the fourth day we dragged Billy up a final hill. Except for scattered and weather-beaten blazes, all vestiges of the trail had vanished, and, in fact, Grant Humes had told us that no one had been that way for two years, a fact testified by fallen trees and the unrepaired destruction of spring freshets. Hidden at the base of giant Douglas firs was all that remained of the Elwha, now scarcely more than a brook, its waters opaquely white with the silt of glaciers close at hand. Suddenly we emerged upon a hillock and below us lay Elwha Basin, where the river has its birth. A cup, carpeted with grass, walled with crags; an amphitheater studded with trees, hemmed in by banks of snow, and roofed by blue sky--such is the basin of the Elwha. At the far end is a wall of rock, over which tumbles the jolly little infant river in a silvery cascade, and beyond is a snow bank jutting into the greenery of an upper meadow. From a dark cave at the glacial snowbank's base the river seemed to have its start, though beyond the snow, from still loftier cliffs, fluttered another ribbon of water coming from unseen heights beyond. Westerly a few jagged snow peaks peered down upon us over the nearer cliffs, and great shadows reached across the pleasant valley to the very base of our little hill of vantage. At the near end of the basin we found a wonderful camp place all prepared by our thoughtful nature hostess. It was a cave at the foot of a cliff, whose ceiling of overhanging rock protected admirably against the vagaries of the elements, while wood and water were close at hand, and ferns and flowers made Elysian setting. We turned Billy loose in the knee-high grass, where he spent a week of loafing, unable, for once, to escape, thanks to the cliffs and a back trail easily blocked by felling a few small trees. Happily, then, we sprawled upon our blankets, with the sweet-smelling spruce boughs beneath us and the warm light of the fire playing odd pranks with the dancing shadows in our rock-roofed resting place. Beyond the ghostly circle of the firelight were the jet outlines of trees, and, farther, reaching up to a million stars, the mountains. And beyond those mountains lay Olympus, for whom we had come so far and now must go still farther. The few unessentials of our commissary we left at the cave, and with grub for five days and bedding on our backs, and the ice axes in our hands, like the bear of the song, we started over the mountain to see what we could see. A steep snow chute called the Dodwell and Rickson Pass was our way of passage over the divide to the Queets Basin, where the river of that name commenced its journey to the Pacific, while behind us the melting snows that formed the Elwha found outlet eastward in Puget Sound. As we trudged up the steep slopes of the Pass it was soon apparent that other travelers beside ourselves used the snowy route, for broad tracks showed where bruin on his own broad bottom had coasted down the incline but a few hours previously, a recreation youthful bears seem to enjoy about as thoroughly as men cubs. There was indeed a goodly population of bear in the upper regions of the Queets, and the hide of one of them is at my fireside now. It would have been no trick at all to kill several, for we saw them daily foraging among the blueberry uplands, with their pink tongues snaking out first on one side, then on the other, garnering in the fruit from the low bushes. But we could pack only one skin, so we left the others warming their owners, where they most properly belonged. Queets Basin is a rough mountain valley, covered for the most part only with berry bushes, and with rocky gorges cutting its surface where the river's several branches had worn away deep courses. Overshadowing the basin were the outposts of Olympus itself, with the snout of Humes's glacier thrusting its icy seracs almost into the berry land, and the pinnacled peaks behind rising majestically against the northern skyline. Westward, the roaring Queets vanished down a canyon, through a country of the roughest kind, and, we were told, one hitherto unexplored. A journey to the sea following the white-watered Queets would be a worth-while experience, we thought, seeing the first mile of it; but like many another, the Mountain Climber and I, unless we live to the age of Methuselah and devote all our years to outings, will never be able to take one half the trips we have planned and secretly long for; exclusive of our cherished ramble down the Queets! The packs slipped from our backs at the base of a giant fir, and we called it camp. Next to the bear who almost thrust his nose into my bed next morning, my most vivid recollection of that camp was the blueberry bread we concocted in the frying-pan, which was fit for the very gods of old Olympus. Then we climbed Olympus. Coming on the heels of Mt. McKinley, it was no great feat of mountaineering for the Mountain Climber, but nevertheless it combined happily all the varied attractions of climbing. The ascent of Olympus does, indeed, entail almost every sort of mountaineering, and some of it reasonably difficult and dangerous. In the first place, the approach to the mountain is perhaps its crowning feature; it is a man's sized trip to get within striking distance, and to its inaccessibility is due the fact that up to 1907 it was unscaled. When once reached, there are goodly glaciers to be conquered, vast snow fields to be negotiated, some hard ice work, and a lot of stiff climbing, all at long range from the nearest practical base camp. By daybreak we were under way. Through bushes, across a ravine, up a narrow tongue of snow in a "chimney," and then over a shoulder of rock débris, an outshoot of the lower lateral moraine of the Humes's glacier, and we found ourselves on the seracs of the glacier's snout, with no choice but to take to them. By the time we had found a way over the broken green ice, with its sudden chasms, the sun was warm at our backs and the chill of the dawn was forgotten. Then we emerged from the ice hummocks which mightily resembled a storm-tossed sea suddenly petrified, and commenced the leg-wearying ascent of the long snow field above, which clothed the glacier and stretched toward a rim of dark cliffs, the summit of the divide between us and Olympus proper. Toward the lowest saddle in this rocky wall we set our course. From the top of this new divide we gazed upon the clustering peaks of Olympus across the huge glacier of the Hoh River. Jagged peaks they were, half-clothed, at times, with clouds, their ragged rocky pinnacles showing black in contrast to the dazzling fields of snow which stretched away below us as in some Arctic scene. Getting down to the Hoh glacier proved difficult work, nearly every foothold of the descent being cut with our axes in the steep ice wall down which we worked, while yawning crevasses below our course were distinctly unpleasant reminders of what might happen should the leader slip and the rope man be insecurely anchored with his ice axe. Then a mile up steep snow slopes, and detours around the base of lesser piles of rock rising almost perpendicularly from the floor of snow, and we were at the foot of the final climb. A last wild scramble up a chimney, the way made risky by slipping stones and treacherously rotten rock, a tug of the rope, a helping hand, and we were on the summit of Olympus! [Illustration: "The Humes glacier, over which we went to Mount Olympus"] [Illustration: "Our nature-made camp in Elwha basin"] From no peak that either of us had ever climbed, in the Pacific Playland, Alaska, or Northern Europe, had we looked upon more picturesquely rugged, varied, or altogether fascinating mountain scenery. Olympus stands at the dividing of the ways of a half-dozen watersheds, and from its summit one sees canyons radiating in all directions from the glaciers that cluster on its flanks and those of its lesser neighbors, in whose depths are growing streams that rush away to Puget Sound and the Pacific. All about, west, northeast, and south, are snow-clad, saw-tooth peaks, lined with glaciers. Billowing over these wild summits and hiding them each in turn, were wondrously tinted cloud banks, whose overhanging effects of light and shadow, and freakish alteration of the view made of the broad panorama a titanic kaleidoscope. For an hour we sat there, our sweaters about us, munching raisins and reveling in the scenic wonders of the world below us. From a metal tube, well protected in a rock monument, we took and read the records of previous climbers, left since the first ascent in 1907. And then, after the habit of our kind, we added the story of our own expedition to the others and started on the homeward trail toward our cave and patient Billy. CHAPTER XI "The God Mountain of Puget Sound" Less than fifty years ago what is now Seattle numbered scarce a thousand inhabitants, and the present city of Tacoma was a cluster of shacks about a sawmill. Puget Sound, to-day a highway of commerce, was an almost unknown inland sea, its waters furrowed only by the prows of Indian canoes. But for centuries beyond number the great mountain of Puget Sound has been as it is to-day, the mountain beautiful, dominating all the Sound country. In Seattle its name is Rainier, and Tacoma insists the city's title is the mountain's as well. Call it what you will to-day, yesterday, in the talk of the Indian fishers of Whulge, it was known as Tacoma, a word generically applied to snow mountains. No truly great mountain in America is as readily accessible and as widely enjoyed as Tacoma-Rainier. To Seattle and Tacoma it is an ever-present companion, and all the Puget Sound country basks in its shadow. A most excellent automobile road winds through its forests up to the snow fields, the only highway on this continent which actually reaches a living glacier. Railroads go close to the mountain, and a delightful hotel and several camps supply every inducement and comfort for luxurious stays in close proximity to the final peak. From these places as headquarters one may make countless excursions round about the mountain, over magnificently beautiful trails, seeing its glaciers, its forests, its flowers, and its surpassing views, and there are always guides ready to lead the way to the top, an ascent which offers all the thrills and most of the experiences of the most arduous mountaineering in the Alps. In short, there is an almost limitless field of recreation round about Tacoma-Rainier, and it is but for you to choose the mode of your enjoyment. Seeing this "Mountain that was God," and climbing it, are matters of almost normal routine to the residents of the Puget Sound country and the visitors to its sister cities. It is the accepted thing to do--and one supremely worth while--but to add another account of an ascent of Tacoma-Rainier, or detailed description of its wonders, to the many already in print, would be indeed carrying coals to Newcastle. So, recommending you to the several excellent books on the subject, instead of essaying further description of the mountain to-day I'll venture to repeat what appeals to me as the best of the many Indian legends relating to it. The wording of the story is that of Theodore Winthrop, in his book _The Canoe and Saddle_, from which in a previous chapter I borrowed the delightful legend of the Dalles. [Illustration: The "God Mountain" of Puget Sound Copyright 1910 by L. G. Linkletter] The story, says Winthrop, was told to him by Hamitchou at Nisqually, presumably about 1860, and here is his interpretation: "Avarice, O Boston Tyee," quoth Hamitchou, studying me with dusky eyes, "is a mighty passion. Now, be it known unto thee that we Indians anciently used not metals nor the money of you blanketeers. Our circulating medium was shells,--wampum you would name it. Of all wampum, the most precious is Hiaqua. Hiaqua comes from the far north. It is a small, perforated shell, not unlike a very opaque quill toothpick, tapering from the middle, and cut square at both ends. We string it in many strands, and hang it around the neck of one we love--namely, each man his own neck. We also buy with it what our hearts desire. He who has most hiaqua is best and wisest and happiest of all the northern Hiada and of all the people of Whulge. The mountain horsemen value it; the braves of the terrible Blackfeet have been known, in the good old days, to come over and offer a horse or a wife for a bunch of fifty hiaqua. "Now, once upon a time there dwelt where this fort of Nisqually now stands a wise old man of the Squallyamish. He was a great fisherman and a great hunter; and the wiser he grew, much the wiser he thought himself. When he had grown very wise, he used to stay apart from every other Siwash. Companionable salmon-boilings round a common pot had no charms for him. 'Feasting was wasteful,' he said, 'and revelers would come to want,' and when they verified his prophecy, and were full of hunger and empty of salmon, he came out of his hermitage and had salmon to sell. "Hiaqua was the pay he always demanded; and as he was a very wise old man, and knew all the tideways of Whulge, and all the enticing ripples and placid spots of repose in every river where fish might dash or delay, he was sure to have salmon when others wanted, and thus bagged largely of its precious equivalent, hiaqua. "Not only a mighty fisher was the sage, but a mighty hunter, and elk, the greatest animal of the woods, was the game he loved. Well had he studied every trail where elk leave the print of their hoofs, and where, tossing their heads, they bend the tender twigs. Well had he searched through the broad forest, and found the long-haired prairies where elk feed luxuriously; and there, from behind palisade fir-trees, he had launched the fatal arrow. Sometimes, also, he lay beside a pool of sweetest water, revealed to him by gemmy reflections of sunshine gleaming through the woods, until at noon the elk came down, to find death awaiting him as he stooped and drank. Or beside the same fountain the old man watched at night, drowsily starting at every crackling branch, until, when the moon was high, and her illumination declared the pearly water, elk dashed forth incautious into the glade, and met their midnight destiny. "Elk-meat, too, he sold to his tribe. This brought him pelf, but, alas, for his greed, the pelf came slowly. Waters and woods were rich in game. All the Squallyamish were hunters and fishers, though none so skilled as he. They were rarely absolutely in want, and, when they came to him for supplies, they were far too poor in hiaqua. "So the old man thought deeply, and communed with his wisdom, and, while he waited for fish or beast, he took advice within himself from his demon--he talked with Tamanous. And always the question was, 'How may I put hiaqua in my purse?' "Tamanous never revealed to him that far to the north, beyond the waters of Whulge, are tribes with their under lip pierced with a fish-bone, among whom hiaqua is plenty as salmonberries are in the woods that time in midsummer salmon fin it along the reaches of Whulge. "But the more Tamanous did not reveal to him these mysteries of nature, the more he kept dreamily prying into his own mind, endeavoring to devise some scheme by which he might discover a treasure-trove of the beloved shell. His life seemed wasted in the patient, frugal industry, which only brought slow, meager gains. He wanted the splendid elation of vast wealth and the excitement of sudden wealth. His own peculiar tamanous was the elk. Elk was also his totem, the cognizance of his freemasonry with those of his own family, and their family friends in other tribes. Elk, therefore, were every way identified with his life; and he hunted them farther and farther up through the forests on the flanks of Tacoma, hoping that some day his tamanous would speak in the dying groan of one of them, and gasp out the secret of the mines of hiaqua, his heart's desire. "Tacoma was so white and glittering, that it seemed to stare at him very terribly and mockingly, and to know his shameful avarice, and how it led him to take from starving women their cherished lip and nose jewels of hiaqua, and to give them in return only tough scraps of dried elk-meat and salmon. When men are shabby, mean, and grasping, they feel reproached for their groveling lives by the unearthliness of nature's beautiful objects, and they hate flowers and sunsets, mountains and the quiet stars of heaven. "Nevertheless," continued Hamitchou, "this wise old fool of my legend went on stalking elk along the sides of Tacoma, ever dreaming of wealth. And at last, as he was hunting near the snows one day, one very clear and beautiful day of late summer, when sunlight was magically disclosing far distances, and making all nature supernaturally visible and proximate, Tamanous began to work in the soul of the miser. "'Are you brave?' whispered Tamanous in the strange, ringing, dull, silent thunder-tones of a demon voice. 'Dare you go to the caves where my treasures are hid?' "'I dare,' said the miser. "He did not know that his lips had syllabled a reply. He did not even hear his own words. But all the place had become suddenly vocal with echoes. The great rock against which he leaned crashed forth, 'I dare.' Then all along through the forest, dashing from tree to tree and lost at last among the murmuring of breeze-shaken leaves, went careering his answer, taken up and repeated scornfully, 'I dare.' And after a silence, while the daring one trembled and would gladly have ventured to shout, for the companionship of his own voice, there came across from the vast snow wall of Tacoma a tone like the muffled threatening plunge of an avalanche into a chasm, 'I dare.' "'You dare!' said Tamanous, enveloping him with a dread sense of an unseen, supernatural presence; 'you pray for wealth of hiaqua. Listen!' "This injunction was hardly needed; the miser was listening with dull eyes kindled and starting. He was listening with every rusty hair separating from its unkempt mattedness, and outstanding upright, a caricature of an aureole. "'Listen,' said Tamanous, in the noonday hush. And then Tamanous vouchsafed at last the great secret of the hiaqua mines, while in terror near to death the miser heard, and every word of guidance toward the hidden treasure of the mountains seared itself into his soul ineffaceably. "Silence came again more terrible now than the voice of Tamanous,--silence under the shadow of the great cliff,--silence deepening down the forest vistas,--silence filling the void up to the snows of Tacoma. All life and motion seemed paralyzed. At last Skai-ki, the Blue-Jay, the wise bird, foe to magic, sang cheerily overhead. Her song seemed to refresh again the honest laws of nature. The buzz of life stirred everywhere again, and the inspired miser rose and hastened home to prepare for his work. "When Tamanous has put a great thought in a man's brain, has whispered him a great discovery within his power, or hinted at a great crime, that spiteful demon does not likewise suggest the means of accomplishment. "The miser, therefore, must call upon his own skill to devise proper tools, and upon his own judgment to fix upon the most fitting time for carrying out his quest. Sending his squaw out to the kamas prairie, under pretense that now was the season for her to gather their store of that sickish-sweet esculent root, and that she might not have her squaw's curiosity aroused by seeing him at strange work, he began his preparations. He took a pair of enormous elk-horns, and fashioned from each horn a two-pronged pick or spade, by removing all the antlers except the two topmost. He packed a good supply of kippered salmon, and filled his pouch with kinnikinnick for smoking in his black stone pipe. With his bows and arrows and his two elk-horn picks wrapped in buckskin hung at his back, he started just before sunset, as if for a long hunt. His old, faithful, maltreated, blanketless, vermilionless squaw, returning with baskets full of kamas, saw him disappearing moodily down the trail. "All that night, all the day following, he moved on noiselessly, by paths he knew. He hastened on, unnoticing outward objects, as one with controlling purpose hastens. Elk and deer, bounding through the trees, passed him, but he tarried not. At night he camped just below the snows of Tacoma. He was weary, and chill night-airs blowing down from the summit almost froze him. He dared not take his fire-sticks, and, placing one perpendicular upon a little hollow on the flat side of the other, twirl the upright stick rapidly between his palms until the charred spot kindled and lighted his 'tipsoo,' his dry, tindery wool of inner bark. A fire, gleaming high upon the mountainside, might be a beacon to draw thither any night-wandering savage to watch in ambush, and learn the path toward the mines of hiaqua. So he drowsed chilly and fireless, awakened often by dread sounds of crashing and rumbling among the chasms of Tacoma. He desponded bitterly, almost ready to abandon his quest, almost doubting whether he had in truth received a revelation, whether his interview with Tamanous had not been a dream, and finally whether all the hiaqua in the world was worth this toil and anxiety. Fortunate is the sage who at such a point turns back and buys his experience without worse befalling him. "Past midnight he suddenly was startled from his drowse and sat bolt upright in terror. A light! Was there another searcher in the forest, and a bolder than he? That flame just glimmering over the treetops, was it a camp-fire of friend or foe? Had Tamanous been revealing to another the great secret? No, smiled the miser, his eyes fairly open, and discovering that the new light was the moon. He had been waiting for her illumination on paths heretofore untrodden by mortal. She did not show her full, round, jolly face, but turned it askance as if she hardly liked to be implicated in this night's transactions. "However, it was light he wanted, not sympathy, and he started up at once to climb over the dim snows. The surface was packed by the night's frost, and his moccasins gave him firm hold; yet he traveled but slowly, and could not always save himself from a glissade backwards, and a bruise upon some projecting knob or crag. Sometimes, upright fronts of ice diverted him for long circuits, or a broken wall of cold cliff arose, which he must surmount painfully. Once or twice he stuck fast in a crevice and hardly drew himself out by placing his bundle of picks across the crack. As he plodded and floundered thus deviously and toilsomely upward, at last the wasted moon paled overhead, and under foot the snow grew rosy with coming dawn. The dim world about the mountain's base displayed something of its vast detail. He could see, more positively than by moonlight, the far-reaching arteries of mist marking the organism of Whulge beneath; and what had been but a black chaos now resolved itself into the Alpine forest whence he had come. "But he troubled himself little with staring about; up he looked, for the summit was at hand. To win that summit was well-nigh the attainment of his hopes, if Tamanous were true; and that, with the flush of morning ardor upon him, he could not doubt. There, in a spot Tamanous had revealed to him, was hiaqua--hiaqua that should make him the richest and greatest of all the Squallyamish. "The chill before sunrise was upon him as he reached the last curve of the dome. Sunrise and he struck the summit together. Together sunrise and he looked over the glacis. They saw within a great hollow all covered with the whitest of snow, save at the center, where a black lake lay deep in a well of purple rock. "At the eastern end of this lake was a small irregular plain of snow, marked by three stones like mountains. Toward these the miser sprang rapidly, with full sunshine streaming after him over the snows. "The first monument he examined with keen looks. It was tall as a giant man, and its top was fashioned into the grotesque likeness of a salmon's head. He turned from this to inspect the second. It was of similar height, but bore at its apex an object in shape like the regular flame of a torch. As he approached, he presently discovered that this was an image of the kamas-bulb in stone. These two semblances of prime necessities of Indian life delayed him but an instant, and he hastened on to the third monument, which stood apart on a perfect level. The third stone was capped by something he almost feared to behold, lest it should prove other than his hopes. Every word of Tamanous had thus far proved veritable; but might there not be a bitter deceit at the last? The miser trembled. "Yes, Tamanous was trustworthy. The third monument was as the old man anticipated. It was a stone elk-head, such as it appears in earliest summer, when the antlers are sprouting lustily under their rough jacket of velvet. "You remember, Boston tyee," continued Hamitchou, "that elk was the old man's tamanous, the incarnation for him of the universal Tamanous. He therefore was right joyous at this good omen of protection; and his heart grew big and swollen with hope, as the black salmonberry swells in a swamp in June. He threw down his 'ikta'; every impediment he laid down upon the snow; and unwrapping his two picks of elk-horn, he took the stoutest, and began to dig in the frozen snow at the foot of the elk-head monument. "No sooner had he struck the first blow than he heard behind him a sudden puff, such as a seal makes when it comes to the surface to breathe. Turning round much startled, he saw a huge otter just clambering up over the edge of the lake. The otter paused, and struck on the snow with his tail, whereupon another otter and another appeared, until, following their leader in slow solemn file, were twelve other otters, marching toward the miser. The twelve approached and drew up in a circle around him. Each was twice as large as any otter ever seen. Their chief was four times as large as the most gigantic otter ever seen in the regions of Whulge, and certainly was as great as a seal. When the twelve were arranged, their leader skipped to the top of the elk-head stone, and sat there between the horns. Then the whole thirteen gave a mighty puff in chorus. "The hunter of hiaqua was for a moment abashed at his uninvited ring of spectators. But he had seen otter before, and bagged them. These he could not waste time to shoot, even if a phalanx so numerous were not formidable. Besides, they might be tamanous. He took to his pick, and began digging stoutly. "He soon made way in the snow, and came to solid rock beneath. At every thirteenth stroke of his pick, the fugleman otter tapped with his tail on the monument. Then the choir of lesser otters tapped together with theirs on the snow. This caudal action produced a dull muffled sound, as if there were a vast hollow below. "Digging with all his force, by and by the seeker for treasure began to tire, and laid down his elk-horn spade to wipe the sweat from his brow. Straightway the fugleman otter turned, and swinging his tail, gave the weary man a mighty thump on the shoulder; and the whole band, imitating, turned, and, backing inward, smote him with centripetal tails, until he resumed his labors, much bruised. "The rock lay first in plates, then in scales. These it was easy to remove. Presently, however, as the miser pried carelessly at a larger mass, he broke his elk-horn tool. Fugleman otter leaped down, and, seizing the supplemental pick between his teeth, mouthed it over to the digger. Then the amphibious monster took in the same manner the broken pick, and bore it round the circle of his suite, who inspected it with puffs. "These strange magical proceedings disconcerted and somewhat baffled the miser; but he plucked up heart, for the prize was priceless, and worked on more cautiously with his second pick. At last its bows and the regular thumps of the otters' tails called forth a sound hollower and hollower. His circle of spectators narrowed so that he could feel their panting breath as they bent curiously over the little pit he had dug. "The crisis was evidently at hand. "He lifted each scale of rock more delicately. Finally he raised a scale so thin that it cracked into flakes as he turned it over. Beneath was a large square cavity. "It was filled to the brim with hiaqua. "He was a millionaire. "The otters recognized him as the favorite of Tamanous, and retired to a respectful distance. "For some moments he gazed on his treasure, taking thought of his future grandeur among the dwellers by Whulge. He plunged his arm deep as he could go; there was still nothing but the precious shells. He smiled to himself in triumph; he had wrung the secret from Tamanous. Then, as he withdrew his arm, the rattle of the hiaqua recalled him to the present. He saw that noon was long past, and he must proceed to reduce his property to possession. "The hiaqua was strung upon long, stout sinews of elk in bunches of fifty shells on each side. Four of these he wound about his waist; three he hung across each shoulder; five he took in each hand;--twenty strings of pure white hiaqua, every shell large, smooth, unbroken, beautiful. He could carry no more; hardly even with this could he stagger along. He put down his burden for a moment, while he covered up the seemingly untouched wealth of the deposit carefully with the scale stones, and brushed snow over the whole. "The miser never dreamed of gratitude, never thought to hang a string of the buried treasure about the salmon and kamas tamanous stones, and two strings around the elk-head; no, all must be his own, all he could carry now, and the rest for the future. "He turned, and began his climb toward the crater's edge. At once the otters, with a mighty puff in concert, took up their line of procession, and, plunging into the black lake, began to beat the water with their tails. "The miser could hear the sound of splashing water as he struggled upward through the snow, now melted and yielding. It was a long hour of harsh toil and much back-sliding before he reached the rim, and turned to take one more view of this valley of good fortune. "As he looked, a thick mist began to rise from the lake center, where the otters were splashing. Under the mist grew a cylinder of black cloud, utterly hiding the water. "Terrible are storms in the mountains; but in this looming mass was a terror more dread than any hurricane of ruin ever bore within its wild vortexes. Tamanous was in that black cylinder, and as it strode forward, chasing in the very path of the miser, he shuddered, for his wealth and his life were in danger. "However, it might be but a common storm. Sunlight was bright as ever overhead in heaven, and all the lovely world below lay dreamily fair, in that afternoon of summer, at the feet of the rich man, who now was hastening to be its king. He stepped from the crater edge and began his descent. "Instantly the storm overtook him. He was thrown down by its first assault, flung over a rough bank of iciness, and lay at the foot torn and bleeding, but clinging still to his precious burden. Each hand still held its five strings of hiaqua. In each hand he bore a nation's ransom. He staggered to his feet against the blast. Utter night was around him--night as if daylight had forever perished, had never come into being from chaos. The roaring of the storm had also deafened and bewildered him with its wild uproar. "Present in every crash and thunder of the gale was a growing undertone, which the miser well knew to be the voice of Tamanous. A deadly shuddering shook him. Heretofore that potent Unseen had been his friend and guide; there had been awe, but no terror, in his words. Now the voice of Tamanous was inarticulate, but the miser could divine in that sound an unspeakable threat of wrath and vengeance. Floating upon this undertone were sharper tamanous voices, shouting and screaming always sneeringly, 'Haha, hiaqua,--ha, ha, ha!' "Whenever the miser essayed to move and continue his descent, a whirlwind caught him and with much ado tossed him hither and thither, leaving him at last flung and imprisoned in a pinching crevice, or buried to the eyes in a snowdrift, or gnawed by lacerating lava jaws. Sharp torture the old man was encountering, but he held fast to his hiaqua. "The blackness grew ever deeper and more crowded with perdition, the din more impish, demoniac, and devilish; the laughter more appalling; the miser more and more exhausted with vain buffeting. He determined to propitiate exasperated Tamanous with a sacrifice. He threw into the black cylinder storm his left-handful, five strings of precious hiaqua." "Somewhat long-winded is thy legend, Hamitchou, Great Medicine-Man of the Squallyamish," quoth I. "Why didn't the old fool drop his wampum--shell out, as one might say,--and make tracks?" "Well, well!" continued Hamitchou, "when the miser had thrown away his first handful of hiaqua, there was a momentary lull in elemental war, and he heard the otters puffing around him invisible. Then the storm, renewed, blacker, louder, harsher, crueller than before, and over the dread undertone of the voice of Tamanous, tamanous voices again screamed, 'Ha, ha, ha, hiaqua!' and it seemed as if tamanous hands, or the paws of the demon otters, clutched at the miser's right-handful and tore at his shoulder and waist belts. "So, while darkness and tempest still buffeted the hapless old man, and thrust him away from his path, and while the roaring was wickeder than the roars of tens and tens of bears when a-hungered they pounce upon a plain of kamas, gradually wounded and terrified, he flung away string after string of hiaqua, gaining never any notice of such sacrifice, except an instant's lull of the cyclone and a puff from the invisible otters. "The last string he clung to long, and before he threw it to be caught and whirled after its fellows, he tore off a single bunch of fifty shells. But upon this, too, the storm laid its clutches. In the final desperate struggle, the old man was wounded so sternly that, when he had thrown into the formless chaos, instinct with Tamanous, his last propitiatory offering, he sank and became insensible. "It seemed a long slumber to him, but at last he awoke. The jagged moon was just paling overhead, and he heard Skai-ki, the Blue-Jay, foe to magic, singing welcome to sunrise. It was the very spot whence he started at morning. "He was hungry, and felt for his bag of kamas and pouch of smoke-leaves. There, indeed, by his side were the elk-sinew strings of the bag, and the black stone pipe-bowl,--but no bag, no kamas, no kinnikinnick. The whole spot was thick with kamas plants, strangely out of place on the mountainside, and overhead grew a large arbutus tree, with glistening leaves, ripe for smoking. The old man found his hardwood fire-sticks safe under the herbage, and soon twirled a light, and, nurturing it in dry grass, kindled a cheery fire. He plucked up kamas, set it to roast, and laid a store of the arbutus leaves to dry on a flat stone. "After he had made a hearty breakfast on the chestnut-like kamas-bulbs, and, smoking the thoughtful pipe, was reflecting on the events of yesterday, he became aware of an odd change in his condition. He was not bruised and wounded from head to foot, as he expected, but very stiff only, and as he stirred, his joints creaked like the creak of a lazy paddle upon the rim of a canoe. Skai-ki, the Blue-Jay, was singularly familiar with him, hopping from her perch in the arbutus, and alighting on his head. As he put his hand to dislodge her, he touched his scratching-stick of bone, and attempted to pass it, as usual, through his hair. The hair was matted and interlaced into a network reaching fully two ells down his back. 'Tamanous,' thought the old man. "Chiefly he was conscious of a mental change. He was calm and content. Hiaqua and wealth seemed to have lost their charms for him. Tacoma, shining like gold and silver and precious stones of gayest luster, seemed a benign comrade and friend. All the outer world was cheerful and satisfying. He thought he had never awakened to a fresher morning. He was a young man again, except for that unusual stiffness and unmelodious creaking in his joints. He felt no apprehension of any presence of a deputy tamanous, sent by Tamanous to do malignities upon him in the lonely wood. Great Nature had a kindly aspect, and made its divinity perceived only by the sweet notes of birds and hum of forest life, and by a joy that clothed his being. And now he found in his heart a sympathy for man, and a longing to meet his old acquaintances down by the shores of Whulge. "He rose, and started on the downward way, smiling, and sometimes laughing heartily at the strange croaking, moaning, cracking, and rasping of his joints. But soon motion set the lubricating valves at work, and the sockets grew slippery again. He marched rapidly, hastening out of loneliness into society. The world of wood, glade, and stream seemed to him strangely altered. Old colossal trees, firs behind which he had hidden when on the hunt, cedars under whose drooping shade he had lurked, were down, and lay athwart his path, transformed into immense mossy mounds, like barrows of giants, over which he must clamber warily, lest he sink and be half stifled in the dust of rotten wood. Had Tamanous been widely at work in that eventful night?--or had the spiritual change the old man felt affected his views of the outer world? "Traveling downward, he advanced rapidly, and just before sunset came to the prairies where his lodge should be. Everything had seemed to him so totally altered, that he tarried a moment in the edge of the woods to take an observation before approaching his home. There was a lodge, indeed, in the old spot, but a newer and far handsomer one than he had left on the fourth evening before. "A very decrepit old squaw, ablaze with vermilion and decked with countless strings of hiaqua and costly beads, was seated on the ground near the door, tending a kettle of salmon, whose blue and fragrant steam mingled pleasantly with the golden haze of sunset. She resembled his own squaw in countenance, as an ancient smoked salmon is like a newly dried salmon. If she was indeed his spouse, she was many years older than when he saw her last, and much better dressed than the respectable lady had ever been during his miserly days. "He drew near quietly. The bedizened dame was crooning a chant, very dolorous,--like this: 'My old man has gone, gone, gone,-- My old man to Tacoma has gone. To hunt the elk, he went long ago. When will he come down, down, down, Down to the salmon-pot and me?' 'He has come from Tacoma down, down, down,-- Down to the salmon-pot and thee,' shouted the reformed miser, rushing forward to supper with his faithful wife." "And how did Penelope explain the mystery?" I asked. "If you mean the old lady," replied Hamitchou, "she was my grandmother, and I'd thank you not to call names. She told my grandfather that he had been gone many years;--she could not tell how many, having dropped her tally-stick in the fire by accident that very day. She also told him how, in despite of the entreaties of many a chief who knew her economic virtues, and prayed her to become the mistress of his household, she had remained constant to the Absent, and forever kept the hopeful salmon-pot boiling for his return. She had distracted her mind from the bitterness of sorrow by trading in kamas and magic herbs, and had thus acquired a genteel competence. The excellent dame then exhibited with great complacency her gains, most of which she had put in the portable and secure form of personal ornament, making herself a resplendent magazine of valuable frippery. "Little cared the repentant sage for such things. But he was rejoiced to be again at home and at peace, and near his own early gains of hiaqua and treasure, buried in a place of security. These, however, he no longer overesteemed and hoarded. He imparted whatever he possessed, material treasures or stores of wisdom and experience, freely to all the land. Every dweller by Whulge came to him for advice how to chase the elk, how to troll or spear the salmon, and how to propitiate Tamanous. He became the Great Medicine Man of the Siwashes, a benefactor to his tribe and his race. "Within a year after he came down from his long nap on the side of Tacoma, a child, my father, was born to him. The sage lived many years, beloved and revered, and on his death-bed, long before the Boston tilicum or any blanketeers were seen in the regions of Whulge, he told this history to my father, as a lesson and a warning. My father, dying, told it to me. But I, alas! have no son; I grow old, and lest this wisdom perish from the earth, and Tamanous be again obliged to interpose against avarice, I tell the tale to thee, O Boston tyee. Mayest thou and thy nation not disdain this lesson of an earlier age, but profit by it and be wise." So far Hamitchou recounted his legend without the palisades of Fort Nisqually, and motioned, in expressive pantomime, at the close, that he was dry with big talk, and would gladly wet his whistle. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII A Summer in the Sierras Our Western literary disciple, Bret Harte, is responsible for some such statement as this, through the mouthpiece of one of his lively mountaineers: "Tain't no use, you ain't got good sense no more. Why, sometimes you talk jest as if you _lived in a valley_!" Doesn't that epitomize the contempt of the highlander for the lowlander? A lover of the Californian Sierra reasonably would be expected to originate such a philosophy. For while all mountains approach perfection, existence in the California cordillera is as near Utopian as this old earth offers. That, of course, applies only to the out-of-door lover. For the others I dare venture no judgment; in their blindness they love best their cities and their rabbit-warren homes, and the logical desires of sunshine and forest are dried out of them by steam heat and contaminated by breathing much-used oxygen. Humans, generally speaking, have their chief habitat in the lowlands. Compelling reasons, aside from choice, are responsible for this state of affairs. For instance, there are not enough highlands to go around. Then, too, valleys and plains are better adapted to the customary occupations of the genus _homo_, especially that obsessing mania for the accumulation of cash. But despite their habits and their environment, a satisfactory proportion of the valley dwellers love the hill country, and when they have mountains for neighbors revel in the opportunities thereby afforded. In California the lot of the lowlander is blessed beyond compare, for the most enticing playland imaginable is at his beck, and he is offered a scenic menu _à la carte_, so to speak, which includes about everything the Creator devised in the way of out-of-door attractions. There is sea beach and forest, poppy-gilded plain and snow-quilted mountain. From a semi-tropical riviera, with the scent of orange blossoms still in his nostrils, he may mount above the snow line in a few brief hours. One day he bathes in the Pacific, inhaling the dank, sea-smelling fog, and the next finds himself in the grandest forests of America, breathing the crisp air of lofty altitudes. Revel in the gentle south of France or Alpine Switzerland; enjoy the mildness of Florida or the rugged mountaineering of the Rockies; drink Chianti in an Italian vineyard or cast a trout fly in a brawling Scottish stream; view fragments of Canton within gunshot of the Golden Gate and then glimpse utter desert by the shores of the Salton Sea--in short, choose what you will, and in California it awaits you. * * * * * The breezy bay of San Francisco, blue Tamalpais, and the live-oaks of Berkeley's campus we left behind, swinging easterly and south through the hot, rich valley of the San Joaquin until the railroad ended and our trail began. Before us lay a summer in the Sierras; a summer in no wise definitely organized in advance, but ninety days of wandering at will unburdened by itinerary and guided chiefly by the whim of the moment. A wonder of the world supremely worth seeing is Yosemite and when you see it, if the possibility offers, avoid the hackneyed methods. The best way ever devised to get acquainted with the Wonder-Valley, or any other of Nature's masterpieces, is the simplest: it consists in progressing upon your own two feet. So it was that we entered the Yosemite Park, and under our own power, so to speak, we negotiated many scores of miles over trails good and bad, and often guided by no trail at all. To add even a modest description of Yosemite Valley to the far-reaching bibliography already in existence would be indeed carrying coals to a literary Newcastle. If you want guidebooks, history, or information upon its flowers and its trees, simply whisper the word "Yosemite" in any west-coast bookstore and you will be led to shelves bulging with volumes that are authoritative, comprehensive, attractive, and, many of them, interesting. It is suggested, however, that the wonders of the Valley will break upon you with all the greater splendor if reading about them is postponed until after you have made visual acquaintance with what Nature has written under the blue California sky in characters of trees, cliffs, rushing rivers, giant trees, and myriad flowers. [Illustration: "The live oaks of Berkeley's campus" From a photograph by Wells Drury, Berkeley, Cal.] [Illustration: Looking across the clouds to Mount Adams from the flanks of Rainier Copyright 1909 by L. G. Linkletter] Go, then, as did we, with a pack on your back and without plans. Or, if needs be, patronize the hotel or one of the luxurious camps, and thence see the sights of the Park at leisure through the medium of the stagecoaches which go nearly everywhere over the excellent roads. As for us, we had a scrap of a tent and a box of provisions which we trundled, after a deal of vexatious bargaining, a mile or so in a borrowed wheelbarrow to an enchanted camping spot beside a brimful brook, shaded by primeval trees and sheltered from the welter of humans who promenade promiscuously by a convenient arboreal jungle. There we made our headquarters, by extending our fragmentary canvas fly between our blankets and the heavens and establishing a megalithic fireplace at arm's reach from the running water, where we cooked three or more times a day. For a happy fortnight we did those things which Yosemite visitors are supposed to do. We gloried in the sheer mightiness of El Capitan from below, and reveled in the views from its crest. From Inspiration Point, on the road to the Big Trees, we were inspired beyond expectation by the magnificent panorama of the cliff-encompassed canyon, with the silver waterfalls lighting its shadowed walls like threads of gossamer against the gray background of the rocks. Close at hand we were deafened by the thundering waters of Bridal Veil and Nevada, and we clambered up the trails to see the highland rivers that gave them birth. A glad summer day was devoted to the Mariposa Grove pilgrimage where discreet soldiers watched lest we abscond with a flower or treelet, or, I suppose, commit that universal sin of American self-publicity, scratch our puny initials upon the gnarled columns of the most ancient and the grandest monuments Nature has erected on our continent--the Sequoias. Then, having reveled in the prosaic recreations of Yosemite--and the first view of the Valley alone is worth the entire pilgrimage, remember--we picked up our beds and walked. That is, the blankets were strapped on our backs, and the rudiments of a commissary stowed in our ricksacks. So equipped, with our creature comforts provided for to the extent of about fifty pounds per man, we "cached" the balance of our provender and equipment in a rocky cave (where a bear subsequently effected destructive inroads) and struck out for Tuolumne Meadows and Hetch-Hetchy. [Illustration: "We gloried in the sheer mightiness of El Capitan"] In the course of our unplanned wanderings we followed up the Merced River, past Nevada Falls and through the meadowed beauties of the Little Yosemite. Ultimately, by ways uncharted, so far as we were aware, we viewed the Merced Canyon where Lakes Washburn and Merced nestle in the heart of a little-traveled fairyland, and thence struck 'cross-country to the upper regions of the other great river of the Park, the Tuolumne. All the Tuolumne Meadow country is sheer delight, for mountaineer, fisherman, naturalist, and lover of the out-of-doors whose tastes are unspecific; well has John Muir called it "the grand central camp-ground of the Sierras." It is a vast meadow, hemmed in by a mountain region beyond compare for expeditioning, with legions of royal trout ready for the fly, and a vast flower garden maintained enticingly by Dame Nature during the summer sunshine season. The trip we took from the Meadows, again without trail, was down the Tuolumne to Hetch-Hetchy Valley. The journey's start literally was flower-strewn, and we tramped carefully lest we crush over-many of the purple daisies and tiny violets dotting the dewy grass, while lupin offered gentle resistance to our progress. First came the canyon of Conness Creek, shaded with groves of hemlock, and neighbored by three falls, the first of the countless cataracts which mark the wild river's course through the rockbound gorge, to the valley of our destination, miles below. Beyond the falls the stream flows quietly for a space, between banks lined with pines and deciduous trees. As Marion Randall Parsons has quoted, here, Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. And standing beside the white waters with the ground shaking underfoot to the tune of their mighty onrush, with the meadows, trees, and flowers round about, the awesome cliffs for guardians, and the bright blue sky over all, it requires no visionary to conjure up legendary cities at this river's end, for but half lend yourself to the notion and the glorious Sierran stream becomes a beckoning highway to a land of pleasant dreams. [Illustration: "A vast flower garden maintained enticingly by Dame Nature" Copyright 1912 by Kiser Photo Co., Portland, Ore.] [Illustration: Light and shadow in Yosemite] Of the Tuolumnic canyon journey this same lover of the Sierras, Mrs. Parsons, has sketched the following description: It is impossible to do justice to the canyon after one brief journey through it; impossible to set down in order the details of that day's travel and the next, confused as they were by the consciousness of tired muscles and eyes bewildered by the all too hurried succession of interests. Little more than impressions remain--memories of cliffs rising from three to five thousand feet above us; of a walk of half a mile on stepping stones along the river; of more talus-piles; of the entrance into the rattlesnake zone; of a walk through a still forest of tall firs and young cedars, where our voices seemed to break the silence of ages; of more talus-piles; of a camp beneath the firs among deep fern-beds, and of the red ants that there congregated; of more brush and more talus-piles; of a look down Muir Gorge and a hot climb up a thousand feet over the rocks to the cairn of stones containing the precious register; of a cliff extending to the river's edge which presented the alternative of edging across it on a crack or climbing a five-hundred-foot hill to get around it. The Tuolumne is one of the largest of our Sierra rivers, much greater in volume than its quieter neighbor, the Merced. Its falls, often of an imposing height, are none of them sheer, none of them giving that impression of pure joy of living with which the Merced waters leap into the great Nevada abyss. For the Tuolumne's is a sterner, stormier course, beset with giant rocks against which even its splendid strength is impotently hurled, and its joy is the joy of battles. But it is a strange thing, standing beside one of these giant cataracts where the ground shakes with the impact and where every voice of wind or living creature is silenced in the roar of the maddened waters, to see under what a delicate fabric this Titan's force is veiled--a billowing, gossamer texture, iris-tinted, with jeweled spray flying high upon the wind. Then came Hetch-Hetchy, after two days of strenuous pursuit of the Tuolumne's galloping waters. When we were there Hetch-Hetchy was a valley untrammeled, carpeted with grass and flowers, walled by mighty cliffs, traversed by the unfettered Tuolumne. Of late, as all the outdoor world knows, its freedom has been bartered and its fate sealed--the fate of being drowned beneath a reservoir whose waters are to quench the thirst of San Francisco. Probably, from an engineering standpoint, the knell of Hetch-Hetchy is a masterpiece; perhaps economically it is wisdom; but none who have delighted in the valley's hospitality but deem it tragedy of the darkest die. Be that as it may, the waters are yet unstored and Hetch-Hetchy is still a camp-ground, and for the city-bred or the city-weary it offers panacea beyond compare as it has since the beginning of all things, when cities were as little thought of as reservoirs. Regarding the horrors of industrial civilization, William Morris once urged humanitarian effort "until the contrast is less disgraceful between the fields where the beasts live and the streets where men live." And Hetch-Hetchy, even in a region of loveliness, is perhaps Nature's strongest sermon in her wordless arraignment of the physical follies of civilization--at least that so-called civilization which is wound around with unashamed artificialities and the ugliness of urban existence. Our week in Hetch-Hetchy we wished might have been a month, but the calendar moves relentlessly in the Sierra as elsewhere, and only too soon the days were numbered until we must abandon Yosemite Park and strike southward into other mountain regions, with other companionship. So back we "hiked" to our valley base camp, rescued what the bears had left of our stored property, and renewed acquaintance with the railroad at Merced. During the rest of that most excellent summer my fortunes were thrown in with those of the Sierra Club, the Californian member of the Coast's trio of notable mountain-climbing organizations, the other two being the Mazamas of Portland and the Mountaineers of Seattle. This organized back-to-naturing, so to speak, deserves a large measure of attention and a vast deal of praise. The official purpose of the Sierra Club is "to explore, enjoy, and render accessible the mountain regions of the Pacific Coast." Its aim, like those of its brother organizations of the West and East, is to "publish authentic information concerning the mountain regions and to enlist the support and cooperation of the people and the Government in preserving the forests and other natural features of the Sierra Nevada Mountains." With such a platform these clubs of the Pacific accomplish much real good and often are the sponsors for forward-looking movements of wide importance. Also, their experience and their organized methods each summer make possible lengthy excursions into the mountain regions whose scope would be beyond the individual means of many who join forces with the club on these community outings. Hundreds of miles of new trails are laid out and old ones improved, peaks are climbed and records left, often trout are planted in barren lakes, and everyone is given an educational experience in the ways of the Open. Also--and primarily--all hands have a royal good time. [Illustration: The Government road that leads to Mount Rainier] [Illustration: Sunrise at Hetch-Hetchy] At Tracy, in the San Joaquin Valley, where the Sierra Club special train stopped for supper, I joined the party. That night I felt conspicuous, for six weeks of tramping in the Yosemite had removed the last traces of presentability from my costume; however, when at dawn the hikers of the morrow emerged from the sleeping-cars at Porterville, white collars, low shoes, long skirts, and all the other impedimenta of civilized apparel were replaced by workaday garments, while khaki and flannel shirts were much in evidence. For two days the long line struggled along the trail leading into the canyon of the Kern. From oak and chaparral to pines and bear clover, silver fir, and nature-made gardens of columbine, red snow plant, and cyclamen we mounted, and then still higher to a silent tamarack country. Then down interminably to Fish Creek, and camp, and Charlie Tuck, who was--and no doubt still is--the Celestial ruler of the club's all-important culinary department. Fishing, minor side trips, some fish-planting, and all the attractions of outdoor camp life occupied a week in the lower Kern Valley. Then camp was removed ten miles up the canyon to the junction of the Big Arroya and the Kern, whence were engineered ascents of the Red Kaweah and of Whitney, highest of all the mountains in the United States, each reached through side trips of several days' duration, and each opening up a fresh, new field of highland delights. The trails of the Sierra, like trails the world over, are endlessly appealing--only the Sierran footways seem somehow richer in variety than others known to me. The entire mountain world unfolds from the shifting vantage points of these ribbons, threading its most sacred temples, clear and strong through the valleys, distinguishable only by the presence of many blazes upon the tree trunks where pine needles plot their obliteration, zigzagging dizzily up steep slopes, crossing rivers on perilous logs or buried knee-deep beneath the rushing waters of the ford, skirting sky-reflecting lakes, hiding beneath summer snowbanks, or traversing waste highlands, marked only by the cairns that lift their welcome heads against the sky. Underfoot there is the needle carpet, springy ground, shoe-cutting rocks, or deep-trodden dust, where the wayfarer comes to the journey's end a monument of ghostly gray. Overhead is always the tender blue of the summer California sky, with here and there a snowy cloud, for contrast's sake. Most impressive is the trail that clambers among the snow-clad heights, where the chilling air of the peaks makes the blood run fast and the heart rejoice; its beauty most appreciable where it follows brawling brooks and shadowed valleys, or meanders among woods, pillared with great trees and roofed with swaying boughs, ever and anon emerging into tiny, exquisite glades. Such is the Sierra trail, each mile a thing of individual charm and happy memory. The physical ways and means of the outing are as near perfect as may be where one hundred and twenty humans are turned loose in the wilderness. The perfection is, of course, the outgrowth of long experience and careful planning. Pack-trains take in the provisions well in advance; the day's "hike" is laid out, and "grub" is in waiting when the allotted number of miles lie behind; side trips are arranged, and when there is climbing of consequence, experienced leaders pilot the way. And yet, withal, the month-long holiday is far from being disagreeably "cut and dried," and there seems always sufficient opportunity for freedom to satisfy individual tastes. Nor, because of the numbers, need one lack privacy; on the trail and at camp the excursionist may restrict himself to his own unimpeachable society, he may join a small group of chosen spirits, or associate with the general unit. In short, there is opportunity to satisfy every taste on a Sierra Club outing, which holds equally true of the other mountain organizations of the Coast, each of which conducts admirable activities in its chosen field. The last bright recollection of that Sierra summer is the camp-fire which closed the final day--and all camp-fires are pleasant memories. It was beneath the mighty trees of the Giant Forest that we spent the final night, the light of our blaze insignificant 'midst the shadows of these huge trunks, the quiet summer night all about. The inner circle of faces showed ruddy in the reflected firelight, the outer edges of the group were deep in shadow. In the center, close to the fire, his figure outlined by its glow, stood John Muir, president of the Club, naturalist, explorer, lover of the Sierras, and loved by all. That night he shared with us, as often he had done before, his knowledge of those intimates of his, the Californian mountains, with whom he had lived so long and so understandingly. And now, in this December, six years since that evening in the Giant Forest, comes the news that John Muir has been gathered to his fathers, and that this splendid apostle of the out-of-doors will never again share its treasured secrets at Sierran camp-fires. [Illustration] * * * * * _An amusing, instructive, and tempting account of travel in the byways just off the new highway._--N. Y. Sun. The Southland of North America Rambles and Observations in Central America By George Palmer Putnam Author of "In the Oregon Country," etc. _With 96 Illustrations from Photographs by the Author, and a Map, 8°, 440 Pages, $2.50_ "The author has traveled much along the coasts and in the interior of these jungle-clad Latin-American countries and states, so near and yet so little regarded or understood by their big northern neighbor in the family of western nations. Though primarily devoted to the present-day aspects of the countries visited--their pressing political problems, industrial experiments, and further possibilities of development, social structure, and national ideals--the book takes many excursions into the past, and ventures now and then into prediction concerning the future. Life takes on novel and curious aspects in these alien lands, where there is more regard for festivals than for public improvements, and the outlander must take his chances of meager accommodation in inns by courtesy, surrounded by a careless, pleasure-loving throng. How this populace differs from the rest of the Latin-American world, what are their customs, diversions, inmost thoughts, and ideals--these are topics on which the author enlarges, in keenly observant fashion, and with the true spirit of an experienced traveler. The volume has many fine illustrations, and through its descriptive passages runs a vein of excellent humor."--N. Y. _Sun_. * * * * * The Winning of the Far West A History of the Regaining of Texas, of the Mexican War, of the Oregon Question; and of the Successive Additions to the Territory in the United States within the Continent of America, 1829-1867 By Robert McNutt McElroy, Ph.D. Edwards Professor of American History, Princeton University Author of "Kentucky in the Nation's History," etc. _8°. With Illustrations and Maps. $2.50_ This volume is designed as a continuation of Theodore Roosevelt's well-known work, _The Winning of the West_. It begins with the history of the Texas Revolution under General Sam Houston, tracing the origin of that struggle to President Jackson's determination, so often announced in his letters of that period, to "regain Texas, peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must." The author has had access to large collections of Jackson's letters, most of which have never been published, and his treatment of the subject is distinctly new. The volume then traces the origin of the Mexico-American war, showing from official documents that the declaration of war was not due to the encounter between the forces of General Taylor and those of General Arista on the banks of the Rio Grande, but had been positively decided upon by President Polk and his Cabinet before the news of that engagement reached Washington. The Mexican War is treated in detail, the accounts of the battles being based upon official documents and military reports. The events leading up to the conquest of New Mexico and California, and the settlement of the old controversy over the ownership of the Oregon region, are treated as phases of the western movement. Then follows a full discussion of the Compromise of 1850, and the volume closes with the Purchase of Alaska. * * * * * Mountaineering and Exploration in the Selkirks A Record of Pioneer Work among the Canadian Alps, 1908-1912 By Howard Palmer Corresponding Member of the Geographical Society of Philadelphia, Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society _With 219 Illustrations and 2 New Maps. $5.00_ A contribution to the description and history of a region that has been sadly neglected. The author is the first to have surveyed and photographed a large territory of the Selkirks, covering about 600 square miles in the northerly part. His superb photographs, some taken from the top of the loftiest peaks, are a great addition to this important and fascinating work. * * * * * The Lower Amazon A Narrative of Explorations in the Little-Known Regions of the State of Pará, on the Lower Amazon, with a Record of Archæological Excavations on Marajó Island at the Mouth of the Amazon River, and Observations on the General Resources of the Country By Algot Lange Author of "In the Amazon Jungle" Late officially connected with the Bureau of Indian Affairs of the Brazilian Federal Government _With an Introduction by Frederick S. Dellenbaugh 8°. 100 Illustrations and Maps. $2.50_ To readers of Algot Lange's former book, "In the Amazon Jungle," the present volume needs no introduction. No explorer of modern times has had a more adventurous or more fruitful career. The scientific, archæological, and topographical results of his explorations are only exceeded by the adventure of his expeditions, and he has proved himself a faithful and supremely interesting raconteur. The scene of his present volume lies in the extreme eastern part of that vast division of South America lying on both sides of the greatest river in the world. The explorer's adventure with a nest of boa-constrictors, his discovery of an island covered with pottery of an ancient race, and of tribes of stark naked Indians living in the most primitive style, using stone axes and making dugouts as they must have been made many centuries ago, is supplemented by his valuable information of the undeveloped wealth of the vast tract traversed. New York G. P. Putnam's Sons London 
34507	----	THE HERITAGE OF THE HILLS BY ARTHUR P. HANKINS Author of "THE JUBILEE GIRL," Etc. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1922 COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. PRINTED IN U. S. A. CONTENTS I AT HONEYMOON FLAT II PETER DREW'S LAST MESSAGE III B FOR BOLIVIO IV THE FIRST CALLER V "AND I'LL HELP YOU!" VI ACCORDING TO THE RECORDS VII LILAC SPODUMENE VIII POISON OAK RANCH IX NANCY FIELD'S WINDFALL X JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD XI CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA XII THE POISON OAKERS RIDE XIII SHINPLASTER AND CREEDS XIV HIGH POWER XV THE FIRE DANCE XVI A GUEST AT THE RANCHO XVII THE GIRL IN RED XVIII SPIES XIX CONTENTIONS XX "WAIT!" XXI "WHEN WE MEET AGAIN!" XXII THE WATCHMAN OF THE DEAD XXIII THE QUESTION XXIV IN THE DEER PATH XXV THE ANSWER The Heritage of the Hills CHAPTER I AT HALFMOON FLAT The road wound ever upward through pines and spruce and several varieties of oak. Some of the latter were straight, some sprawling, all massive. Now and then a break in the timber revealed wooded hills beyond green pasture lands, and other hills covered with dense growths of buckhorn and manzanita. Poison oak grew everywhere, and, at this time of year--early spring--was most prolific, most beautiful in its dark rich green, most poisonous. Occasionally the lone horseman crossed a riotous stream, plunging down from the snow-topped Sierras in the far distance. Rail fences, for the most part in a tumbledown condition, paralleled the dirt road here and there. At long intervals they passed tall, old-fashioned ranch houses, with their accompanying stables, deciduous orchards and still dormant vineyards, wandering turkeys and mud-incrusted pigs. An air of decay and haphazard ambition pervaded all these evidences of the dwelling places of men. "Well, Poche," remarked Oliver Drew, "it's been a long, hard trip, but we're getting close to home." The man spoke the word "home" with a touch of bitterness. The rangy bay saddler slanted his left ear back at Oliver Drew and quickened his walking-trot. "No, no!" laughed Oliver, tightening the reins. "All the more reason we should take it easy today, old horse. Don't you ever tire?" For an hour Poche climbed steadily. Now he topped the summit of the miniature mountain, and Oliver stopped him to gaze down fifteen hundred feet into the timbered cañon of the American River. Even the cow-pony seemed enthralled with the grandeur of the scene--the wooded hills climbing shelf by shelf to the faraway mist-hung mountains; the green river winding its serpentine course far below. Far up the river a gold dredger was at work, the low rumble of its machinery carried on the soft morning breeze. Half an hour later Poche ambled briskly into the little town of Halfmoon Flat, snuggled away in the pines and spruces, sunflecked, indolent, content. It suited Oliver's mood, this lazy old-fashioned Halfmoon Flat, with its one shady "business" street, its false-front, one-story shops and stores, redolent still of the glamorous days of '49. He drew up before a saloon to inquire after the road he should take out of town to reach his destination. The loungers about the door of the place all proved to be French- or Spanish-Basque sheep herders; and their agglutinative language was as a closed book to the traveler. So he dropped the reins from Poche's neck and entered the dark, low-ceiled bar-room, with its many decorations of dusty deer antlers on fly-specked walls. All was strangely quiet within. There were no patrons, no bartender behind the black, stained bar. He saw this white-aproned personage, however, a fat, wide, sandy-haired man, standing framed by the rear door, his back toward the front. Through a dirty rear window Oliver saw men in the back yard--silent, motionless men, with faces intent on something of captivating interest, some silent, muscle-tensing event. With awakened wonder he walked to the fat bartender's back and looked out over his shoulder. Strange indeed was the scene that was revealed. Perhaps twenty men were in an unfenced portion of the lot behind the saloon. Some of them had been pitching horseshoes, for two stood with the iron semicircles still in hand. Every man there gazed with silent intensity at two central figures, who furnished the drama. The first, a squat, dark, slit-eyed man of about twenty-five, lazed in a big Western saddle on a lean roan horse. His left spurred heel stood straight out at right angles to the direction in which his horse faced. He hung in the saddle by the bend in his right leg, the foot out of the stirrup, the motionless man facing to the right, a leering grin on his face, half whimsical, half sardonic. That he was a fatalist was evidenced by every line on his swarthy, hairless face; for he looked sneering indifference into the wavering muzzle of a Colt .45, in the hand of the other actor in the pantomime. His own Colt lay passive against his hip. His right forearm rested across his thigh, the hand far from the butt of the weapon. A cigarette drooped lazily from his grinning lips. Yet for all his indifferent calm, there was in his glittering, Mongolic eyes an eagle watchfulness that bespoke the fires of hatred within him. The dismounted man who had the drop on him was of another type. Tall, angular, countrified, he personified the popular conception of a Connecticut yankee. He boiled with silent rage as he stood, with long body bent forward, threatening the other with his enormous gun. Despite the present superiority of his position, there was something of pathos in his lean, bronzed face, something of a nature downtrodden, of the worm suddenly turned. For seconds that seemed like ages the two statuesque figures confronted each other. Men breathed in short inhalations, as if fearful of breaking the spell. Then the threatened man in the saddle puffed out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and drawled sarcastically: "Well, why don't you shoot, ol'-timer? You got the drop." Complete indifference to his fate marked the squat man's tone and attitude. Only those small black eyes, gleaming like points of jet from under the lowered Chinamanlike lids, proclaimed that the other had better make a thorough piece of work of this thing that he had started. The lank man found his tongue at the sound of the other's voice. "Why don't I shoot, you coyote whelp! Why don't I shoot! You know why! Because they's a law in this land, that's why! I oughta kill ye, an' everybody here knows it, but I'd hang for it." The man on the roan blew another puff of smoke. "You oughta thought o' that when you threw down on me," he lazily reminded the other. "_You_ ain't got no license packin' a gun, pardner." The expression that crossed his antagonist's face was one of torture, bafflement. It proved that he knew the mounted man had spoken truth. He was no killer. In a fit of rage he had drawn his weapon and got the drop on his enemy, only to shrink from the thought of taking a human life and from the consequences of such an act. But he essayed to bluster his way out of the situation in which his uncontrollable wrath had inveigled him. "I can't shoot ye in cold blood!" he hotly cried. "I'm not the skunk that you are. I'm too much of a man. I'll let ye go this time. But mind me--if you or any o' your thievin' gang pesters me ag'in, I'll--I'll kill ye!" "Better attend to that little business right now, pardner," came the fatalist's smooth admonition. "Don't rile me too far!" fumed the other. "God knows I could kill ye an' never fear for the hereafter. But I'm a law-abidin' man, an'"--the six-shooter in his hand was wavering--"an' I'm a law-abidin' man," he repeated, floundering. "So this time I'll let ye--" A fierce clatter of hoofs interrupted him. Down the street, across the board sidewalk, into the lot back of the saloon dashed a white horse, a black-haired girl astride in the saddle. She reined her horse to its haunches, scattering spectators right and left. "Don't lower that gun!" she shrieked. "Shoot! Kill him!" Her warning came too late. It may have been, even, that instead of a warning it was a knell. For a loud report sent the echoes galloping through the sleepy little town. The man on the ground, who had half lowered his gun as the girl raced in, threw up both hands, and went reeling about drunkenly. Another shot rang out. The squat man still lolled in his saddle, facing to the right. The gun that he had drawn in a flash when the other's indecision had reached a climax was levelled rigidly from his hip, the muzzle slowly following his staggering, twice-wounded enemy. In horror the watchers gazed, silent. The stricken man reeled against the legs of the girl's horse, strove to clasp them. The animal snorted at the smell of blood and reared. His temporary support removed, the man collapsed, face downward, on the ground, turned over once, lay still. The squat man slowly holstered his gun. Then the first sound to break the silence since the shots was his voice as he spoke to the girl. "Much obliged, Jess'my," he said; then straightened in his saddle, spurred the roan, and dashed across the sidewalk to disappear around the corner of the building. A longdrawn, derisive "Hi-yi!" floated back, and the clatter of the roan's hoofbeats died away. The girl had sprung from her mare and was bending over the fallen man. The others crowded about her now, all talking at once. She lifted a white, tragic face to them, a face so wildly beautiful that, even under the stress of the moment, Oliver Drew felt that sudden fierce pang of desire which the first startled sight of "the one woman" brings to a healthy, manly man. "He's dead! I've killed him!" she cried. "No, no, no, Miss Jessamy," protested a hoarse voice quickly. "You wasn't to blame." "O' course not!" chorused a dozen. "He'd 'a' lowered that gun," went on her first consoler. "He was backin' out when you come, Miss Jessamy. An' as sure as he'd took his gun off Digger Foss, Digger'd 'a' killed 'im. It was a fool business from the start, Miss Jessamy." "Then why didn't some of you warn this man?" she flamed. "You cowards! Are you afraid of Digger Foss? Oh, I--" "Now, looky-here, Miss Jessamy," soothed the spokesman, "bein' afraid o' Digger Foss ain't got anything to do with it. It wasn't our fight. We had no call to butt in. Men don't do that in a gun country, Miss Jessamy--you know that. This fella pulled on Digger, then lost his nerve. What you told 'im to do, Miss Jessamy, was right. Man ain't got no call to throw down on another one unless he intends to shoot. You know that, Miss Jessamy--you as much as said so." For answer the girl burst into tears. She rose, and the silent men stood back for her. She mounted and rode away without another word, wiping fiercely at her eyes with a handkerchief. Four men carried the dead man away. The rest, obviously in need of a stimulant, crowded in and up to the black bar. Oliver joined them. The weird sight that he had witnessed had left him weak and sick at the stomach. Silently the fat, blond bartender set out whisky glasses, then looked hesitatingly at the stranger. "Go ahead, Swede," encouraged a big fellow at Oliver's left. "He needs one, too. He saw it." The bartender shrugged, thumped a glass toward Oliver, and broke the laws of the land. "What was it all about?" Oliver, encouraged by this confidence, asked of the big, goodnatured man who had vouched for him on sight. The other looked him over. "This fella Dodd," he said, "started something he couldn't finish--that's all. Dodd's had it in for Digger Foss and the Selden boys and some more of 'em for a year. Selden was runnin' cattle on Dodd's land, and Dodd claimed they cut fences to _get_ 'em on. I don't know what all was between 'em. There's always bad blood between Old Man Selden and his boys and the rest o' the Poison Oakers, and somebody. "Anyway," he went on, "this mornin' Henry Dodd comes in and gets the drop on Digger Foss, who's thick with the Seldens, and is one o' the Poison Oakers; and then Dodd ain't got the nerve to shoot. You saw what it cost him. Fill 'em up again, boys." "I can't understand that girl," Oliver remarked. "Why, she rode in and told the man to shoot--to kill." "And wasn't she right?" "None of the rest of you did it, as she pointed out to you." "No--men wouldn't do that, I reckon. But a woman's different. They butt in for what they think's right, regardless. But I look at it like this, pardner: Dodd's a grown man and is packin' a hip gun. Why's he packin' it if he don't mean to use it? Only a kid ought to be excused from flourishin' iron like he did. He was just lettin' off steam. But he picked the wrong man to relieve himself on. If he'd 'a' killed Digger, as Miss Jessamy told him to, maybe he'd a hung for it. But he'd a had a chance with a jury. Where if he took his gat offen Digger Foss, it was sure death. I knew it; all of us knew it. And I knew he was goin' to lower it after he'd painted pictures in the air with it and thought he'd convinced all of us he was a bad man, and all that. He'd never pulled the trigger, and Digger Foss knew it." "Then if this Digger Foss knew he was only bluffing, he--why, he practically shot the man in cold blood!" cried Oliver. "Not practically but ab-so-lutely. Digger knew he was within the law, as they say. While he knew Dodd wouldn't shoot, no prosecutin' attorney can _prove_ that he knew it. Dodd had held a gun on him and threatened to kill 'im. When Digger gets the chance he takes it--makes his lightin' draw and kills Dodd. On the face of it it's self-defence, pure and simple, and Digger'll be acquitted. He'll be in tonight and give himself up to the constable. He knows just where he stands." Oliver's informant tossed off his liquor. "And Miss Jessamy knew all this--see?" he continued. "She savvies gunmen. She ought to, bein' a Selden. At least she calls herself a Selden, but her right name's Lomax. Old Man Selden married a widow, and this girl's her daughter. Well, she rides in and tells Dodd to shoot. She knew it was his life or Digger's, after he'd made that crack. But the poor fool!--Well, you saw what happened. Don't belong about here, do you, pardner?" "I do now," Oliver returned. "I'm just moving in, as it were. I own forty acres down on Clinker Creek. I came in here to inquire the way, and stumbled onto this tragedy." "On Clinker Creek! What forty?" "It's called the Old Tabor Ivison Place." "Heavens above! You own the Old Tabor Ivison Place?" "So the recorder's office says--or ought to." For fully ten seconds the big fellow faced Oliver, his blue eyes studying him carefully, appraisingly. "Well, by thunder!" he muttered at last. "Tell me about it, pardner. My name's Damon Tamroy." "Mine is Oliver Drew," said Oliver, offering his hand. "Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Tamroy in a low voice, his eyes, wide with curiosity, devouring Oliver. "The Old Ivison Place!" "You seem surprised." "Surprised! Hump! Say--le'me tell you right here, pardner; don't _you_ ever pull a gun on any o' the Poison Oakers and act like Henry Dodd did. Maybe it's well you saw what was pulled off today--if you'll only remember when you get down there on the Tabor Ivison Place." CHAPTER II PETER DREW'S LAST MESSAGE "I'll take a seegar," Mr. Damon Tamroy replied in response to Oliver's invitation. They lighted up and sat at a card-table against one wall of the gloomy saloon. "You speak of this as a gun country," remarked Oliver. "Well, it's at least got traditions," returned Mr. Tamroy, adding the unlettered man's apology for his little fanciful flight, "'as the fella says.' Like father like son, you know. The Seldens are gunmen. Old Adam Selden's dad was a 'Forty-niner; and Adam Selden--the Old Man Selden of today--was born right close to here when his dad was about twenty-five years old. Le's see--that makes Old Adam 'round about seventy. But he's spry and full o' pep, and one o' the best rifle shots in the country. "He takes after the old man, who was a bad actor in the days o' 'Forty-nine, and his boys take after him. They're a bad outfit, takin' 'em all in all. The boys are Hurlock, Moffat, Bolar, and Winthrop--four of 'em. All gunmen. Then there's Jessamy Selden--the only girl--who ain't rightly a Selden at all. None o' the old man's blood in Jessamy, o' course. Mis' Selden--she was an Ivison before she married Lomax--Myrtle Ivison was her name--she's a fine lady. But she won't leave the old man for all his wickedness, and Miss Jessamy won't leave her mother. So there you are!" "I see," said Oliver musingly, not at all displeased with the present subject of conversation. "Now, here's this Digger Foss," Tamroy went on. "He's half-American, quarter-Chinaman, and quarter-Digger-Indian. The last's what gives him his name. There's a tribe o' Digger Indians close to here. He's killed two men and got away with it. Now he's added a third to his list, and likely he'll get away with that. The rest o' the Poison Oakers are Obed Pence, Ed Buchanan, Jay Muenster, and Chuck Allegan--ten in all." "Just what are the Poison Oakers?" Oliver asked as Damon Tamroy paused reflectively. "Well, _anybody_ who lives in this country is called a Poison Oaker. You're one now. The woods about this country are full o' poison oak, and that's where we get the name. That's what outsiders call us. But when we ourselves speak of Poison Oakers we mean Old Man Selden's gang--him, his four sons, and the hombres I just mentioned--a regular old back-country gang o' rowdies, toughs, would-be bad men. You know what I mean. "They just drifted together by natural instinct, I reckon. Old Man Selden shot a man up around Willow Twig, and come clean at the trial. Obed Pence is a thief, and did a stretch for cattle rustlin' here about three years ago. Chuck and Ed have both done something to make 'em eligible--knife fightin' at country dances, and the like. And the Selden boys are chips off the old block." "But what is the gang's particular purpose?" "Meanness, s'far's I c'n see! Just meanness! Old Man Selden owns a ranch down your way that you can get to only by a trail. No wheeled vehicle can get in. All the boys live there with him. Kind of a colony, for two o' the boys are married. The other Poison Oakers live here and there about the country, on ranches. Ambition don't worry none of 'em much. Old Man Selden's said to distil jackass brandy, but it's never been proved." "Now about the Old Tabor Ivison Place?" said Oliver. "Well, it's there yet, I reckon; but I ain't been down that way for years. Now and then a deer hunt leads me into Clinker Creek Cañon, but not often. "It's a lonely, deserted place, and the road to it is fierce. Several families lived down in there thirty years ago; but the places have been abandoned long since, and all the folks gone God knows where. It's a pretty country if a fella likes trees and rocks and things, and wild and rough; but down in that cañon it's too cold for pears and such fruit--and that's about all we raise on these rocky hills. "Old Tabor Ivison homesteaded your place. He's been dead matter o' fifteen years. Died down there. For years he'd lived there all by 'imself. Good old man. Asked for little in life--and got it. "But for years now all that country's been abandoned. There's pretty good pickin's down in there; and Old Man Selden and some more o' the Poison Oakers have been runnin' cattle on all of it." "I'm glad there's pasture," Oliver interposed. "Oh, pasture's all right. But Selden's outfit has looked at that land as theirs for so long that you won't find it particularly congenial. You're bound to have trouble with the Poison Oakers, Mr. Drew, and I'd consider the land not worth it. Why, I can buy a thousan' acres down in there for two and a half an acre! You'll starve to death if you have to depend on that forty for a livin'. How come you to own the place?" "My father willed it to me," Oliver replied. "Your father?" "Yes, Peter Drew. Have you ever heard of him?" "No," returned Damon Tamroy. "I reckon he was here before my time. How'd he come by the place? I thought one o' the Ivison girls--Nancy--still owned it." "I'm sure I can't tell you how Dad came to own it," Oliver made answer. "I haven't an abstract of title. I know, though, that Dad owned it for some time before his death." "Well, well!" Damon Tamroy's eyes roved curiously over the young man once more. They steadied themselves on the silver-mounted Spanish spurs on Oliver's riding boots. "Travellin' horseback?" he wanted to know, and his look of puzzlement deepened. "Yes," said Oliver a little bitterly. "I'm riding about all that I possess in this world, since you have pronounced the Old Tabor Ivison Place next to worthless." He grew thoughtful. "You're puzzled over me," he smiled at last. "Frankly, though, you're no more puzzled over me than I am over myself and my rather odd situation. I'm a man of mystery." He laughed. "I think I'll tell you all about it. "As far back as I can remember, my home has been on a cow ranch in the southern part of the state. I can't remember my mother, who died when I was very young. I always thought my father wealthy until he died, two weeks ago, and his will was read to me. He had orange and lemon groves besides the cattle ranch, and was a stockholder in a substantial country bank. I was graduated at the State University, and went from there to France. Since, I've been resting up and sort of managing Dad's property. "My father was a peculiar man, and was never overly confidential with me. He was uneducated, as the term is understood today--a rough-and-ready old Westerner who had made his strike and settled down to peaceful days--or so I always imagined. But two weeks ago he died suddenly from a stroke of apoplexy; and when his will was read to me I got a jolt from which I haven't yet recovered. "The home ranch and the other real estate, together with all livestock and appurtenances--with one exception, which I shall mention later--were willed to the Catholic Church, to be handled as they saw fit. It seemed that there was little else to be disposed of. I was left five hundred dollars in cash, a saddle horse named Poche, a silver-mounted bridle and saddle and martingales, the old Spanish spurs you see on my feet, and the Old Tabor Ivison Place, in Chaparral County, of which I knew almost nothing. That was all--with the exception of the written instructions in my father's handwriting that were given me by his lawyers. Maybe you can throw some light on the matter, Mr. Tamroy. Would you care to hear my father's last message to me?" Tamroy evinced his eagerness by scraping forward his chair. Oliver took from a leather billbook a folded piece of paper. "I don't know that I ought to," he smiled, "but, after all, I'll never learn the mystery of it if I keep the matter from people about here. So here goes: "'_My dear son Oliver_: "'As you know perfectly well, I am an ignorant old Westerner. There is no use mincing matters in regard to this. When I was young I didn't have much of a chance to get an education; but when I grew up and married, and you was born, I said you'd never be allowed to grow up in ignorance like I did. So I tried to give you an education, and you didn't fail me.' "'I did this for a double purpose, Oliver. I knew that I was going to die someday, and that then you'd have to settle a little matter that's bothered me since before you was born. For pretty near thirty years, Oliver, I've had a problem to fight; and I never knew how to settle the matter because I wasn't educated. So I let it rest and waited for you to grow up, and go through college. And now that's happened; and you're educated and fit to answer the question that's bothered me for nearly half my life. The answer is either Yes or No, and you've got to find out which is right.' "'I'm leaving you Poche, the best cow horse in Southern California, my old silver-mounted saddle that's carried me thousands of miles, the martingales, and my old silver-mounted bridle, which same three things made me the envy of all the vaqueros of the Clinker Creek Country over thirty years ago, and my Spanish spurs that go along with the outfit. These things, Oliver, and five hundred dollars in Cash, and forty acres of land on Clinker Creek, in Chaparral county, called the Old Tabor Ivison Place.' "'They are all you'll need to find the answer to the question that's bothered me for thirty years. Buckle on the spurs, throw the saddle on Poche, bridle him, put the five hundred dollars and the deed to the Old Tabor Ivison Place in your jeans, and hit the trail for Clinker Creek. Stay there till you know whether the answer is Yes or No. Then go to my lawyers and tell them which it is. And the God of your mother go with you!' "'Your affectionate father,' "'PETER DREW.' "'In his seventy-third year.'" Oliver folded the paper. Damon Tamroy only sat and stared at him. CHAPTER III B FOR BOLIVIO "Boy," said the kindly Mr. Tamroy, leaning forward toward Oliver Drew, "those are the queerest last words of a father to his son that I ever listened to. What on earth you goin' to do?" Oliver shrugged and spread his hands. "Keep on obeying instructions," he said. "I've followed them to the letter so far. I'm only a few miles from my destination, and I've ridden in the silver-mounted saddle on Poche's back the entire five hundred miles and over. My father was not a fool. He was of sound mind, I fully believe, when he wrote that message for me. There's some deep meaning underlying all this. I must simply stay on the Old Tabor Ivison Place till I know what puzzled old Dad all those years, and find out whether the answer is Yes or No." "Heavens above!" muttered Mr. Tamroy. "But how you goin' to live? What're you goin' to do down in there? Gonta get a job? It's too far away from everything for you to go and come to a job, Mr. Drew." "I'll tell you," said Oliver. "At the University I took an agricultural course. Since my graduation I have written not a few articles and sold them to leading farm journals. If the Old Tabor Ivison Place is of any value at all, I want to experiment in raising all sorts of things on a small scale, and write articles about my results. I'll have a few stands of bees, and maybe a cow. I'll try all sorts of things, get a second-hand typewriter, and go to it. I think I can live while I'm waiting for my father's big question to crop up." "You can raise a garden all right, I reckon," Oliver's new friend told him, following him as he rose to continue his journey. "But you got to irrigate, and there ain't the water in Clinker Creek there used to be. Folks up near the headwaters use nearly all of it, and in the hot months what they turn back will all go up in evaporation before it gets down to you. There's a good spring, though, but it strikes me it don't flow anything like it did when Old Tabor Ivison lived on the land." "Is there a house on the place?" "Only an old cabin. At least there was last time I chased a buck down in there. And something of a fence, if I remember right. But fifteen years is a long time--I reckon everything left is next to worthless." They came to a pause at the edge of the sidewalk beside an aged villager, who stood leaning on his crooked manzanita cane as he gazed at Poche and his silver-mounted trappings. "That's Old Dad Sloan," whispered Damon Tamroy. "He's one o' the last of the 'Forty-niners. Just hobbles about on his cane, livin' off the county, and waitin' to die. Never saw him take much interest in anything before, but that outfit o' yours has caught his eye. Little wonder, by golly!" Oliver stepped into the street and lifted the hair-tassled reins of the famous bridle. He turned to find the watery blue eyes of the patriarch fixed on him intently. With a trembling left hand the old man brushed back his long grey hair, then the fingers shakily caressed a grizzled beard, flaring and wiry as excelsior. A long finger at length pointed to the horse. "Where'd you get that outfit, young feller?" came the quavering tones. Mr. Tamroy winked knowingly at Oliver. "It was my father's," said Oliver in eager tones. The 'Forty-niner cupped a hand back of his ear. "Hey?" he shrilled. Oliver lifted his voice and repeated. "Yer papy's hey?" He tottered into the street and fingered the heavily silvered Spanish halfbreed bit, which, Oliver had been told, was very valuable intrinsically and as a relic. Then the knotty fingers travelled up an intricately plaited cheekstrap to one of the glittering silver-bordered _conchas_. The old fellow fumbled for his glasses, placed them on his nose, and studied the last named conceit with careful, lengthy scrutiny. "Is that there glass, young feller?" he croaked at last, pointing to the setting of the _concha_, a lilac-hued crystal about two inches in diameter. "I think it is," Oliver shouted. The old man shook his head. "I can't see well any more," he quavered. "But this don't look like glass to me." "I've never had it examined," Oliver told him. "I supposed the settings of the _conchas_ to be glass or some sort of quartz." "Quartz?" "Yes, sir." The grey head slowly shook back and forth. "Young man," came the piping tones, "is they a 'B' cut in the metal that holds them stones in place?" Oliver's eyes widened. "There is," he said. "On the inside of each one." The old man stared at him, and his bearded lips trembled. "Bolivio!" he croaked weirdly. "I don't understand," said Oliver. "Bolivio made them _conchas_, young feller. Bolivio made that bit. Bolivio plaited that bridle. Bolivio made them martingales." "And who is Bolivio?" puzzled the stranger. "Dead and gone--dead and gone!" crooned the ancient. "That outfit's maybe a hundred years old, young feller--part of it, 'tleast. And that ain't glass in there--and it ain't quartz in in there--and there's only one man ever in this country ever had a bridle like that." "And who was he?" asked Oliver almost breathlessly. "Dan Smeed--that's who! Dan Smeed--outlaw, highwayman, squawman! Dan Smeed--gone these thirty years and more. That's his bridle--that's his saddle--all made by Bolivio, maybe a hundred years ago. And them stones in them _conchas_ are gems from the lost mine o' Bolivio. The lost gems o' Bolivio, young feller!" Oliver and Tamroy stared into each other's eyes as the old man tottered back to the sidewalk. "Tell me more!" cried Oliver, as the ancient began tapping his crooked cane along the street. There was no answer. "He didn't hear," said Tamroy. "We'll get at him again sometime. Maybe he'll tell what he knows and maybe he won't. He's awful childish--awful headstrong. For days at a time he won't speak to a soul." Oliver stood in deep thought, mystified beyond measure, yet thrilled with the thought that he was nearing the beginning of the trail to the mysterious question. He roused himself at length. "Well, I must be getting along," he said. "I'll go right down to Clinker Creek now, if you'll point the way. I've enough grub behind my saddle for tonight and tomorrow morning. There's grass for the horse at present?" "Oh, yes--horse'll get along all right." "Then I'll go down and give my property the once-over, and be up tomorrow to get what I need." Damon Tamroy showed him the road and shook hands with him. "Ride up and get acquainted regular someday," he invited. "I got a little ranch up the line--pears and apples and things. Give you some cherries a little later on. Well, so-long. Remember the Poison Oakers!" Oliver galloped away, his flashing equipment the target of all eyes, on the road that led to the Old Tabor Ivison Place, his brain in a whirl of excitement. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST CALLER Toward noon Poche was carefully feeling his way down the rocky cañon of Clinker Creek, over a forgotten road. Oliver walked, for Poche needs must scramble over huge boulders, fallen pines, and tangles of driftwood. The road followed the course of the creek for the most part, and in many places the creek had broken through and washed great gaps. But the country was delightful. Wild grapevines grew in profusion at the creekside, gracefully festooned from overhanging buckeye limbs. Odorous alders, several varieties of willow, and white oak also followed the watercourse; and up on the hills on either side were black oaks and live oaks, together with yellow and sugar and digger pines, and spruce. Everywhere grew the now significant poison oak. Finally Poche scraped through chaparral that almost hid the road and came out in a clearing. Oliver at last stood looking at his future home. A quaint old cabin, with a high peaked roof, apparently in better repair than he had expected, stood on a little rise above the creek. The cañon widened here, and narrowed again farther down. The creek bowed and followed the base of the steep hills to the west. A level strip of land comprising about an acre paralleled the creek, and invited tillage. All about the clearing, perhaps fifteen acres in area, stood tall pines and spruce, and magnificent oaks rose above the cabin, their great limbs sprawled over it protectingly. Acres and acres of heavy, impenetrable chaparral covered both steep slopes beyond the conifers. For several minutes Oliver drank in the beauty of it, then heaved himself into the saddle and galloped to the cabin over the unobstructed land. He loosed Poche when the saddle and bridle were off, and the horse eagerly buried his muzzle in the tall green grass. Up in the branches paired California linnets, red breasted for their love season, went over plans and specifications for nest-building with much conversation and flit-flit of feathered wings. Wild canaries engaged in a like pursuit. Overhead in the heavens an eagle sailed. From the sunny chaparral came the scolding quit-quit-quit of mother quail, while the pompous cocks perched themselves at the tops of manzanita bushes and whistled, "Cut that out! Cut that out!" All Nature was home-building; and Oliver forgot the loss of the fortune he had expected at his father's death and caught the spirit. He collected oak limbs and built a fire. He carried water from the creek and set it on to boil. While waiting for this he strolled about, revelling in the soft spring air, fragrant with the smell of wild flowers. That the cabin had been occupied often by hunters and other wanderers in the cañon was evidenced by the many carvings on the door and signs of bygone campfires all about. He stepped upon the rotting porch and studied the monograms, initials, and flippant messages of the lonely men who had passed that way. "All hope abandon, ye who enter here" was carved in ancient letters just under the lintel of the door. Next he was informed that "Fools names, like their faces, are always seen in public places." "Only a sucker would live here" was the parting decision of some disgruntled guest. "Home, Sweet Home" adorned the bottom of the door. One panel had proved an excellent target, and no less than twenty bullet holes had made a sieve of it. "Welcome, Wanderer!" and "Dew Drop Inn" and "Though lost to sight to memory dear" occupied conspicuous places. Then on the right-hand frame he noticed this: [Illustration: Beware] The carving was neatly executed. The leaves represented were indisputably those of the poison oak. Had some one carved this in a jocular effort to warn chance visitors to the place of the danger of the poison weed? Or did the carving represent the emblem of the Poison Oakers? Oliver smiled grimly and opened the door. He passed through the three small rooms of the house and investigated the loft. The structure seemed solid. A new roof would be necessary, and new windows and frames and a new porch; and as Oliver was no mean carpenter, he thought he could make the cabin snug and tight for seventy-five dollars. The front door had closed of itself, he found, when he started back to his campfire. He stopped in the main room, and a smile, slightly bitter, flickered across his lips. As neatly carved as was the symbol of the Poison Oakers outside--if that was what it was--and evidently executed by the same hand, was this, on the inside of the door: JESSAMY, MY SWEETHEART Oliver went on out and squatted over his fire, peeling potatoes. His blue eyes grew studious. In the flickering blaze he saw the picture of a black-eyed, black-haired girl on a white horse crouched on its haunches. "Great Scott!" he muttered. "I'll have to forget that!" * * * * * In the month that followed, Oliver Drew, spurred by feverish enthusiasm, worked miracles on the Old Tabor Ivison Place. He repaired the line fences and rehabilitated the cabin; bought a burro and pack-saddle and packed in lumber and tools and household necessities; fenced off his experimental garden on the level land with rabbit-tight netting; cleaned and boxed the spring; and early in May was following the spading up of his garden plot by planting vegetable seed. With all this behind him, he went at the clearing of the road that connected him with his kind. Today as he laboured with pick and shovel and bar he was cheerful, though his thoughts clung to the subject of his father's death and the odd situation in which it had left him. He had fully expected to inherit properties and money to the extent of a hundred thousand dollars. He was not particularly resentful because this had not come to pass, for he never had been a pampered young man; but the mystery of his father's last message puzzled and chagrined him. He would always remember Peter Drew as a peculiar man. He had been a kindly father, but a reticent one. There were many pages in his past that never had been opened to his son. Oliver was the child of Peter Drew's second wife. About the queer old Westerner's former marriage he had been told practically nothing. Believing his father to have been of sound mind when he penned that last strange communication, Oliver could not hold that the situation which it imposed was not for the best. Surely old Peter Drew had had some wise reason for his act, and in the end Oliver would know what it was. He had been told to seek the Clinker Creek Country to learn the question that had puzzled his father for thirty years, to decide whether the proper answer was Yes or No, and communicate his decision to his father's lawyers. That was all. When in the wisdom which his father had supposed would be the natural result of his son's university training he had made his decision and placed it before these legal gentlemen, what would happen? Speculation over this led nowhere. At first it had seemed to Oliver that the mission with which he had been intrusted was more or less a secret matter, and that he must keep still about it. Then as the staunch cow-pony bore him nearer and nearer to the Clinker Creek Country it gradually dawned upon him that, by so doing, he might stand a poor chance of even finding out what had puzzled his sire. To say nothing of the answer which he was to seek. It was then he decided that he had nothing to hide and must place his situation before the people of the country who would likely be able to help him. Hence his confidences to Mr. Damon Tamroy. Tamroy had aided him not at all; but the 'Forty-niner, Old Dad Sloan, knew something. Dan Smeed, outlaw, highwayman, had owned a saddle and bridle like Oliver's. The old man had mysteriously mentioned the lost mine of Bolivio, and had said the settings in Oliver's _conchas_ were gems. If only the old man could be made to talk! The muffled thud of a horse's hoofs came between the strokes of Oliver's pick. With an odd and unfamiliar sensation he glimpsed a white horse and rider approaching through the pines. It was she--Jessamy Selden--the black-haired, black-eyed girl of whom he reluctantly had thought so often since his first day in the Clinker Creek Country. She was riding straight down the cañon, the white mare gingerly picking her way between boulders and snarls of driftwood. The girl looked up. Oliver felt that she saw him. Her ears could not have been insensible to the ring of his pick on the flinty stones. She did not leave the trail, however, but continued on in his direction. He rested on the handle of his tool and waited. "Good morning," he ventured, sweeping off his battered hat, as the mare stopped without pressure on the reins and gravely contemplated him. The girl smiled and returned his greeting brightly. "If you had waited a few days longer for your ride down here," said Oliver, "I'd have had a better trail for you." "Oh, I don't know that I want it any better," she laughed. "I like things pretty much as they are, when Old Mother Nature has built them. I ride down this way frequently." She was no fragile reed, this girl. She was rather more substantially built than most members of her sex. Her figure was straight and tall and rounded, and her strong, graceful neck upreared itself proudly between sturdy shoulders. Grace and strength, rather than purely feminine beauty, predominated in the impression she created in Oliver. She wore a man's Stetson hat over her lavish crown of coal-black hair, a man's flannel shirt, a whipcord divided skirt, and dark-russet riding boots. The saddle that she rode in had not been built for a woman to handle, and, with its long, pointed tapaderos, must have weighed close to fifty pounds. The steady, friendly, confident gaze of her large black eyes was thrilling. A man instinctively felt that, if he could win this woman, he would have acquired a wife among a thousand, a loyal friend and comrade, and a partner who could and would shoulder more than a woman's share of their load. Still, Oliver knew nothing at all about her. What he had heard of her was not exactly of the best. Yet he felt that she was gloriously all right, and did not try to argue otherwise. "Well, I suppose I must introduce myself first," she was saying in her full, ringing tones. "I'm Jessamy Selden. My name is not Selden, though, but Lomax. When my mother married Adam Selden I took her new name. I heard somebody had moved onto the Old Ivison Place, and I deliberately rode down to get acquainted." "You waited a month, I notice," Oliver laughingly reproached. "My name is Oliver Drew. If you'll get off your horse I'll tell you what a wonderful man I am." She swung to the ground and held out a strong, brown, ungloved hand. "I'll walk to your cabin with you," she said, "if you'll invite me. I'd like to see how you've been improving your time since your arrival." Scarce able to find words with which to meet such delightful frankness, Oliver walked beside her, the white mare following and nosing at his pockets to prove that she was a privileged character. The girl loosed her within the inclosure, and let her drag her reins. Poche trotted up to make the white's acquaintance, followed by the new mouse-coloured burro, Smith, who long since had assumed a "where thou goest I will go" affection for the bay saddler. Jessamy Selden came to a stop before the cabin, her black eyes dancing. "Who would have thought," she said in low tones, "that the Clinker Creek people ever would see the old Ivison cabin rebuilt and inhabited once more! How sturdily it must have been built to stand up against wind and storm all these years. Are you going to invite me in and show me around?" She levelled that direct glance at him and showed her white teeth in a smile. Oliver was thinking of the carving on the inside of the old door, "Jessamy, My Sweetheart." He had not replaced the door with a new one, for every penny counted. It still was serviceable; and, besides, there seemed to be a sort of companionship about the carved observations of the unknowns who had been sheltered by the old cabin during the past fifteen years. "You've been in the house often, I suppose?" He made it a question. "Oh, yes," she said. "I've lunched in it many a time, and have run in out of the rain during winter months. I slept in it all night once." "You seem to be an independent sort of young woman," suggested Oliver. "I'm a rather lonely sort of woman, if that's what you mean," she replied. "Yes, I ride about lots alone. I like it. Don't you want me to go in?" "Er--why, certainly," he stammered. "Please don't think me inhospitable. Come on." He led the way, and stood back for her at the door. He would leave the door open, swung back into the corner, he thought, so that she would not see the carving. She had been in the cabin many times. Did she know the carving to be there? Of course it might have been executed since her last visit, though it did not seem very fresh. Who had carved the words? Oliver could imagine any of the young Clinker Creek swains as being secretly in love with this marvellous girl, and pouring out his tortured soul through the blade of his jack-knife when securely hidden from profane eyes in this vast wilderness. She passed complimentary remarks about his practically built home-made furniture, and the neatness and necessary simplicity of everything. "What an old maid you are for one so young!" she laughed. "And, please, what's the typewriter for--if I'm not too bold?" "Well," said Oliver, "it occurred to me that I must make a living down here. I'm a graduate of the State College of Agriculture, and I like to farm and write about it. I've sold several articles to agricultural papers. I'm going to experiment here, and try to make a living by writing up the results!" "Why, how perfectly fine!" she cried enthusiastically. "I couldn't imagine anything more engrossing. I'm a State University girl." "You don't say!" And this furnished a topic for ten minutes' conversation. "If you're as good a writer and farmer as you are tinker and carpenter," she observed, passing into the front room again, "you'll do splendidly." She was standing, straight as a young spruce, hands on hips, looking with twinkling eyes at the open door. "The old door still hangs, I see," she murmured. "Now just why didn't you replace it, Mr. Drew?" Oliver looked apprehensive. "Well," he replied hesitatingly, "for several reasons. First, a new door costs money, and so would the lumber with which to make one--and I haven't much of that article. Second, I get some amusement from looking at those old carvings and speculating on the possible personalities of the carvers. For all I know, some great celebrities' ideas may be among those expressed there--some future great man, at any rate. The boy one meets in the street may one day be president, you know. Then there's a sort of companionship about those names and monograms and quotations. The fellow that informs me that only suckers live here I'd like to meet. He was so blunt about it, so sure. He--er--" Smiling, she had stepped to the door and, arms still akimbo, allowed her glance to travel from one design to another. She raised an arm and levelled a finger. "What do you think of that one?" she asked. "Well," said Oliver, "that's a rather well executed poison oak leaf. The hills are covered with the plant. I imagine that some wanderer not immune from the poison came into contact with it, and, though his eyes were swelled half shut and his fingers itched and tingled, his right hand had not lost its cunning. So he took out his trusty blade and carved a warning for all future pilgrims who chanced this way to beware of this tree that is in the midst of the garden, and to not touch it lest they--" "Itch," Jessamy gravely put in. "Quite pretty and poetic," she supplemented. "But you are entirely wrong, Mr. Drew. That carving is, first of all, a copy of the brand of Old Man Selden, and you'll find it on all his cows. All but the word 'Beware,' of course, you understand. Second, it represents the silly symbol of a gang that infests this country known as the Poison Oakers. Oh, you've heard of them!" she had turned suddenly and surprised the look on his face. "It sounds very bloodthirsty," he laughed confusedly. "I'll tell you more, then, when I know you better," she said. "No, I'll tell you today," she added quickly. Then before he could make a move she had closed the door to examine what might be carved on the inner side. "Tell me now," said Oliver quickly. "Try this chair here by the window. I'm rather proud of this one. It's my first attempt at a morris ch--" "Come here, please," she commanded, standing with her back to him. "Don't act so like a boy," she reproved as he dutifully stepped up behind her. "Anybody would know you are clumsily trying to detract my attention from--that." The brown finger was pointing straight at JESSAMY, MY SWEETHEART. She turned and levelled her frank, unabashed eyes straight at his. "So that's why you hesitated about inviting me in," she stated, her lips twitching and dimples appearing and disappearing in her cheeks. "Frankly, yes," he told her gravely. Her glance did not leave him. "Mr. Tamroy told me he had mentioned me to you," she said. "So of course you knew, when you saw this carving, that I was the subject of the raving. And when you saw me you wished to spare me embarrassment. Thank you. But you see I'm not at all embarrassed. I have never before seen this masterpiece in wood, and imagine it has been done since I was in the cabin last. Let's see--I doubt if I've been inside for a year or more. I think perhaps Mr. Digger Foss is the one who tried to make his emotions deathless by this work of art. 'Jessamy, My Sweetheart,' eh?" She threw back her glorious head and laughed till two tears streamed down her tanned cheeks. "Poor Digger!" she said soberly at last. "I suppose he does love me." "Who wouldn't," thought Oliver, but bit his lips instead of speaking. "You may leave that, Mr. Drew," she told him, "until you get ready to replace the old door with a new one. I would not have the irrefutable evidence of at least one conquest blotted out for worlds. Now let's go out in that glorious sunlight, and I'll tell you about Old Man Selden and the Poison Oakers." CHAPTER V "AND I'LL HELP YOU!" What Jessamy Selden told Oliver Drew of the Poison Oakers was about the same as he had heard from Damon Tamroy. She used his sawbuck for a seat, and sat with one booted ankle resting on a knee, idly spinning the rowel of her spur as she talked. Oliver listened without interruption until she finished and once more levelled that straightforward glance at him. "The cows have been down below on winter pasture," she added. "Adam Selden and the boys rode out yesterday to start the spring drive into the foothills. You'll awake some morning soon to find red cattle all about you, and they'll be here till August." "Well," he said, "I don't know that I shall mind them. My fence is pretty fair, and with a little more repairing will turn them, I think." She twirled her rowel in silence for a time, her eyes fixed on it. Then she said: "It isn't that, Mr. Drew. I may as well tell you right now what I came down here purposely to tell you. You're not wanted here. All of this land has been abandoned so long that Adam Selden and the gang have come to consider it their property--or at least free range." "But they'll respect my right of ownership." "I don't know--I don't know. I'm afraid they won't. They're a law unto themselves down in here. They'll try to run you out." "How?" "Any way--every way. If nothing else occurs to them, they'll begin a studied system of persecution with the idea of making you so sick of your bargain that you'll pull stakes and hit the trail. That poor man Dodd! Mr. Tamroy told me you happened into the saloon in time to see the shooting. Wasn't it terrible! And how they persecuted him--fairly drove him into the rash act that cost him his life!" She lifted her glance again. "Mr. Tamroy tells me that you were shocked at me that day." "I guess I didn't fully understand the circumstances." "I did," she firmly declared, her lips setting in what would have been a grim smile but for the dimples that came with it. "I understood the situation," she went on. "Digger Foss had been waiting for just that chance. There's just enough Indian and Chinese blood in him to make him a fatalist. He's therefore deadly. Has no fear of death. He's cruel, merciless. I knew when I saw Henry Dodd covering him with that gun that, if he didn't finish what he'd started, he was a dead man. He couldn't even have backed off gracefully, keeping Digger covered, and got away alive. Digger is so quick on the draw, and his aim is so deadly. He's a master gunman. Even had Dodd succeeded in getting away then, he would have been a marked man. He had thrown down on Digger Foss. Digger would have got the drop on him next time they met and killed him as you would a coyote. So in my excitement I rushed in with my well meant warning, and--Oh, it was horrible!" "And you meant actually for Dodd to kill Foss?" Her black eyes dilated, and an angry flush blended with the tan on her cheeks. "It was one or the other of them," she told him coldly. "Mr. Dodd was an honest, plodding man--a good citizen. Foss is a renegade. Was I so very bloodthirsty in trying to make the best of a bad situation by choosing, on the spur of the moment, which man ought to live on? I'm not the fainting kind of woman, Mr. Drew. One must be practical, if he can, even over matters like that." "I'm not condemning," he said. "I'm only wondering that a woman could be so practical in such a situation." "Digger Foss hasn't seen me since then," she observed. "He's in jail, awaiting trial, at the county seat. He'll be acquitted, of course. I'm wondering what he'll have to say to me when he is free again." Oliver said nothing to this. "I must be going," she declared, rising suddenly. "As I said, I came down to warn you to be on your guard against the Poison Oakers." He caught her pony and led it to her. She swung into the saddle, then slued toward him, leaned an elbow on the horn and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. Once more that direct gaze of her frank black eyes looked him through and through. "Well," she asked, "will the Poison Oakers run you off?" "Oh, I think not," he laughed lightly. "They'll be ten against one, Mr. Drew." "There's law in the land." "Yes, there's law," she mused. "But it's so easy for unscrupulous people to get around the law. They can subject you to no end of persecution, and you won't even be able to prove that one of them is behind it." She looked him over deliberately. "I'm glad you've come," she said. "You're an educated man, and blessed with a higher order of character than has been anybody else who stood to cross the Poison Oakers. Somehow, I feel that you are destined to be their undoing. They must be corralled and their atrocities brought to an end. You must be the one to put the quietus on that gang. And I'll help you. Good-bye!" She lifted the white mare into a lope, opened the gate, rode through and closed it without leaving the saddle, then, waving back at him, disappeared in the chaparral. CHAPTER VI ACCORDING TO THE RECORDS Oliver Drew had found a bee tree on the backbone of the ridge between the Old Ivison Place and the American River. He stood contemplating it, watching the busy little workers winging their way to and from the hole in the hollow trunk, planning to change their quarters and put them to work for him. Far below him, down a precipitous pine-studded slope, the green American River raced toward the ocean. There had been a week of late rains, and good grass for the summer was assured. Away through the tall trees below him he saw red cows filtering along, cropping eagerly at the lush growth after a long dusty trip from the drying lowlands. Now and then he saw a horseman galloping along a mile distant. He heard an occasional faint shout, borne upward on the soft spring wind. The Seldens were ending the drive of their cattle to summer pastures. He turned suddenly as he heard the tramp of hoofs. Six horsemen were approaching, along the backbone of the ridge, winding in and out between clumps of the sparse chaparral. In the lead, straight and sturdy as some ancient oak, rode a tall man with grey hair that hung below his ears and a flowing grey beard. He wore the conventional cowpuncher garb, from black-silk neckerchief, held in place by a poker chip with holes bored in it, to high-heeled boots and chaps. He rode a gaunt grey horse. His tapaderos flapped loosely against the undergrowth, and, so long were the man's legs, they seemed almost to scrape the ground. A holstered Colt hung at the rider's side. Silent, stern of face, this old man rode like the wraith of some ancient chieftain at the head of his hard-riding warriors. Those who followed him were younger men, plainly _vaqueros_. They lolled in their saddles, and smoked and bantered. But Oliver's eyes were alone for the stalwart figure in the lead, who neither spoke nor smiled nor paid any attention to his band, but rode on grimly as if heading an expedition into dangerous and unknown lands. Undoubtedly this was Old Man Selden and his four sons, together with other members of the Poison Oakers Gang. They had left the cows to themselves and were making their way homeward after the drive. Oliver's first impulse was to hide behind a tree and watch, for he felt that he should forego no chance of a strategic advantage. Then he decided that it was not for him to begin manoeuvring, and stood boldly in full view, wondering whether the riders would pass without observing him. They did not. He heard a sharp word or two from some follower of the old man, and for the first time the leader showed signs of knowing that he was not riding alone. He slued about in his saddle. A hand pointed in Oliver's direction. The old man reined in his grey horse and looked toward Oliver and the bee tree. The other horsemen drew up around him. There was a short consultation, then all of them leaned to the right in their saddles and galloped over the uneven land. They reined in close to the lone man, and a dusty, sweaty, hard-looking clan they were. Keen, curious eyes studied him, and there was no mistaking the insolent and bullying attitude of their owners. A quick glance Oliver gave the five, then his interest settled on their leader. Adam Selden was a powerful man. His nose was of the Bourbon type, large and deeply pitted. His eyes were blue and strong and dominating. "Howdy?" boomed a deep bass voice. Oliver smiled. "How do you do?" he replied. Then silence fell, while old Adam Selden sat rolling a quid of tobacco in his mouth and studying the stranger with inscrutable cold blue eyes. "I've found a bee tree," said Oliver when the tensity grew almost unbearable. "I was just figuring on the best way to hive the little rascals." Selden slowly nodded his great head up and down with exasperating exaggeration. "Stranger about here, ain't ye?" he asked. "Well, I've been here over a month," Oliver answered. "I own the Old Tabor Ivison Place, down there in the valley. My name is Oliver Drew, and I guess you're Mr. Selden." Another long pause, then-- "Yes, I'm Selden. Them's my cows ye see down there moseyin' up the river bottom and over the hills. I been runnin' cows in here summers for a good many years. Just so!" "I see," said Oliver, not knowing what else to say. "Three o' these men are my boys," Selden drawled on. "The rest are friends o' ours. Has anybody told ye about the poison oak that grows 'round here?" "I'm familiar with it," Oliver told him. "Ain't scared o' poison oak, then?" "Not at all. I'm immune." "It's a pesterin' plant. You'll chafe under it and chafe under it, and think it's gone; then here she comes back again, redder and lumpier and itchier than ever." "I'm quite familiar with its persistence," Oliver gravely stated. "And still ye ain't afraid o' poison oak?" "Not in the least." The gang was grinning, but the chief of the Poison Oakers maintained a straight face. "Ain't scared of it, then," he drawled on. "Well, now, that's handy. I like to meet a man that ain't scared o' poison oak. Got yer place fenced, I reckon?" "Yes, I've repaired the fence." "That's right. That's always the best way. O' course the law says we got to see that our stock don't get on your prop'ty. Whether that there's a good and just law or not I ain't prepared to say right now. But we got to obey it, and we always try to keep our cows offen other folks' pasture. But it's best to fence, whether ye got stock o' yer own or not. Pays in the long run, and keeps a fella outa trouble with his neighbours. But the best o' fencin' won't keep out the poison oak. O' course, though, you know that. Now what're ye gonta do down there on the Old Ivison Place?--if I ain't too bold in askin'." "Have a little garden, and maybe get a cow later on. Put a few stands of bees to work for me, if I can find enough swarms in the woods. I have a saddle horse and a burro to keep the grass down now. I don't intend to do a great deal in the way of farming." "I'd think not," Selden drawled. "Land about here's good fer nothin' but grazin' a few months outa the year. Man would be a fool to try and farm down where you're at. How ye gonta make a livin'?--if I'm not too bold in askin'." "I intend to write for agricultural papers for my living," said Oliver. Silence greeted this. So far as their experience was concerned, Oliver might as well have stated that he was contemplating the manufacture of tortoise-shell side combs to keep soul and body to their accustomed partnership. "How long ye owned this forty?" Old Man Selden asked. "Only since my father's death, this year." "Yer father, eh? Who was yer father?" "Peter Drew, of the southern part of the state." "How long'd he own that prop'ty before he died?" "He owned it for some time, I understand," said Oliver patiently. The grey head shook slowly from side to side. "I can show ye, down to the county seat, that Nancy Fleet--who was an Ivison and sister o' the woman I married here about four year ago--owned that land up until the first o' the year, anyway. It was left to her by old Tabor Ivison when he died. That was fifteen year ago, and I've paid the taxes on it ever since for Nancy Fleet, for the privilege o' runnin' stock on it. I paid the taxes last year. What 'a' ye got to say to that?" Oliver Drew had absolutely nothing to say to it. He could only stare at the gaunt old man. "But I have the deed!" he burst out at last. "And I've got last year's tax receipts," drawled Adam Selden. "Ye better go down to the county seat and have a look at the records," he added, swinging his horse about. "Then when ye've done that, I'd like a talk with ye. Just so! Just so!" He rode off without another word, the gang following. Early next morning Oliver was in the saddle. As Poche picked his way out of the cañon Oliver espied Jessamy Selden on her white mare, standing still in the county road. "Good morning," said the girl. "You're late. I've been waiting for you ten minutes." Oliver's lips parted in surprise, and she laughed good-naturedly. "I thought you'd be riding out early this morning," she explained, "so I rode down to meet you. I feel as if a long ride in the saddle would benefit me today. Do you mind if I travel with you to the county seat?" He had ridden close to her by this time, and offered his hand. "You like to surprise people, don't you?" he accused. "The answer to your question is, I do not mind if you travel with me to the county seat. But let me tell you--you'll have to travel. This is a horse that I'm riding." She turned up her nose at him. "I like to have a man talk that way to me," she said. "Don't ever dare to hold my stirrup for me, or slow down when you think the pace is getting pretty brisk, or anything like that." "I wouldn't think of such discourtesy," he told her seriously. "You noticed that I let you mount unaided the other day. I might have walked ahead, though, and opened the gate for you if you hadn't loped off." "That's why I did it," she demurely confessed. "I'm rather proud of being able to take care of myself. And as for that wonderful horse of yours, he does look leggy and capable. But, then, White Ann has a point or two herself. Let's go!" Their ponies took up the walking-trot of the cattle country side by side toward Halfmoon Flat. "Well," Oliver began, "of course my meeting you means that you know I've had an encounter with Adam Selden, and that he has told you he doubts if I am the rightful owner of the Tabor Ivison Place." "Yes, I overheard his conversation with Hurlock last night," she told him. "So I thought I'd ride down with you, sensing that you would be worried and would hit the trail this morning." "I am worried," he said. "I can't imagine why your step-father made that statement." "Just call him Adam or Old Man Selden when you're speaking of him to me," she prompted. "Even the 'step' in front of 'father' does not take away the bad taste. And you might at least _think_ of me as Jessamy Lomax. I will lie in the bed I made when I espoused the name of Selden, for it would be stupid to go about now notifying people that I have gone back to Lomax again. My case is not altogether hopeless, however. You are witness that I have a fair chance of some day acquiring the name of Foss, at any rate. So you are worried about the land tangle?" "What can it mean?" he puzzled. "This probably is not the first instance in which a deed has not been recorded promptly," she ventured. "That won't affect your ownership. Personally I know that Aunt Nancy Fleet's name appears in the records down at the county seat as the owner of the property. She sold it to your father, doubtless, and the transfer never was recorded. Where is your deed?" He slapped his breast. "See that you keep it there," she said significantly. "You say you know that your Aunt Nancy Fleet is named as owner of the property in the county records?" She nodded. "Then she has allowed Adam Selden to believe that she still owns it!" he cried. "And this is proved by reason of her having allowed him to pay the taxes for the right to run stock on the land." She nodded again. He wrinkled his brows. "It would seem to be a sort of conspiracy against Adam Selden by your Aunt Nancy and--" He paused. "And who?" "Well, it's not like my father's business methods to allow a deed to go unrecorded for fifteen years," he told her. "Not at all like Dad. So I must name him as a party to this conspiracy against old Adam. But what is the meaning of it, Miss Selden?" "I'm sure I am not in a position to say," she replied lightly. "Some day, when you've got things to running smoothly down there, I'll take you to see Aunt Nancy. She lives up in Calamity Gap--about ten miles to the north of Halfmoon Flat. Maybe she can and will explain." He regarded her steadily; but for once her eyes did not meet his, though he could not say that this was intentional on her part. "By George, I believe _you_ can explain it!" he accused. "I?" "You heard me the first time." "Did you learn that expression at the University of California or in France?" "I stick to my statement," he grumbled. "Do so, by all means. Just the same, I am not in a position to enlighten you. But I promise to take you to Aunt Nancy whenever you're ready to go. There's an Indian reservation up near where she lives. You'll want to visit that. We can make quite a vacation of the trip. You'll see a riding outfit or two that will run close seconds to yours for decoration and elaborate workmanship. My! What a saddle and bridle you have! I've been unable to keep my eyes off them from the first; but you were so busy with your land puzzle that I couldn't mention them. I've seen some pretty elaborate rigs in my day, but nothing to compare with yours. It's old, too. Where did you get it?" "They were Dad's," he told her. "He left them and Poche to me at his death. I must tell you of something that happened when I first showed up in Halfmoon Flat in all my grandeur. Do you know Old Dad Sloan, the 'Forty-niner?" She nodded, her glance still on the heavy, chased silver of his saddle. Then Oliver told her of the queer old man's mysterious words when he saw the saddle and bridle and martingales, and the stones that were set in the silver _conchas_. She was strangely silent when he had finished. Then she said musingly: "The lost mine of Bolivio. Certainly that sounds interesting. And Dan Smeed, squawman, highwayman, and outlaw. The days of old, the days of gold--the days of 'Forty-nine! Thought of them always thrills me. Tell me more, Mr. Drew. I know there is much more to be told." "I'll do it," he said; and out came the strange story of Peter Drew and his last message to his son. Her wide eyes gazed at him throughout the recital and while he read the message aloud. They were sparkling as he concluded and looked across at her. "Oh, that dear, delightful, romantic old father of yours!" she cried. "You're a man of mystery--a knight on a secret quest! Oh, if I could only help you! Will you let me try?" "I'd be only too glad to shift half the burden of finding the question and its correct answer to your strong shoulders," he said. "Then we'll begin just as soon as you're ready," she declared. "I have a plan for the first step. Wait! I'll help you!" Shortly before noon they dropped rein before the court house and sought the county recorder's office. Oliver gave the legal description of his land, and soon the two were pouring over a cumbersome book, heads close together. To his vast surprise, Oliver found that his deed had been recorded the second day after his father's death, and that, up until that recent date, the land had appeared in the records as the property of Nancy Fleet. "Dad's lawyers did this directly after his death," he said to Jessamy. "They sent the deed up here and had it recorded just before turning it over to me. Adam Selden hasn't seen it yet. Say, this is growing mighty mysterious, Miss Selden." "Delightfully so," she agreed. "Now as you weren't expecting me to come along, have you enough money for lunch for two? If not, I have. We'd better eat and be starting back." CHAPTER VII LILAC SPODUMENE Once more Oliver Drew rode out of Clinker Creek Cañon to find Jessamy Selden, straight and strong and dependable looking, waiting for him in her saddle. On this occasion he joined her by appointment. She looked especially fresh and contrasty today. Her black hair and eyes and her red lips and olive skin, with the red of perfect health so subtly blended into the tan, always made her beauty rather startling. This morning she had plaited her hair in two long, heavy braids that hung to the bottom of her saddle skirts on either side. Oliver's gaze at her was one of frank admiration. "How do you do it?" he laughed. "Do what?" "Make yourself so spectacular and--er--outstanding, without leaving any traces of art?" "Am I spectacular?" "Rather. Different, anyway--to use a badly overworked expression. But what puzzles me is what makes you look like that. You seem perfectly normal, and nothing could be plainer than the clothes you wear. You're not beautiful, and you're too big both physically and mentally to be pretty. But I'll bet my hat you're the most popular young woman in this section!" She regarded him soberly. "Are you through?" she asked. "I've exhausted my stock of descriptive words, anyway," he told her. "Then we'd better be riding," she said. He swung Poche to the side of White Ann, and they moved off along the road, knee and knee. "You're not offended?" he asked. She threw back her head and laughed till Oliver thought of meadow larks, and robins calling before a shower. "Offended! You must think me some sort of freak. Who ever heard of a woman being offended when a man admires her? I like it immensely, Mr. Oliver Drew. And if you can beat that for square shooting, there's no truth in me. But if you'll analyse my 'difference' you'll find it's only because I'm big and strong and healthy, and try always to shoot straight from the shoulder and look folks straight in the eye. That's all. Let's let 'em out!" They broke into a smart gallop, and continued it up and down pine-toothed hills till they clattered into Halfmoon Flat. Curious eyes met them, old men stopped in their tracks and leaned on their canes to watch, and folks came to windows and doors as they loped through the village. "'Whispering tongues can poison truth,'" Jessamy quoted as they turned a corner and cantered up a hill toward a grove of pines on the outskirts of the town. "It seems odd that Adam Selden has not mentioned you to me. Surely some one has seen us together who would tell some one else who would tell Old Man Selden all about it. But not a cheep from him as yet." "Have you any bosom friends in the Clinker Creek district?" he asked, not altogether irrelevantly. "No, none at all. But I'm friends with everybody, though I have nothing in common with any one. I don't consider myself superior to the natives here about, but, just the same, they don't interest me. I'm speaking of the women. I like most of the men. I guess I'm what they call a man's woman. I can't sit and talk about clothes and dances, and gossip, and what one did on one's vacation last summer. It all bores me stiff, so I don't pretend it doesn't. Men, now--they can talk about horses and saddles and cows and cutting wood and prizefights and poker games and election--" "And women and Fords," he interrupted. She laughed and led the way into a little trail that snaked on up the hill between lilacs and buckeye trees to a little cabin half-hidden in the foliage. They dismounted at the door and loosed their horses. Jessamy tapped vigorously on the panels. Again and again--and then there was heard a shuffling, unsteady step inside, and a cane thumped hollowly. Presently the door opened, and Old Dad Sloan bleared out at them from behind his flaring, mattress-stuffing hair and whiskers. "How do you do, Mr. Sloan!" cried Jessamy almost at the top of her voice. A veined hand shook its way to form a cup behind the ancient's ear. "Hey?" he squealed. Jessamy filled her sturdy lungs with air and tried again. "I say--How do you do!" The effort left her neck red but for a blue outstanding artery. "Oh!" exclaimed Dad Sloan, with a look of relief. "Why, howdy?" Jessamy ascended a step to the door, took him by both shoulders, and placed her satin lips close to the ear that he inclined her way. "We've come to make you a call," she announced. "I want you to meet a friend of mine; and we want to ask you some questions." The grey head nodded slowly up and down, more to indicate that its owner heard and understood than to signify acquiescence. But he tottered back and held the door wide open; and Jessamy and Oliver went into the cabin. Dad Sloan managed to live all alone in this sequestered little nook by reason of the county's generosity. He was old and feeble, and at times irritatingly childish and petulant. Jessamy Selden often brought him cakes, fried chicken, and the like; and, provided he was in the right mood, he would be more likely to be confidential with her than with anybody else in the country. But the girl's task was difficult. The old man shook hands listlessly with Oliver at her bidding, but seemed entirely to have forgotten their previous meeting. They sat in the uncomfortable straight-backed, thong-bottom chairs while Jessamy shrieked the conversation into the desired channel. The old eyes gathered a more intelligent look as she spoke of the lost mine of Bolivio. Pieced together, the fragments that fell from the bearded lips of Old Dad Sloan made some such narrative as follows: Bolivio had been a Portuguese or a Spaniard, or some "black furriner," who had been in the country in the memorable days of '49 and afterward. His knowledge of some tongue based on the Latin had made it easy for him to communicate with the Pauba Indians that inhabited the country, as some of them had learned Spanish from the Franciscan Fathers down at the coast. Bolivio mingled with the tribe, and finally became a squawman. One day he appeared at the Clinker Creek bar and exhibited a beautiful stone. A gold miner who was present had once followed mining in South Africa, and knew something of diamonds. He examined Bolivio's stone, and gave it such simple tests as were at his command, then advised the owner to send it to New York to find out if it was possessed of value. It required months in those days to communicate with the Atlantic seaboard. Bolivio's stone was started on its long journey around the Horn. He hinted that there were more of the stones where he had found this one, and created the impression that his Indian brethren had showed them to him. More they could not get out of him. Nor did anybody try very hard to learn his secret, for no one imagined the find of much intrinsic value. Bolivio was a saddler, and was skilled in the art of the silversmith. Gold dust was plentiful in the country in that day, and the foreigner found ready buyers for his masterpieces in leather and precious metals. The finest equestrian outfit that he made was finally acquired from the Indians by Dan Smeed, a miner who afterward turned highwayman, married an Indian girl, became an outlaw, and finally disappeared altogether. In the _conchas_ with which the plaited bridle was adorned Bolivio had set two large stones from his secret store, which he himself had crudely polished. One day, a month or more before word came from New York regarding the stone, Bolivio was found dead in the forest. A knife had been plunged into his heart. The secret of the brilliant stones had died with him. Then came the answer. The stone was said to be spodumene, of a very high class, and had a a lilac tint theretofore unknown. It was the finest of its kind ever to have been reported as found in the United States. The finder was offered a thousand dollars for the sample sent; one hundred dollars a pound was offered for all stones that would grade up to the sample. But Bolivio was dead, and no one knew from whence the stone had come. Efforts were made, of course, to find the source of this wealth. The Indians were tried time and again, but not one word would they speak regarding the matter. The new quest was finally dropped; for those were the days of gold, gold, gold, and so frenzied were men and women to find it that other precious minerals were cast aside as worthless. None had time to seek for stones worth a hundred dollars a pound, with gold worth more than twice as much. So the lost mine of Bolivio became only a memory. Years later this same stone was discovered six hundred miles farther south. It is now on the market as kunzite, and a cut stone of one karat in weight sells for fifty dollars and more. The San Diego County discovery was supposed to mark the introduction of the stone in the United States, for the lost mine of Bolivio was all but forgotten. Old Dad Sloan thumped out at Jessamy's request and once again critically examined Oliver's saddle and bridle and the brilliants in the _conchas_. "It's the same fine outfit Bolivio made, and that afterwards belonged to Dan Smeed, outlaw, highwayman, and squawman," he pronounced. "They never was another outfit like it in this country." "Tell us more about Dan Smeed!" screamed the girl. The patriarch shook his head. "Bad egg; bad egg!" he said sonorously. "He married a squaw, and that's how come it he got the grandest saddle and bridle Bolivio ever made. Bolivio's squaw kep' it after Bolivio was knifed. And by and by along come this Dan Smeed and his partner to this country. And when Dan Smeed married into the tribe he got the saddle and bridle and martingales somehow. That was later--years later. Bolivio's been dead over seventy year." "Have you ever heard the name Peter Drew?" Oliver asked him. But the old eyes remained blank, and the grey head shook slowly from side to side. "I recollect clear as day what happened sixty to seventy year ago, but I can't recollect what I did last week or where I went," Dad Sloan said pathetically. "If I'd ever heard o' Peter Drew in the days o' forty-nine to seventy, I'd recollect it." "You mentioned Dan Smeed's partner," prompted Jessamy. "Can you recall his name?" "Yes, Dan Smeed had a partner," mused Dad Sloan. "Bad egg, Dan Smeed. Squawman, highwayman, outlaw. Disappeared with his fine saddle and bridle and martingales and the stones from the lost mine o' Bolivio." "But his partner's name?" the girl persisted. The old mind seemed to be wandering once more. "Bad eggs--both of 'em. Bad eggs," was the only answer she could get. "Well, we're progressing slowly," Jessamy observed as they rode away. "Our next step must be to visit the Indians. I know a number of them. Filipe Maquaquish, for instance, and Chupurosa are as old or older than Old Dad Sloan. Chupurosa's face is a pattern in crinkled leather. When we go to see Aunt Nancy Fleet we'll visit the Indian village. And that will be--when?" "Tomorrow, if you say so," Oliver replied. "I meant to irrigate my garden tomorrow, but it can wait a day." "By the way," she asked, "have you written that letter to Mr. Selden, telling him what we found out down at the county seat?" "I have it in my pocket," he told her. "Give it to me," she ordered. "I'll hand it in at the post office, get them to stamp the postmark on it, and take it home with me when I go." "Will you dare do that? Won't the post-master scent a conspiracy against Old Man Selden?" "Let him scent!" said Jessamy. "I'm dying to see Selden's face when he reads that letter." They parted at the headwaters of Clinker Creek, with the understanding that she would meet him in the county road next morning for the ride to her aunt's and the Indian reservation. CHAPTER VIII POISON OAK RANCH The trail that meandered down Clinker Creek Cañon extended at right angles to the one that led to the Selden ranch. The latter climbed a baldpate hill; then, winding its narrow way through dense locked chaparral higher than horse and rider, dipped down precipitously into the deep cañon of the American River. Jessamy waved good-bye to her new friend at the parting of the ways and lifted White Ann into her long lope to the summit of the denuded hill. For a little, as they crossed the topmost part of it, the deep, rugged scar that marked the course of the river was visible. Ragged and rocky and covered with trees and chaparral, the cañonside slanted down dizzily for over fifteen hundred feet. At the bottom the deep green river rushed pell-mell to the lower levels. A moment and the view was lost to the girl, as White Ann entered the thick chaparral and started the swift descent. At last they reached the bottom, forded the swirling stream, and began clambering up a trail as steep as the first on the other side. Soon the river was lost to view again, for once more the trail had been cut through a seemingly impenetrable chaparral of buckthorn, manzanita and scrub oak. Around and about tributary cañons they wound their way, and at last reached the end of the steep climb. For a quarter of a mile now the trail followed the backbone of a ridge, then entered a cañon that eventually spread out into a pine-bordered plateau on the mountainside. Just ahead lay Poison Oak Ranch. Beyond, the deep, dark forest extended in miles numbered by hundreds to the snow-mantled peaks of the Sierra Nevada range. While it was possible to reach Poison Oak Ranch from this side of the river, the journey on Shank's mare would have taken on something of the nature of an exploring expedition into unmapped lands. Occasionally hunters wandered to or past the ranch on this side; but for the most part any one who fancied that he had business at Poison Oak Ranch came over the narrow trail that connected the spot with outside civilization. Few entertained such a fancy, however, for Poison Oak Ranch, secluded, hidden from sight, tucked away in the Hills of Nowhere, and difficult of access, was owned and controlled by a clannish family that had little in common with the world. There was a large log house that Adam Selden's father had built in the days of '49, in which the Old Man Selden of today had first opened his eyes on life. There were several lesser cabins in the mountainside cup, two of which were occupied by Hurlock Selden and Winthrop Selden and their families. The remaining two boys, Moffat and Bolar, lived in the big house with Jessamy, her mother, and the wicked Old Man of the Hills. There was an extensive garden, watered by a generous spring that gushed picturesquely from under a gigantic boulder set in the hillside. There were perhaps ten acres of pasture, and a small deciduous orchard. Little more in the way of agricultural land. The Seldens merely made this place their home and headquarters--their cattle ranged the hills outside, and most of their activities toward a livelihood were carried on away from home. Selden owned a thousand acres over in the Clinker Creek Country and a winter range a trifle larger fifty miles below the foothills. He moved his herds three times in a year--from the winter pastures to the Clinker Creek Country for the spring grass, keeping them there till August, when they were driven to government mountain ranges at an altitude of six thousand feet; and from thence, in October, to winter range once more. The Clinker Creek range, however, was comprised of several thousand acres beside the thousand owned by Selden. This represented lands long since deserted by their owners as useless for agricultural purposes, and upon which Selden kept up the taxes, or appropriated without negotiations, as conditions demanded. Oliver Drew's forty had been a part of this until Oliver's inopportune arrival. Jessamy rode into the rail corral and unsaddled her mare. Then she hurried to the house to help her mother, a tired looking, once comely woman of fifty-eight. Mrs. Selden had been an Ivison--a sister of Old Tabor Ivison, who had homesteaded Oliver's forty acres thirty years before. As a girl she had married Herman Lomax, a country youth with ambitions for the city. He had done fairly well in the mercantile business in San Francisco, and Jessamy, the only child, was born to them. The girl had been raised to young womanhood and attended the State University. Then her father had died, leaving his business in an involved condition; and in the end the widow and her daughter found there was little left for them. They returned to the scene of Mrs. Lomax's girlhood, where they tried without success to farm the old home place, to which, in the interim, the widow had fallen heir. Then to the surprise of every one--Jessamy most of all--Mrs. Lomax consented to marry Old Adam Selden, the father of four strapping sons and "the meanest man in the country." At the time Jessamy had not known this last, but she knew it now. However, such an independent young woman as Jessamy would not consent to suffer a great deal at the hands of a step-father. She stayed on with the family for her mother's sake, but she had her own neat living room and bedroom and went her own way entirely. It must end someday. Old Adam Selden, though hard and tough as a time-battered oak, could not live for ever. Her mother would not divorce him. So Jessamy stayed and waited, and rode over the hills alone, unafraid and independent. She was helping her mother to get supper in the commodious kitchen, with its black log walls and immense stone fireplace, which room served as dining room and living room as well, when Adam Selden, Bolar, and Moffat rode in from the trail and corraled their horses. Supper was ready as the three clanked to the house in spurs and chaps, and washed noisily in basins under a gigantic liveoak at the cabin door. Then Jessamy took Oliver Drew's letter from her bosom and propped it against old Adam's coffee cup. Selden's bushy brows came down as he scraped his chair to the table. Mail for any Selden was an unusual occurrence. "What's this here?" Adam's thick fingers held the envelope before his eyes, and the beetling grey brows strained lower. "Mail," indifferently answered Jessamy, setting a pan of steaming biscuits, covered with a spotless cloth, on the table. "Fer me?" "'Adam Selden, Esquire,'" she quoted. "'Esquire,' eh? Who's she from?" "It's generally customary to open a letter and read who it is from," said Jessamy lightly. "In this instance, however, you will find a notation on the flap of the envelope that reads: 'From Oliver Drew, Halfmoon Flat, California.'" "Huh!" Selden raised his shaggy head and bent a condemnatory glance on the girl. "D'he give it to ye?" "It is postmarked Halfmoon Flat," said Jessamy, taking her seat beside Bolar, who, indifferent to his father's difficulties, had already consumed three fluffy biscuits spread with butter and wild honey. "Ye got her out o' the office, then?" The cold blue eyes were challenging. "Oh, certainly, certainly!" Jessamy chirruped impatiently. "One might imagine you'd never received a letter before." Adam fingered it thoughtfully. "Yes," he said deliberatingly at last, reverting to his customary drawl, "I got letters before now. But I was just wonderin' if this Drew fella give thisun to you to give to me." Jessamy's round left shoulder gave a little shrug of indifference. "Coffee, Moffat?" she asked. "Sure Mike," said Moffat. "Did he?" Selden's tones descended to the deep bass boom which marked certain moods. "Oh, dear!" Jessamy complained good-naturedly. "What's the use? Can't you see the postmark and the cancelled stamp, Mr. Selden?" Selden contemplated them. "Yes, I see 'em," he admitted; "I see 'em. But I thought, s' long's ye was with that young Drew fella today, he might 'a' saved his stamp and sent her to me by you." "That being satisfactorily decided," chirped Jessamy, "let us now open the missive and learn what Mr. Drew has to communicate." "Heaven's sake, Pap, open it and shut up!" growled Moffat, his mouth full of potato. "I'll take a quirt to you if ye tell me to shut up ag'in!" thundered Selden. Thereupon he tore the envelope and leaned out from his chair so that the light from a window flooded the single sheet which the envelope contained. He read silently, slowly, craggy brows drawn down. His cold blue eyes widened, and the large nostrils of his pitted Bourbon nose spread angrily. "Moffat, listen here!" he boomed at last. "You, too, Bolar." "Yes, be sure to listen, Bolar," laughed Jessamy. "But if you don't wish to, go down into the cañon of the American." "'Adam Selden, Esquire,'" Selden boomed on, unheeding the girl's bantering. "'Poison Oak Ranch, Halfmoon Flat, Californy:' "'My dear Mr. Selden.' Get that, Moffat! 'My dear Mr. Selden!' Say, who's that Ike think he's writin' to? His gal? Huh! 'My _dear_ Mr. Selden:' "'I rode to the county seat on Wednesday, this week, and looked over the records in the office of the recorder of deeds. I found that you are entirely mistaken in the matter that you brought to my attention on Tuesday. The forty acres known as the Old Ivison Place are recorded in my name, the date of the recording being January fifth, this year. It appears that Nancy Fleet sold the place years ago to my father, but that the transfer was not placed on record until the date I have mentioned.' "'With kindest regards,' "'Yours sincerely, Oliver Drew.'" Selden came to an ominous pause and glared about the table. "Writ with a typewriter, all but his name," he announced impressively. "And he's a liar by the clock!" Jessamy threw back her head in that whole-souled laughter that made every one who heard her laugh. "He's crazy," complacently mumbled Bolar, still at war on the biscuits. "Jess'my"--Selden's eyes were fixed sternly on his step-daughter--"What're ye laughin' at?" "At humanity's infinite variety," answered Jessamy. "Does that mean me?" "Me, too, Pete!" she rippled. "Looky-here"--he leaned toward her--"there's some funny business goin' on 'round here. Two times ye been seen ridin' with that new fella down on the Old Ivison Place." "Two times is right," she slangily agreed. "And ye rode with 'im to the county seat when he went to see the records. Just so!" "Your informer is accurate," taunted the girl. "What for?" "What for?" She levelled her disconcerting gaze at him. "Well, I like that, Mr. Selden! Because I wanted to, if you must pry into my affairs." "Ye wanted to, eh? Ye _wanted_ to! Did ye see the records?" "I did." "Is this here letter a lie?" He spanked the table with it. "It is not." He rose from his chair and bent over her. "D'ye mean to tell me yer maw's sister don't own that prop'ty?" "Exactly. It belongs to Mr. Oliver Drew, according to the recorder's office. May I suggest that I am rather proud of my biscuits tonight, and that they're growing cold as lumps of clay?" "It's a lie!" roared Selden. "Now, just a moment," said Jessamy coolly. "Do I gather that you are calling me a liar, Mr. Selden? Because if you are, I'll get a cattle whip and do my utmost to make you swallow it. I'll probably get the worst of it, but--" "Shut up!" bawled Selden. "Ye know what I mean, right enough! The whole dam' thing's a lie!" "Tell it to the county recorder, then," Jessamy advised serenely. "Have another piece of steak, Mother." "I'll ride right up to Nancy Fleet's tomorrow. I'll get to the bottom o' this business. And you keep yer young nose outa my affairs, Jess'my!" "Oh, I'll do that--gladly. That's easy." "Just so! Then keep her outa this fella Drew's, too!" "That's another matter entirely," she told him. "And I may as well add right here, while we're on the subject, that I wish you to keep your nose out of _my_ affairs. There, now--we've ruined our digestions by quarrelling at meal-time. Bolar hasn't, though--I'm glad somebody appreciates my biscuits." Bolar grinned, and his face grew red. Bolar was deeply in love with his step-sister, four years his senior; but a day in the saddle, with a sharp spring wind in one's face, will scarce permit the tender passion to interfere with a lover's appetite. Old Adam enveloped himself in his customary brooding silence. He was a holy terror when aroused, and would then spout torrents of words; but ordinarily he was morosely quiet, taciturn. He would not have hesitated to apply his quirt to his twenty-six-year-old son Moffat, as he had threatened to do, had not that young man possessed the wisdom born of experience to refrain from defying him. But with his step-daughter it was different. For some inexplicable reason he "took more sass" from her than from any other person living. Deep down in his scarred old heart, perhaps, there was hidden a deferential respect and fatherly admiration for this breezy, strong-minded girl with whom a strange fortune had placed him in daily contact. "Please eat your supper, Mr. Selden," Jessamy at last sincerely pleaded, when the old man's frowning abstraction had continued for minutes. Dutifully, without a word, he scraped his chair closer to the table and fell to noisily. But he did not join in the conversation, which now became general. It was a custom in the House of Selden for each diner to leave the table when he had finished eating--a custom antedating Jessamy's advent in the family, which she never had been able to correct. Bolar had long since bolted the last morsel of food that his tough young stomach would permit, and had hurried to a half-completed rawhide lariat. Moffat soon followed him out. Then Jessamy's mother arose and left the room. This left together at the table the deliberate eater, Jessamy, and the old man, who had not yet caught up with the time he had given to the letter. He too finished before the girl, having completed his supper in the same untalkative mood. Now, however, he spoke to her as he pushed back his chair and rose. "Jess'my," he said in a moderate tone, "I want to tell ye one thing. Ye know that I shoot straight from the shoulder, or straight from the hip, whichever's handiest--and I don't shoot to scare." He waited. Jessamy nodded. "I'll have to admit that," she said. "I think it's the thing I like most about you." He pondered over this, and again his brows came down above his pitted nose. "I didn't know they was anything ye liked about me," he at length said bluntly. "Oh, yes," she remarked, levelling that straightforward look of hers at him. "I like your height and the breadth of your chest, and the way you sit in your saddle when your horse is on the dead run--and the other thing I mentioned before." Again he grew thoughtful. "Well, that's _somethin'_," he finally chuckled. "Ye like my way o' sayin' what I think, then. Well, get this: I'm the boss o' this country, from Red Mountain to the Gap. I been the boss of her since my pap died and turned her over to me. So it's the boss o' the Poison Oak Country that's talkin'. And he says this: That new fella Drew that's made camp down on the Old Tabor Ivison Place can't make a livin' there, can't raise nothin', don't belong there. And if by some funny business, that I'm gonta look into right away, he's got a-holt o' that forty, he's got to hit the trail." "Why, how ridiculous!" laughed the girl. "Where do you think you are, Mr. Selden? In Russia--Germany? King Selden Second, Czar of all the Poison Oak Provinces! Mr. Drew, owning that land in his own right, must hit the trail and leave it for you simply because you say so!" "Ye heard what I said, Jess'my"--and he clanked out of the room. CHAPTER IX NANCY FLEET'S WINDFALL Jessamy Selden stood before the cheap soft-wood dresser in her bedroom, in a wing of the old log house, and completed the braiding of the two long, thick strands of cold-black hair. Then in the cozy little sitting room, which adjoined the bedroom and was hers alone, she slipped on her morocco-top riding boots and buckled spur straps over her insteps. The sun had not yet climbed the wooded ridges beyond Poison Oak Ranch. The night before the girl had prepared a cold breakfast for herself; and with this wrapped in paper she left the sitting room by its outside door and ran to the corral. The family was at breakfast in the vast room. Hurlock's and Winthrop's families were likewise engaged in their respective houses. So no one was about to disturb or even see Jessamy as she hastily threw the saddle on White Ann, leaped into it, and rode away. When she had left the clearing, and the noise of rapid hoofbeats would not be heard, she lifted the mare into a gallop. At this reckless speed they swung into the trail and plunged hazardously down the mountainside along the serpentine trail. They forded the river, took the trail on the other side, and raced madly up it until compassion for her labouring mount forced the rider to rein in. Now she ate her breakfast of cold baked apple and cold fried mush in the saddle as the mare clambered upward. At sunrise they topped the ridge and took up the lope again toward the headwaters of Clinker Creek. Long before she reached it Jessamy saw a bay horse and its rider at rest, with the early sunlight playing on the flashing silver of the famous saddle and bridle of Oliver Drew. "Let's go!" she cried merrily as White Ann, convinced that some devilment was afoot, cavorted and humped her back and shied from side to side while she bore down swiftly on the waiting pair. For answer Oliver Drew pressed his calves against Poche's ribs, and the bay leaped to White Ann's side with a snort that showed he had caught the spirit of the coming adventure, whatever it might prove to be. At a gallop they swung into the county road, Poche producing a challenging metallic rattle by rolling the wheel of his halfbreed bit with his tongue, straining at the reins, and bidding the equally defiant white to do that of which "angels could do no more." "Good morning!" cried Oliver. "What's the rush?" "Old Man Selden is riding to Aunt Nancy's today," she shouted back. "Good morning!" "Oh! In that case, if that white crowbait you're riding hadn't already come three miles, we'd find out whether she can run. She's telling the world she can." Jessamy made a face at him and, leaning forward, caressed the mare's smooth neck. White Ann evidently considered this a sign of abetment, for she plunged and reared and cast fiery looks of scorn at her pseudo rival. "There, there, honey!" soothed the girl. "We could leave that old flea-bitten relic so far behind it would be cruelty to animals to do it. Just wait till we're coming back, after we've rested and have an even chance; for I really believe the man wants to be fair." Oliver's eyes were filled with her as her strong, sinewy figure followed every unexpected movement of the plunging mare as if a magnet held her in the saddle. The dew of the morning was on her lips; the flush of it on her cheeks. Her long black braids whipped about in the wind like streamers from the gown of a classic dancer. The picture she made was the most engrossing one he had ever looked on. They slowed to a walk after a mile of it. "Well," said Jessamy, "I delivered your letter." "Yes? Go on. That's a good start." "It created quite a scene. Old Adam simply won't--can't--believe that you own the Old Ivison Place. So that's why he's fogging it up to Aunt Nancy's today. I think we'll be an hour ahead of him, though, and can be at the reservation by the time he reaches the house." "Is he angry?" "Ever try to convince a wasp that you have more right on earth than he has?" Her white teeth gleamed against the background of red lips and sunburned skin. "Well?" "He says that, whether you own the place or not, you'll have to leave." "M'm-m! That's serious talk. In some places I've visited it would be called fighting talk." "Number this place among them, Mr. Drew," she said soberly, turning her dark, serious eyes upon him. "But I didn't come up here to fight!" "Neither did the President of the United States take his seat in Washington to fight," she pointed out, keeping that level glance fixed on his face. "Oh, as to that," mused Oliver after a thoughtful pause, "I guess I _can_ fight. They didn't send me back from France as entirely useless. But it strikes me as a very stupid proceeding. Look here, Miss Selden--how many acres of grass does your step--er--Old Man Selden run cows on for the summer grazing?--how many acres in the Clinker Creek Country, in short?" Jessamy pursed her lips. "Perhaps four thousand," she decided after thought. "Uh-huh. And on my forty there's about fifteen acres, all told, that represents grass land. The rest is timber and chaparral. Now, fifteen acres added to four thousand makes four thousand fifteen acres. The addition would take care of perhaps five additional animals for the three months or more that his stock remains in that locality. Do you mean to tell me that Adam Selden would attempt to run a man out of the country for that?" She closed her eyes and nodded her head slowly up and down in a childlike fashion that always amused him. It meant "Just that!" He gave a short laugh of unbelief. "Listen," she cautioned: "Don't make the fatal mistake of taking this matter too lightly, Mr. Drew." "But heavens!" he cried. "A man who would attempt to dispossess another for such a slight gain as that would rob a blind beggar of the pennies in his cup! I've had a short interview with Old Man Selden. Corrupt he may be, but he struck me as an old sinner who would be corrupt on a big scale. I couldn't think of the masterful old reprobate I talked with as a piker." Jessamy locked a leg about her saddle horn. "You've got him about right," she informed her companion. "One simply is obliged to think of him as big in many ways." Oliver's leg now crooked itself toward her, and he slouched down comfortably. "Say," he said, "I don't get you at all." "Don't get me?" She was not looking at him now. "No, I don't. One moment you said he would put the skids under me for the slight benefit from my fifteen acres of grass. Next moment you maintain that he is not a piker." "Yes." Oliver rolled a cigarette. Not until it was alight did he say: "Well, you haven't explained yet." She was silent, her eyes on the glittering snow of the far-off Sierras. For the first time since he had met her he found her strangely at a loss for words. And had her direct gaze faltered? Were her eyes evading his? And was the rich colour of her skin a trifle heightened, or was it the glow from the sun, ever reddening as it climbed its ancient ladder in the sky? She turned to him then--suddenly. There was in her eyes a look partly of amusement, partly of chagrin, partly of shame. "I can't answer you," she stated simply. "I blundered, that's all. Opened my mouth and put my foot in it." "But can't you tell me how you did that even?" "I talk too much," was her explanation. "Like poor old Henry Dodd, I went too far on dangerous ground." Oliver tilted his Stetson over one eye and scratched the nape of his neck. "I pass," he said. "That reminds me," was her quick return, "I sat in at a dandy game of draw last night. There was--" "Wh-_what_!" "And now I have both feet in my mouth," she cried. "And you'll have to admit that comes under the heading, 'Some Stunt.' I thought I saw a chance to brilliantly change the subject, but I see that I'm worse off than before. For now you're not only mystified but terribly shocked." He gave this thirty seconds of study. "I'll have to admit that you jolted me," he laughed, his face a little redder. "I'm not accustomed to hearing young ladies say, 'I sat in at a dandy little game of draw'--just like that. But I'm sure I went too far when I showed surprise." "And what's your final opinion on the matter?" She was amused--Not worried, not defiant. "Well, I--I don't just know. I've never given such a matter a great deal of thought." "Do so now, please." Obediently he tried as they rode along. "One thing certain," he said at last, "it's your own business." "Oh, you haven't thought at all! Keep on." A minute later he asked: "Do you like to play poker?" "Yes." "For--er--money?" "'For--er--money.' What d'ye suppose--crochet needles?" Then he took up his studies once more. Finally he roused himself, removed his leg from the horn, and straightened in the saddle. "Settled at last!" she cried. "And the answer is...?" "The answer is, I don't give a whoop if you do." "You approve, then?" "Of everything you do." "Well, I don't approve of that," she told him. "I don't, and I do. But listen here: One of the few quotations that I think I spout accurately is 'When in Rome do as the Romans do.' I'm 'way off there in the hills. I'm a pretty lonely person, as I once before informed you. Yet I'm a gregarious creature. We have no piano, few books--not even a phonograph. Bolar Selden squeezes a North-Sea piano--in other words an accordion. Of late years accordion playing has been elevated to a place among the arts; but if you could hear Bolar you'd be convinced that he hasn't kept pace with progress. He plays 'The Cowboy's Lament' and something about 'Says the wee-do to the law-yer, O spare my only che-ild!' Ugh! He gives me the jim-jams. "So the one and only indoor pastime of Seldenvilla is draw poker. Now, if you were in my place, would you be a piker and a spoilsport and a pink little prude, or would you be human and take out a stack?" "I understand," he told her. "I think I'd take out a stack." "And besides," she added mischievously, "I won nine dollars and thirty cents last night." "That makes it right and proper," he chuckled. "But we've wandered far afield. Why did you say that Selden would try to run me off my toy ranch in one breath, and that he is wicked only in a big way in the next?" "I'd prefer to quarrel over poker playing," she said. "Please, I blundered--and I can't answer that question. But maybe you'll learn the answer to it today. We'll see. Be patient." "But I'll not learn from you direct." "I'm afraid not." "I think I understand--partly," he said after another intermission. "It must be that there's another--a bigger--reason why he wants me out of Clinker Creek Cañon." "You've guessed it. I may as well own up to that much. But I can't tell you more--now. Don't ask me to." After this there was nothing for the man to do but to keep silent on the subject. So they talked of other things till their horses jogged into Calamity Gap. Here was a town as picturesque as Halfmoon Flat, and wrapped in the same traditions. Jessamy's Aunt Nancy Fleet lived in a little shake-covered cottage on the hillside, overlooking the drowsy hamlet and the railroad tracks. It appeared that all of the Ivison girls had been unfortunate in marrying short-lived men. Nancy Fleet was a widow, and two other sisters besides Jessamy's mother had likewise lost husbands. Nancy Fleet was a still comely woman of sixty, with snow-white hair and Jessamy's black eyes. She greeted her niece joyously, and soon the three were seated in her stuffy little parlour. Oliver opened up the topic that had brought him there. Mrs. Fleet, after stating that she did so because he was Oliver Drew, readily made answer to his questions. Yes, she had sold the Old Ivison Place to a Mr. Peter Drew something like fifteen years before. She had never met him till he called on her, and no one else at Calamity Gap had known anything about him. He told that he had made inquiry concerning her, and that this had resulted in his becoming satisfied that she was a woman who would keep her word and might be trusted implicitly. This being so, he told her that he would relieve her of the Old Ivison Place, if she would agree to keep silent regarding the transfer until he or his son had assured her that secrecy was no longer necessary. For her consideration of his wishes in this connection he told her that he was willing to pay a good price for the land. As there seemed to be no rascality coupled with the request, she gave consent. For years she had been trying to dispose of the property for five hundred dollars. Now Peter Drew fairly took her breath away by offering twenty-five hundred. He could well afford to pay this amount, he claimed, and was willing to do so to gain her co-operation in the matter of secrecy. She had accepted. The transfer of the property was made under the seal of a notary public at the county seat, and the money was promptly paid. Then Peter Drew had gone away with his deed, and for fifteen years she had made the inhabitants of the country think that she still owned the Old Ivison Place simply by saying nothing to the contrary. She had been told to accept any rentals that she might be able to derive from it--to use it as her own. For several years Peter Drew had regularly forwarded her a bank draft to cover the taxes. Then Adam Selden had offered to pay the taxes for the use of the land, and she had written Peter Drew to that effect and told him to send no more tax money until further notice. Since that date she had heard no more from the mysterious purchaser of the land. She was surprised to learn that the transfer had at last been recorded, but could throw no light whatever on the proceedings. She took a motherly interest in Oliver because of his father, whose generosity had greatly benefited her. In fact, she said, she couldn't for the life of her tell how she'd got along without that money. "And whatever shall I say, dearie, when Adam Selden comes to me today?" she asked her niece. "I'm afraid of the man--just afraid of him." "Pooh!" Jessamy deprecated. "He's only a man. Oliver Drew's coming, and the fact that the transfer has at last been placed on record leaves you free to tell all you know. So just tell Old Adam what you've told Mr. Drew, and say you know nothing more about it. But whatever else you say, don't cheep that we've been here, Auntie." "Well, I hope and trust he'll believe me," she sighed as she showed her callers out. "Now," said Jessamy, as they remounted, "we'll ride away and be at the reservation by the time Old Adam arrives here. What do you think of your mystery by now, Mr. Drew?" "It grows deeper and deeper," Oliver mused. CHAPTER X JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD A steep, tall mountain, heavily wooded, reared itself above the Indian reservation. A creek tumbled over the boulders in the mountainside and raced through the village of huts; and the combined millions of all the irrigation and power companies in the West could not have bought a drop of its water until Uncle Sam's charges had finished with it and set it free again. It was a picturesque spot. Huge liveoaks, centuries old, sprawled over the cabins. Tiny gardens dotted the sunny land. Horses and dogs were anything but scarce, and up the mountainside goats and burros browsed off the chaparral. Wrinkled old squaws washed clothes at the creekside, or pounded last season's acorns into _bellota_--the native dish--in mortars hollowed in solid stone. Some made earthen _ollas_ of red clay; some weaved baskets. Over all hung that weird, indescribable odour which only Indians or their much-handled belongings can produce. "This is peace," smiled Oliver to Jessamy, as their horses leaped the stream side by side and cantered toward the cluster of dark, squat huts. "What do they call this reservation?" "It is named after an age-old dweller in our midst whom, since you are a Westerner, you must have often met." "Who is that?" "Mr. Rattlesnake." "Oh, certainly. I've met him on many occasions--mostly to his sorrow, I fancy. Rattlesnake Reservation, eh?" "Well, that would be it in English. But in the Pauba tongue Mr. Rattlesnake becomes Showut Poche-daka." "What's that!" Oliver turned quickly in his saddle to find her dark wide eyes fixed on him intently. "Say that again, please." "Showut Poche-daka," she repeated slowly. "M'm-m! Strikes me as something of a coincidence--a part of that name." "Showut is one word," she said, still watching him. "Poche and daka are two words hyphenated." "And how do the English-speaking people spell the second word, Poche?" he asked. "P-o-c-h-e," she spelled distinctly. "Long o, accent on the first syllable." Oliver reined in. "Stop a second," he ordered crisply. "Why, that's the way my horse's name is spelled. Say, that's funny!" "Is your trail growing plainer?" He looked at her earnestly. "Look here," he said bluntly. "I distinctly remember telling you the other day that my horse's name is Poche. Didn't you connect it with the name of the reservation at the time?" "I did." He looked at her in silence. "You did, eh?" he remarked finally. "I don't even know what my horse's name means. Dad bought him while I was away at college. I understood the horse was named that when Dad got hold of him, and that he merely hadn't changed it. Now, I won't say that Dad told me as much outright, but I gathered that impression somehow. I knew it was an Indian name, but had no idea of the meaning." "Literally Poche means bob-tailed--short-tailed. That's why it occurs in the title of our friend Mr. Rattlesnake. While your Poche-horse is not bob-tailed, his tail is rather heavy and short, you'll admit. Has nothing of the length and graceful sweep of White Ann's tail, if you'll pardon me." "You can't lead me into joshing just now, young lady. Answer this: Why didn't you tell me, when I told you my _caballo's_ name, that you knew what it meant? Most everybody asks me what it means when I tell 'em his name; but you did not even show surprise over the oddity of it--and I wondered. And before, when you spoke of this tribe of Indians, you called them the Paubas." "Certainly I showed no surprise, for I am familiar with the word poche and have just proved that I know its meaning. And I'm not very clever at simulating an emotion that I don't feel. I didn't tell you, moreover, because I wanted you to find out for yourself. I thought you'd do so here. Yes--and I deliberately called these people the Paubas. They _are_ Paubas--a branch of the Pauba tribe." "I thought you were to help me," he grumbled. "You're adding to the mystery, it seems to me." "Not at all. I'm showing you the trail. You must follow it yourself. Knowing the country, I see bits here and there that tell me where to go to help you out. Poche's name is one of them. Keep your eyes and ears open while I'm steering you around." "All right," he agreed after a pause. "Lead on!" "Then we'll make a call on Chupurosa Hatchinguish," she proposed. "Chupurosa means hummingbird, as you doubtless know, since it is Spanish. And if my Chupurosa isn't a bird and also a hummer, I never hope to see one." Oliver's riding outfit created a sensation as the two entered the village. Faces appeared in doorways. Squat, dark men, their black-felt hats invariably two sizes too large, came from nowhere, it seemed, to gaze silently. Dogs barked. Women ceased their simple activities and chattered noisily to one another. Jessamy reined in before a black low door presently, and left the saddle. Oliver followed her. Through a profusion of morning-glories the girl led the way to the door and knocked. From within came a guttural response, and, with a smile at her companion, she passed through the entrance. It was so dark within that for a little Oliver, coming from the bright sunlight, could see almost nothing. Then the light filtering in through the vines that covered the hut grew brighter. The floor was of earth, beaten brick-hard by the padding of tough bare feet. In the centre was a fireplace--little more than a circle of blackened stones--from which the smoke was sucked out through a hole in the roof, presumably after it had considerately asphyxiated the occupants of the dwelling. Red earthenware and beautifully woven baskets represented the household utensils. There were a few old splint-bottom chairs, a pack-saddle hanging on the wall, a bed of green willow boughs in one corner. These simple items he noticed later, and one by one. For the time being his interested attention was demanded by the figure that sat humped over the fire, smoking a black clay pipe. Chupurosa Hatchinguish, headman of the Showut Poche-dakas and a prominent figure in the fiestas and yearly councils of the Pauba tribes, was a treasure for anthropologists. Years beyond the ken of most human beings had wrought their fabric in his face. It was cross-hatched, tattooed, pitted, knurled, and wrinkled till one was reminded of the surface of some strange, intricately veined leaf killed and mummified by the frost. From this crunched-leather frame two little jet-black eyes blazed out with the unquenched fires of youth and all the wisdom in the world. A black felt hat, set straight on his iron-grey hair and almost touching ears and eyebrows, faded-blue overalls, and a dingy flannel shirt completed his garb, as he wore nothing on his feet. "Hello, my Hummingbird!" Jessamy cried merrily in the Spanish tongue. Chupurosa seemed not to be the stoic, "How-Ugh!" sort of Indian with which fiction has made the world familiar. All the tragedy and unsolvable mystery of his race was written in his face, but he could smile and laugh and talk, and seemed to enjoy life hugely. His leathery face now parted in a grin, and, though he did not rise, he extended a rawhide hand and made his callers welcome. Then he waved them to seats. Much as any other human being would do, he politely inquired after the girl's health and that of her family. Asked as to his own, he shook his head and made a rheumatic grimace. "I've brought a friend to see you, Chupurosa," said Jessamy at last, as, for some reason or other, she had not yet exactly introduced Oliver. Chupurosa looked at the man inquiringly and waited. "This is Oliver Drew," said the girl in what Oliver thought were unnatural, rather tense tones. He saw Jessamy's lips part slightly after his name, and that she was watching the old man intently. Chupurosa nodded in an exaggerated way, and extended a hand, though the two had already gone through the handshake formality. Oliver arose and did his part again, then stood a bit awkwardly before their host. He heard a half-sigh escape the girl. "Señor Drew has not been in our country long," she informed the old man. "He comes from the southern part of the state--from San Bernardino County." Again the exaggerated nodding on the part of Chupurosa. Then there was a pause, which the girl at length broke-- "Did you catch the name, Chupurosa? _Oliver Drew_." Chupurosa politely but haltingly repeated it, and grinned accommodatingly. Jessamy tried again. "Do you know a piece of land down in Clinker Creek Cañon that is called the Old Ivison Place, Chupurosa?" His nod this time was thoughtful. "Señor Drew now owns that, and lives there," she added. Both Jessamy and Oliver were watching him keenly. It seemed to Oliver that there was the faintest suggestion of dilation of the eye-pupils as this last bit of information was imparted. Still, it may have meant nothing. The Indian crumbled natural-leaf with heel of hand and palm, and refilled his terrible pipe. "Any friend of yours is welcome to this country and to my hospitality," he said. "Señor Drew rode all the way up here horseback," the girl pushed on. "You like good horses, Chupurosa. Señor Drew has a fine one. His name is Poche." For the fraction of a second the match that Oliver had handed Chupurosa stood stationary on its trip to the tobacco in his pipe. Chupurosa nodded in his slow way again, and the match completed its mission and fell between the blackened stones. "And you like saddles and bridles, too, I know. You should see Señor Drew's equipment, Chupurosa." Several thoughtful puffs. Then-- "Is it here, Señorita?" "Yes," said the girl breathlessly. "Will you go out and look at it?" This time the headman puffed for nearly a minute; then suddenly he rose with surprising briskness. "I will look at this horse called Poche," he announced, and stalked out ahead of them. A number of Indians, old and young, had gathered about the horses outside the little gate. They were silent but for a low, seemingly guarded word to one another now and then. Every black eye there was fixed on the gorgeous saddle and bridle of Poche in awe and admiration. Then came Chupurosa, tall, dignified as the distant mountain peaks, and they backed off instantly. At his heels were Oliver and the girl, whose cheeks now glowed like sunset clouds and whose eyes spoke volumes. Thrice in absolute silence the headman walked round the horse. Completing the third trip, he stepped to Poche's head and stood attentively looking at the left-hand _concha_ with its glistening stone. Then Chupurosa lifted his hands, slipped the chased-silver keeper that held the throatlatch in place, and let the throatlatch drop. Both hands grasped the cheekstrap near the brow-band, and turned this part of the bridle inside out. Oliver felt a slight trembling, it was all so weird, so portentous. He almost knew that the jet eyes were searching for the "B" chiselled into the silver on the inside of the _concha_, knew positively by the quick dilation of the pupils when they found it. At once the old man released the bridle and readjusted the throatlatch. He turned to them then, and silently motioned toward the hut. Jessamy cast a triumphant glance at Oliver as they followed him inside. To Oliver's surprise he closed the door after them. Then, though it was now so dark inside that Oliver could scarce see at all, Chupurosa stood directly before him and looked him up and down. He spoke now in the melodious Spanish. "Señor," he asked, "is there in the middle of your body, on the left side, the scar of a wound like a man's eye?" Oliver caught his breath. "Yes," he replied. "I brought it back from France. A bayonet wound." Up and down went the iron-grey head of the sage. "I have never seen the weapon nor the sort of wound it makes," he informed Oliver gravely. "Take off your shirt." "Oh, Chupu-_ro_-sa!" screamed Jessamy as she threw open the door and slammed it after her. CHAPTER XI CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA It was evident to Oliver Drew that Clinker Creek was lowering fast, as Damon Tamroy had predicted that it would do. He feared that it would go entirely dry just when certain vegetables would need it most. Again, also following Tamroy's prophecy, the flow from his spring proved insufficient to keep all of his plantings alive, even though he had impounded the surplus in a small clay-lined reservoir. He stood with hands on hips today, frowning at the tinkling stream of water running from the rusty length of pipe into the reservoir. "There's just one thing to do," he remarked to it, "and that's to see if I can't increase your putter-putter. I want to write an article on making the most of a flow of spring water, anyway; and I guess I'll use you for a foundation." Whereupon he secured pick and shovel and sledge and set about removing the box he had so carefully set in the ground to hold his domestic water. When the box was out he enlarged the hole, and, when the water had cleared, studied the flow. It seeped out from a fissure in the bedrock--or what he supposed was the bedrock--and it seemed a difficult matter to "get at it." However, he began digging above the point of egress in the resistant blue clay, and late that afternoon was down to bedrock again. And now when he had washed off the rock he discovered a strange thing. This was that the supposed bedrock was not bedrock at all, but a wall of large stones built by the hand of man. Through a crevice in this wall the water seeped, and when he had gouged out the puttylike blue clay the flow increased fivefold. He sat down and puzzled over it, expecting the flow to return to normal after some tiny unseen reservoir had been drained of its surplus. But it did not lessen, and had not lessened when night came. At midnight, thinking about it in bed and unable to sleep, he arose, lighted a lantern, and went down to the spring. The water was flowing just the same as when he had left it. He was not surprised to find the work of human hands in and about his spring, but this wall of stones was highly irregular. It appeared that, instead of having been built to conserve the water, it was designed to dam up the flow entirely. The old flow was merely seepage through the wall. He was at it again early next morning, and soon had torn down the wall entirely and thrown out the stones. At least five times as much water was running still. He recalled that Damon Tamroy had said the spring had given more water in Tabor Ivison's day than now. There was but one answer to the puzzle. For some strange reason somebody since Tabor Ivison's day had seen fit to try to stop the flow from the spring altogether. But who would go to such pains to do this, and hide the results of his work, as these had been hidden? And, above all, why? It is useless to deny that Oliver Drew at once thought of the Poison Oakers. But what excuse could they produce for such an act? Surely, with the creek dry and the American River several miles away, they would encourage the flow of water everywhere in the Clinker Creek Country for their cattle to drink. It was beyond him then and he gave it up. He laid more pipe and covered it all to the land level again, and viewed with satisfaction the increased supply of water for the dry summer months to come. And it was not until a week later that Jessamy Selden unconsciously gave him an answer to the question. He was scrambling up the hill to the west of the cabin that day to another bee tree that he had discovered, when he heard her shrill shouting down below. He turned and saw her and the white mare before the cabin, and the girl was looking about for him. He returned her shout, and stood on a blackened stump in the chaparral, waving his hat above the foliage. "I get you!" she shrilled at last. "Stay there! I'm coming up!" Fifteen minutes later, panting, now on hands and knees, now crawling flat, she drew near to him. A bird can go through California "locked" chaparral if it will be content to hop from twig to twig, but the ponderous human animal must emulate Nebuchadnezzar if he or she would penetrate its mysteries. "What a delightful route you chose for your morning crawl," she puffed, as at last she lay gasping at the foot of the stump on which he sat and laughed at her. Oliver lighted a cigarette and inhaled indolently as he watched her lying there with heaving breast, her arms thrown wide. She did everything as naturally as does a child. She wore fringed leather chaps today, and remarked, when she sat up and dusted the trash from her hair, that she was glad she had done so since he had made her come crawling to his feet. "And that reminds me of something that I've decided to ask you," she added. "Has it occurred to you that I am throwing myself at you?" She looked straight into his face as she put the naïve question to him. "Why do you ask that?" he countered, eyes on the tip of his cigarette. "I'll tell you why when you've answered." "Then of course not." "I suppose I _am_ a bit crude," she mused. "At least it must look that way to the natives here-about. I was fairly confident, though, that you wouldn't think me unmaidenly. I sought you out deliberately. I was lonely and wanted a friend. I had heard that you were a University man. You told Mr. Tamroy, you know. It's perfectly proper deliberately to try and make a friend of a person, isn't it?--if you think both of you may be benefited. And does it make a great deal of difference if the subject chances to be of the other sex?" "I'm more than satisfied, so far as I come in on the deal," Oliver assured her. "I thank you, sir. And now I've been accused to my face of throwing myself at you--which expression means a lot and which you doubtless fully understand." "Who is your accuser?" "The author of 'Jessamy, My Sweetheart.'" "Digger Foss, eh?" She closed both eyes tightly and bobbed her head up and down several times, then opened her eyes. "He's a free man again--tried and acquitted." "No!" "Didn't I tell you how it would be?" He puffed his cigarette meditatively. "Doesn't it strike you as strange that you and I were not subpoenaed as witnesses?" "I've been expecting that from you. No, sir--it doesn't. Digger's counsel didn't want you and me as witnesses." "But the prosecuting attorney." "_He_ didn't want us either." "Then there's corruption." "If I could think of a worse word than corruption I'd correct you, so I'll let that stand. Digger Foss is Old Man Selden's right hand; and Old Man Selden is Pythias to the prosecuting attorney of this man's county." Oliver's eyes widened. "Elmer Standard is the gentleman in question. What connection there can be between him and Adam Selden is too many for me; but Selden goes to see him whenever he rides to the county seat. Only the right witnesses were allowed to take the stand, you may be confident. I knew the halfbreed's acquittal was a foregone conclusion before the smoke from his gat had cleared." Both were silent for a time, then she said: "Elmer Standard runs things down at the county seat. I've heard that he allows open gambling, and that he personally finances three saloons and several gaming places." "But there are no saloons now." "Indeed!" she said with mock innocence. "I didn't know. I never have frequented them, so you'll overlook my ignorance. Anyway, Digger Foss is as free as the day he was born; and Henry Dodd, the man he murdered, lies in the little cemetery in the pines near Halfmoon Flat. But there's another piece of news: Adam Selden has--" "Pardon my interrupting you," he put in, "but you haven't finished with Digger Foss." "Oh, that! Well, I met him on the trail between Clinker Creek and the American yesterday. He accused me of being untrue to him while he was in jail." "Yes?" "I admitted my guilt. Never having had the slightest inclination to be true to him, I told him, it naturally followed that I was untrue to him--and wasn't it a glorious day? How on earth the boy ever got the idea that he has the right to consider me in the light that he does is beyond me. I don't scold him, and I don't send him packing--nor do I give him the least encouragement. I simply treat him civilly when he approaches me on a commonplace matter, and ignore him when he tries to get funny. And he's probably so dense that all this encourages him. How can he be so stupid! I haven't been superior enough with him--but I hate to be superior, even to a halfbreed. And he's quarter Chinaman. Heavens, what am I coming to!" "How did the meeting end?" queried Oliver. "Well, we both went a little further this time than ever before. He attempted to kiss me, and I attempted to cut his face open with my quirt. Both of us missed by about six inches, I'm thankful to say. And the grand climax took the form of a dire threat against you. By the way, I've never seen you pack a gun, Mr. Drew." He shrugged. "I used to down on the cow ranch in San Bernardino County, but I think I grew up over in France." "You have one, of course." "Yes--a 'forty-five." "Can you handle a gun fairly well?" "I know which end to look into to see if it's loaded." "Can you spin a dollar in air with your left hand, draw, and hit it before it strikes the ground?" "Aw, let's be sensible!" he cried. "I'm after another colony of bees. Come on up and look at 'em." "Sit still," she ordered. "Can you do what I asked about?" "I don't know--I've never tried." "Digger Foss can," she claimed. "Well, that's shooting." "It is. I'd strap that gun on if I were you and practice up a bit." "Cartridges are too high-priced," he laughed. "What's the rest of the news?" "The store up at Cliffbert, about fourteen miles from here and off the railroad, was broken into three days ago and robbed of cutlery, revolvers, and other things to the tune of several hundred dollars." "M'm-m! Do they have any idea who did it?" "Oh, yes. The Poison Oakers." "They know it?" "Of course--everybody knows it. But it can't be proved. It's nothing new." "I didn't know the gang ever went to such a limit." "Humph!" she sniffed significantly. "And the next piece of news is that Sulphur Spring has gone dry for the first time in many years. And here it's only May!" "Where is Sulphur Spring?" "About a mile below your south line, in this cañon. I heard Old Man Selden complaining about it last night, and thought I'd ride around that way this morning. It's as he said--entirely dry, so far as new water running into the basin is concerned." "Well," said Oliver, "my piece of news is just the opposite of that. My spring is running a stream five times as large as heretofore--" She straightened. "What caused that?" she demanded quickly. He explained in detail. "So!" she murmured. "So! I understand. Listen: I have heard the menfolks at the ranch say that all these cañon springs are connected. That is, they all are outbreaks from one large vein that follows the cañon. If you shut off one, then, you may increase the flow of the next one below it. And if you open one up and increase its output, the next below it may go entirely dry. The flow from yours has been cut off in time gone by to increase the flow of Sulphur Spring. And now that you've taken away the obstruction, your spring gets all the water, while Sulphur Spring gets none." "I believe you're right," asserted Oliver. "And do you think it might have been the Poison Oakers who closed my spring to increase the flow down there?" "Undoubtedly." "But why? They were running cows on my land, too, before I came. Wouldn't it be handier to have a good flow of water in both places?" "No doubt of that," she answered. "And I can't enlighten you, I'm sorry to say. All I know is that Old Man Selden is hopping mad--angrier than the situation seems to call for, as springs are by no means scarce in Clinker Cañon." Jessamy's disclosures had ended now, so they scrambled on up the hill toward the bee tree. The colony had settled in a dead hollow white-oak. The tree had been broken off close to the ground by high winds after the colony had taken up residence therein. The hole by which they made entrance to the hollow trunk, however, was left uppermost after the fall, and apparently the little zealots had not been seriously disturbed. Anyway, here they were still winging their way to and from the prostrate tree, the sentries keeping watch at the entrance to their increasing store of honey. Oliver had found the tree two weeks before, purely by accident. At that time the hole at which the workers entered had been unobstructed. Now, though, tall weeds had grown up about the tree, making a screen before the hole and preventing the nectar-laden insects from entering readily. "This won't do at-all-at-all," he said to Jessamy, as she took her seat on a limb of the bee tree. "There must be nothing to obstruct them in entering, for sometimes they drop with their loads when they have difficulty in winging directly in, and can't get up again." "Uh-huh," she concurred. She had unlaid one of her black braids and was replaiting it again after the havoc wrought by the prickly bushes. Oliver lighted his bee-smoker and sent several soft puffs into the hole to quiet the bees. Then without gloves or veil, which the experienced beeman seldom uses, he laid hold of the tall weeds and began uprooting them. Thus engaged, he kneeled down and reached under the tree trunk to get at the roots of certain obstinate plants; and in that instant he felt a sharp sting in the fleshy part of his wrist. "Ouch! Holy Moses!" he croaked. "I didn't expect to find a bee under there!" "Get stung?" "Did I! Mother of Mike! I've been stung many times, but that lady must have been the grandmother of--Why, I'm getting sick--dizzy!--" He came to a pause, swayed on his knees, and closed his eyes. Then came that heart-chilling sound which, once heard, will never be forgotten, and will ever bring cold terror to mankind--the rattlebone _whir-r-r-r-r_ of the diamond-back rattlesnake. Oliver caught himself, licked dry lips, and was gazing in horror at two bleeding, jagged incisions in his wrist. The girl, with a scream of comprehension, darted toward him. He balanced himself and smiled grimly as she grabbed his arm with shaking hands. "Got me," he said, "the son-of-a-gun! And I'd have stuck my hand right back for another dose if he hadn't rattled." Jessamy grabbed him by both shoulders and tried to force him to the ground. "Sit down and keep quiet!" she ordered, sternly, her nerves now firm and steady, her face white and determined. "No, not that way!" She grasped him under the arms and with the strength of a young Amazon slued him about as if he had been a sack of flour. Deftly she bound his handkerchief about his arm, drawing it taut with all her strength. Something found its way into his left hand. "Drink that!" she commanded. "All of it. Pour it down!" Then her lips sought the flaming wound; and she clamped her white teeth in his flesh and began sucking out the poison. At intervals she raised her head for breath and to spit out the deadly fluid. "Drink!" she would urge then. "And don't worry. Not a chance in the world of your being any the worse after I get through with you." Oliver obeyed her without question, taking great swallows from the flask of fiery liquor and closing his eyes after each. His senses swam and he felt weak and delirious, though he could not tell whether this last was because of the poison or the liquor he had consumed. At last Jessamy leaned back and fumbled in a pocket of her chaps. She produced a tiny round box, from which she took a bottle of dry permanganate of potash and a small lancet. With the keen instrument she hacked a deep x in his arm, just over the wound. Then she wet the red powder with saliva and worked a paste into the cuts with the lancet. This done, she sat back and regarded her patient complacently. "Just take it easy," she counselled. "And, whatever you do, don't worry. You won't know you were bitten in an hour. Sip that whisky now and then. It won't kill the poison, as some folks seem to believe, but it will make you light-hearted and you'll forget to worry. That's the part it plays in a case like this. Now if I can trust you to keep quiet and serene, I'll seek revenge." He nodded weakly. She arose, and presently again came that sickening _whir-r-r-r-r-r_ miscalled a rattle, followed immediately by a vicious _thud-thud-thud_. "There, you horrid creature!" he heard in a low, triumphant tone. "You thought I was afraid of you, did you? Bring total collapse on all your fictitious traditions and bite before you rattle, will you! _Requiescat in pace_, Mr. Showut Poche-daka!" Half an hour afterward Oliver Drew was on his feet, but he staggered drunkenly. To this day he is not just sure whether he was intoxicated or raving from the effects of the snakebite. Anyway, as Jessamy took hold of him to steady him, his reason left him, and he swept her into his arms and kissed her lips time and again, though she struggled valiantly to free herself. Ultimately she ducked under his arms and sprang away from him backward, her face crimson, her bosom heaving. "Sit down again!" she ordered chokingly. "Shame on you, to take advantage of me like that!" "Won't sit down!" he babbled, reaching about for her blindly. "I love you an' I'm gonta have you!" "You're out of your head! Sit down again! Please, now." Her tone changed to a soothing note. "You're--I'm afraid you're drunk." He was groping for her, staggering toward a threatening outcropping of rock. With a rapid leap she closed in on him unexpectedly, heaved desperately to the right and left, and threw him flat on his back. Then she scrambled on top of his knees as he strove to rise again. "Now, looky-here, mister," she warned, "you've gone just about far enough! In a second I'll get that bee-smoker and put you out of business. Please--please, now, be good!" He seemed partially stunned by the fall, for he lay now without a move, eyes closed, his mind wandering dreamily. And thus he lay for half an hour longer, when he suddenly raised his head and looked at her, still propped up on his knees, with eyes that were sane. "Golly!" he breathed. "Golly is right," she agreed drolly. "Were you drunk or crazy?" "Both, I guess. I'm--mighty sorry." His face was red as fire. "Do you wish to get up?" "If you please." He stood on his feet. He was still weak and pale and dizzy. "Heavens! That liquor!" he panted. "What is it? Where did you get it?" "At home. Old Adam gave me the flask over a year ago. It's only whisky. I always carry a flask for just such an emergency as this. And I never go a step out of the house in the summer without my snakebite kit. Nobody ought to in the West." He shook his head. "That's not whisky," he said. "I'm not exactly a stranger to the taste of whisky. That's brimstone!" "I was told it was whisky," she replied. "I know nothing about whisky. I've never even tasted it." He held the flask to the sun, but it was leather-covered and no light shone through. He unscrewed the metal cap and poured some of the liquor into it. It was colourless as water. "Moonshine!" he cried. "And I know now why the flow from my spring was cut off. A still calls for running water!" "You may be right," she said without excitement. "You will remember that I told you there is another reason besides Selden's covetousness of your grass land why you are wanted out of the Clinker Creek Country." CHAPTER XII THE POISON OAKERS RIDE A red-headed, red-breasted male linnet sat on the topmost branch of the old, gnarled liveoak near Oliver's window and tried to burst his throat to the accompaniment of Oliver's typewriter. When the keys ceased their clicking the singer finished a bar and waited, till once more the dicelike rattle encouraged him to another ecstatic burst of melody. "Well, I like to be accommodating," remarked Oliver, leaning back from his machine, "but I can't accompany you all day; and it happens that I'm through right now." He surveyed the last typewritten sheet of his manuscript on the cleaning of springs for the enlarging of their flow; but, the article completed, his mind was no longer engrossed by it. Other and bigger matters claimed his thoughts, and he sat in the soft spring air wondering about old Chupurosa Hatchinguish and his strange behaviour on seeing the gem-mounted _conchas_ stamped with the letter B. When Oliver had stripped off his shirt in the hut that day the scar that a German bayonet had left in his side had carefully been examined by the ancient chief. Oliver fancied there had been a strange new look in his inscrutable eyes as he silently motioned for him to put on his shirt again. He had made no comment whatever, though, and said nothing at all until the young man had finished dressing. Then he had stepped to the door and opened it, rather impolitely suggesting that his guest's presence in the hut was no longer necessary. As Oliver passed out he had spoken: "When next the moon is full," he said, "the Showut Poche-dakas will observe the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio, as taught them years ago by the padres who came from Spain. Then will the Showut Poche-dakas dance the fire dance, which is according to the laws laid down by the wise men of their ancestors. Ride here to the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio on the first night that the moon is full. _Adios, amigo!_" That was all; and Oliver had passed out into the bright sunlight and found Jessamy Selden. The two had talked over the circumstances often since that day, but neither could throw any light on the matter. But the first night of the full moon was not far distant now, and Oliver and the girl were awaiting it impatiently. Oliver felt that at the fiesta he would in some way gain an inkling of the mysterious question that had puzzled his father for thirty years, and which eventually had brought his son into this country to find out whether its answer was Yes or No. Oliver tilted back his chair and lighted his briar pipe. Out in the liveoak tree the linnet waited, head on one side, chirping plaintively occasionally, for the renewed clicking of the typewriter keys. But Oliver's thoughts were far from his work. That burning, colourless liquor that had so fiercely fired his brain was undoubtedly moonshine--and redistilled at that, no doubt. Jessamy had told him further that she had not so much as unscrewed the cap since old Adam had given her the flask, at her request, and had had no idea that the flask had not contained amber-coloured whisky. Was this in reality the reason why the Poison Oakers wished him to be gone? Had they been distilling moonshine whisky down at Sulphur Spring to supply the blind pigs controlled by the prosecuting attorney at the county seat? And had his inadvertent shutting off of Sulphur Spring's supply of water stopped their illicit activities? They had known, perhaps, that eventually he would discover that his own spring had been choked by some one and would rectify the condition. Whereupon Sulphur Spring would cease to flow and automatically cut off one of their sources of revenue. Oliver decided to look for Sulphur Spring at his earliest opportunity. His brows came together as he recalled the episode on the hill, when either the fiery raw liquor or the poison from the diamond-back's fangs--or both--had deprived him of his senses. He remembered perfectly what he had said--what he had done. He had heard sometime that a man always tells the truth when he is drunk. But had he been drunk, or rabid from the hypodermic injections of Showut Poche-daka? Or, again--both? One thing he knew--that he thrilled yet at remembrance of those satin lips which he had pressed again and again. Had he told the truth? Had he said that day what he would not have revealed for anything--at that time? His brows contracted more and more, and a grim smile twitched his lips. His teeth gripped the amber stem of his pipe. Had he told the truth? He rose suddenly and went through a boyish practice that had clung to him to the years of his young manhood. He stalked to the cheap rectangular mirror on the wall and gazed at his wavy reflection in the flawed glass. Blue eye into blue eye he gazed, and once more asked the question: "Did I tell the truth when I said I loved her?" His eyes answered him. He knew that he had told the truth. Then if this was true--and he knew it to be true--what of the halfbreed, Digger Foss? He remembered a gaunt man, stricken to his death, reeling against the legs of a snorting white mare and clutching at them blindly for support--remembered the gloating grin of the mounted man, the muzzle of whose gun followed the movements of his wounded enemy as a cobra's head sways back and forth to the charmer's music--remembered the cruel insolence of the Mongolic eyes, mere slits. He swung about suddenly from the mirror and caught sight of a knothole in the cabin wall, which so far he had neglected to patch with tin. He noted it as he swung about and dived at the pillow on his bed. He hurled the pillow one side, swept up the ivory-handled '45 that lay there, wheeled, and fired at the knothole. There had been no appreciable pause between his grasping of the weapon and the trigger pull, yet he saw no bullet hole in the cabin boards when the smoke had cleared away. He chuckled grimly. "I might get out my army medals for marksmanship and pin 'em on my breast for a target," he said. Then to his vast confusion there came a voice from the front of the house. "Ain't committed soothin' syrup, have ye?" it boomed. There was no mistaking the deep-lunged tones. It was Old Man Selden who had called to him. Oliver tossed the gun on the bed and walked through to the front door, which always stood open these days, inviting the countless little lizards that his invasion of the place had not disturbed to enter and make themselves at home. The gaunt old boss of the Clinker Creek Country stood, with chap-protected legs wide apart, on Oliver's little porch. His broad-brimmed black hat was set at an angle on his iron-grey hair, and his cold blue eyes were piercing and direct, as always. In his hands he held the reins of his horse's bridle. Back of the grey seven men lounged in their saddles, grinning at the old man's sally. Digger Foss was not among the number. "How d'ye do, Mr. Selden," said Oliver in cordial tones, thrusting forth a strong brown hand. Selden did not accept the hand, and made no effort to pretend that he had not noticed it. Oliver quickly withdrew it, and two little lumps showed over the hinges of his jaws. He changed his tone immediately. "Well, what can I do for you gentlemen?" he inquired brusquely. "We was ridin' through an' thought we heard a shot," said Selden. "So I dropped off to see if ye wasn't hurt." "I beg your pardon," Oliver returned, "but you must have been dismounted when I fired. This being the case, you already had decided to call on me. So, once more, how can I be of service to you?" The grins of the men who rode with Adam Selden disappeared. There was no mistaking the businesslike hostility of Oliver's attitude. "Peeved about somethin' this mornin'," one of them drawled to the rider whose knee pressed his. Oliver looked straight at Old Man Selden, and to him he spoke. "I am not peeved about anything," he said. "But when a man comes to my door, and I come and offer him my hand, and he ignores it, my inference is that the call isn't a friendly one. So if you have any business to transact with me, let's get it off our chests." Oliver noted with a certain amount of satisfaction the quick, surprised looks that were flashed among the Poison Oakers. Apparently they had met a tougher customer than they had expected. All this time the cold blue eyes of Adam Selden had been looking over the pitted Bourbon nose at Oliver. Selden's tones were unruffled as he said: "Thought maybe the poison oak had got too many for ye, an' ye'd shot yerself." "I don't care to listen to subtle threats," Oliver returned promptly. "Poison oak does not trouble me at all--neither the vegetable variety nor the other variety. I'm never in favour of bandying words. If I have anything to say I try to say it in the best American-English at my command. So I'll make no pretence, Mr. Selden, that I have not heard you don't want me here in the cañon. And I'll add that I am here, on my own land, and intend to do my best to remain till I see fit to leave." Selden's craggy brows came down, and the scrutiny that he gave the young man was not without an element of admiration. No anger showed in his voice as he said: "Just so! Just so! I wanted to tell ye that I been down to the recorder's office and up to see Nancy Fleet, my wife's sister. Seems that you're right about this prop'ty standin' in your name an' all; but I thought, so long's we was ridin' along this way, I'd drop off an' have a word with ye." "I'm waiting to hear it." "No use gettin' riled, now, because--" "If you had accepted my hand you'd not find me adopting the tone that I have." "Just so!" Selden drawled. "Well, then, I'll accept her now--if I ain't too bold." "You will not," clicked Oliver. "Will you please state your business and ride on?" "Friendly cuss, ain't he, Dad?" remarked one of the Selden boys--which one Oliver did not know. "You close yer face!" admonished Selden smoothly, in his deep bass. "Well, Mr. Drew, if ye want to stay here an' starve to death, that's none o' my concern. And if ye got money to live on comin' from somewheres else, that's none o' my concern either. But when ye stop the run o' water from a spring that I'm dependin' on to water my critters in dry months, it _is_ my concern--an' that's why I dropped off for a word with ye." "How do you know I have done that?" Oliver asked. "Well, 'tain't likely that a spring like Sulphur Spring would go dry the last o' May. Most o' these springs along here are fed from the same vein. You move in, and Sulphur Spring goes dry. So that's what I dropped off to talk to ye about. Just so!" "I suppose," said Oliver, "that the work I did on my spring has in reality stopped the flow of Sulphur Spring. But--" "Ye do? What _makes_ ye suppose so?--if I ain't too bold in askin'." Oliver's lips straightened. Plainly Selden suspected that Jessamy had told him of the peculiarity of the cañon springs, and was trying to make him implicate her. But the old man was not the crafty intriguer he seemed to fancy himself to be. He already had said too much if he wished to make Oliver drag the girl's name into the quarrel. "Why, what you have just told me, added to my knowledge of what I did to clean out my spring, leads to that supposition," he replied. "But, as I was about to remark when you interrupted me, I can't see that that is any concern of mine. That's putting it rather bluntly, perhaps; but I am entirely within my rights in developing all the water that I can on my land, regardless of how it may affect land that lies below me." "Right there's the point," retorted Selden. "I'm a pretty good friend o' the prosecutin' attorney down at the county seat. He tells me ye can't take my water away from me like that." "Then I should say that your legal friend is not very well posted on the laws governing the development and disposition of water in this state," Oliver promptly told him. "I wrote him," said Selden, "an' I'll show ye the letter if ye'll invite me in." For the first time Oliver hesitated. Why did Selden wish to enter the cabin? Could not the letter be produced and read on the porch? It flashed through his mind that the old fox wished to get him inside so that some of his gang might investigate the spring and find out the volume of the water that was flowing, and what had been done to increase it. This only added to his belief that the Poison Oakers were responsible for the wall of stones that had choked the stream. Well, why not let them find out all that they wished to know in this regard? "Certainly," he invited. "Come in." And he stood back from the door. Selden clanked his spur rowels across the threshold. At the same time he was reaching into his shirtfront for the letter. Then an odd thing occurred. He was about to take the chair that Oliver had pushed forward when his blue eyes fell upon the saddle and bridle which had come to stand for so much in Oliver's life, hanging from a thong in one corner of the room. The old Poison Oaker's eyes grew wide, and, as was their way when he was moved out of his customary brooding mood, his thick nostrils began dilating. But almost instantly he was his cold, insolent self again. "I heard some of 'em gassin' about that rig o' yours," he remarked. "Said she was a hummer all 'round. That it there? Mind if I look her over?" "Not at all." Oliver was quick to grasp at any chance that might lead to the big question and its answer. Old Man Selden's leather chaps whistled his legs to the corner, where he stood, long arms at his sides, gazing at the saddle, the bridle, and the martingales. His deep breathing was the only sound in the room. Outside, Oliver heard foot-steps, and suspected that the investigation of his spring was on. At last Adam Selden made a move. He changed his position so that his spacious back was turned toward Oliver. Quietly Oliver leaned to one side in his chair, and he saw the cowman's big hand outstretched toward the gem-mounted _concha_ on the left-hand side of the bridle--saw thumb and fingers turn that part of the bridle inside-out. Again the room was soundless. Then Selden turned from the exhibit, and Oliver grew tense as he noted the strange pallor that had come on the old man's face. "That's a han'some rig," was all he said, as he sank to his chair and laid a letter on the oilcloth-covered table. The letter contained the information that its recipient had claimed, and was signed Elmer Standard. Oliver quickly passed it back, remarking: "He's entirely wrong, and ought to know it. I have had occasion to look into the legal aspect of water rights in California quite thoroughly, and fortunately am better posted than most laymen are on the subject." But the chief of the Poison Oakers was scarce listening. In his blue eyes was a faraway look, and that weird grey pallor had not left his face. Suddenly he jerked himself from reverie, and, to Oliver's surprise, a smile crossed his bearded lips. "Just so! Just so! I judge ye're right, Mr. Drew--I judge ye're right," he said almost genially. "Anyway you an' me'd be out-an'-out fools to fuss over a matter like that. There's plenty water fer the cows, an' I oughtn't to butted in. But us ol'-timers, ye know, we--Well, I guess we oughta be shot an' drug out fer the cy-otes to gnaw on. I won't trouble ye again, Mr. Drew. An' I'll be ridin' now with the boys, I reckon. Ye might ride up and get acquainted with my wife an' step-daughter--but I guess ye've already met Jess'my. I've heard her mention ye. Ride up some day--they'll be glad to see ye." And Oliver Drew was more at a loss how to act in showing him out than when he had first faced him on the porch. The Poison Oakers, with Old Man Selden at their head, rode away up the cañon. Oliver Drew was throwing the saddle on Poche's back two minutes after they had vanished in the trees. He mounted and galloped in the opposite direction, opening the wire "Indian" gate when he reached the south line of his property. An hour later he was searching the obscure hills and cañons for Sulphur Spring, but two hours had elapsed before he found it. It was hidden away in a little wooded cañon, with high hills all about, and wild grapevines, buckeyes, and bays almost completely screened it. While cattle might drink from the overflow that ran down beyond the heavy growth, they could not have reached the basin which had been designed to hold the water as it flowed directly from the spring. Moreover, it was doubtful if, during the hot summer months, the rapid evaporating would leave any water for cattle in the tiny course below the bushes. Oliver parted the foliage and crawled in to the clay basin. Cold water remained in the bottom of it, but the inflow had ceased entirely. He bent down and submerged his hand, feeling along the sides of the basin. Almost at once his fingers closed over the end of a piece of three-quarter-inch iron pipe. Then in the pool before his face there came a sudden _chug_, and a little geyser of water spurted up into his eyes. Oliver drew back instinctively. His face blanched, and his muscles tightened. Then from somewhere up in the timbered hills came the crash of a heavy-calibre rifle. CHAPTER XIII SHINPLASTER AND CREEDS White Ann and Poche bore their riders slowly along the backbone of the ridge that upreared itself between Clinker Creek Cañon and the American. Occasionally they came upon groups of red and roan and spotted longhorn steers, each branded with the insignia of the Poison Oakers. Once a deer crashed away through thick chaparral. Young jackrabbits went leaping over the grassy knolls at their approach. Down the timbered hillsides grey squirrels scolded in lofty pines and spruces. Next day would mark the beginning of the full-moon period for the month of June. Jessamy Selden was in a thoughtful mood this morning. Her hat lay over her saddle horn. Her black hair now was parted from forehead to the nape of her neck, and twisted into two huge rosettes, one over each ear, after the constant fashion of the Indian girls. So far Oliver Drew had not discovered that he disliked any of the many ways in which she did her hair. "What are your views on religion?" was her sudden and unexpected question. "So we're going to be heavy this morning, eh?" "Oh, no--not particularly. There's usually a smattering of method in my madness. You haven't answered." "Seems to me you've given me a pretty big contract all in one question. If you could narrow down a bit--be more specific--" "Well, then, do you believe in that?" She raised her arm sharply and pointed down the precipitous slopes to the green American rushing pell-mell down its rugged cañon. They had just come in sight of the gold dredger, whose great shovels were tearing down the banks, leaving a long serpentine line of débris behind the craft in the middle of the river. "That dredge?" he asked. "What's it to do with religion?" "To me it personifies the greed of all mankind," she replied. "It makes me wild to think that a great, lumbering, manmade toy should come up that river and destroy its natural beauty for the sake of the tiny particles of gold in the earth and rocks. Ugh! I detest the sight of the thing. The gold they get will buy diamond necklaces for fat, foolish old women, and not a stone among them can compare with the dewdrop flashing there in that filaree blossom! It will buy silk gowns, and any spider can weave a fabric with which they can't begin to compete. It will build tall skyscrapers, and which of them will be as imposing as one of these majestic oaks which that machine may uproot? Bah, I hate the sight of the thing!" "Gold also buys food and simple clothing," he reminded her. "I suppose so," she sighed. "We've gotten to a point where gold is necessary. But, oh, how unnecessary it is, after all, if we were only as God intended us to be! I detest anything utilitarian. I hate orchards because they supplant the trees and chaparral that Nature has planted. I hate the irrigating systems, because the dams and reservoirs that they demand ruin rugged cañons and valleys. I hate railroads, because their hideous old trains go screeching through God's peaceful solitudes. I hate automobiles, because they bring irreverent unbelievers into God's chapels." "But they also take cramped-up city folks out into the country," he said. "And all of them are not irreverent." "Oh, yes--I know. I'm selfish there. And I'm not at all practical. But I do hate 'em!" "And what _do_ you like in life?" he asked amusedly. "Well, I have no particular objection to horned toads, for one thing," she laughed. "But I'm only halfway approaching my subject. Do you like missionaries?" "I think I've never eaten any," he told her gravely. But she would not laugh. "I don't like 'em," she claimed. "I don't believe in the practice of sending apostles into other countries to force--if necessary--the believers in other religions to trample under foot their ancient teachings, and espouse ours. All peoples, it seems to me, believe in a creator. That's enough. Let 'em alone in their various creeds and doctrines and methods of expressing their faith and devotion. Are you with me there?" "I think so. Only extreme bigotry and egotism can be responsible for the zeal that sends a believer in one faith to the believers in another to try and bend them to his way of thinking." "I respect all religions--all beliefs," she said. "But those who go preaching into other lands can have no respect at all for the other fellow's faith. And that's not Christlike in the first place." He knew that she had something on her mind that she would in good time disclose, but he wondered not a little at her trend of thought this morning. "The Showut Poche-dakas are deeply religious," she declared suddenly. "Long years ago they inhabited the coast country, but were gradually pushed back up here. Down there, though, they came under the influence of the old Spanish padres; and today their religion is a mixture of Catholicism and ancient tribal teachings. They are sincere and devout. I have as much reverence for a bareheaded Indian girl on her knees to the Sun God as I have for a hooded nun counting her beads. They believe in a supreme being; that's enough for me. You'll be interested at the fiesta tomorrow night. I rode up there the other day. Everything is in readiness. The _ramadas_ are all built, and the dance floor is up, and Indians are drifting in from other reservations a hundred miles away." "Will you ride up with me tomorrow afternoon?" he asked. "Yes, I think so--that is, since I heard what Old Man Selden had to say about you the day after he called. I'll tell you about that later. Yes, all the whites attend the _fiestas_. The California Indian is crude and not very picturesque, compared with other Indians, but the _fiestas_ are fascinating. Especially the dances. They defy interpretation; but they're interesting, even if they don't show a great deal of imagination. By the way, I bought you a present at Halfmoon Flat the other day." She unbuttoned the flap on a pocket of her _chaparejos_, and handed him a small parcel wrapped in sky-blue paper. "Am I to open it now or wait till Christmas?" he asked. "Now," she said. The paper contained a half-dozen small bottles of liquid courtplaster. "Oh, I'm perfectly sane!" she laughed in her ringing tones as he turned a blank face to her. "Tomorrow," she went on, "you are to smear yourself with that liquid courtplaster, from the soles of your feet to your knees. When one coat dries, apply another; and continue doing so until the supply is exhausted." She threw back her head and her whole-souled laughter awoke the echoes. "It's merely a crazy idea of mine," she explained. "I had a bottle of the stuff and was reading the printed directions that came with it. It seems to be good for anything, from gluing the straps of a décolletté ballgown to a woman's shoulders to the protection of stenographer's fingers and harvesters' hands at husking time. It's almost invisible when it has dried on one's skin; and I thought it might be of benefit to you in the fire dance." "Say," he said, "you're in up to your neck, while I've barely got my feet wet. Come across!" "Well, I'm not positive," she told him, "but I'm strongly of the opinion that you're going to dance the fire dance at the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio tomorrow night." "I? I dance the fire dance? Oh, no, Miss--you have the wrong number. I don't dance the fire dance at all." "I think you will tomorrow night, and I thought that liquid courtplaster might help protect your feet and legs. I put some on my second finger and let it dry, then put my finger on the cookstove." "Yes?" "Well, I took it off again. But, honestly, the finger that had none on at all felt a little hotter, I imagined. I'm sure it did, and I only had two coats on. I know you'll be glad you tried it, and the Indians will never know it's there." "I'm getting just a bit interested," he remarked. "Well," she said, "after what passed between you and Chupurosa Hatchinguish that day, I'm almost positive that tomorrow night you are to be extended the honour of becoming a member of the tribe. And I know the fire dance is a ceremony connected with admitting an outsider to membership. White men who have married Indian women are about the only ones that are ever made tribal brothers by the Showut Poche-dakas; so in your case it is a distinct honour. "I have seen this fire dance. While a white person cannot accurately interpret its significance, it seems that the fire is emblematical of all the forces which naturally would be pitted against you in your endeavour to ally yourself with the Showut Poche-dakas. "For instance, there's your white skin and your love for your own people, the difference in the life you have led as compared with theirs, what you have been taught--and, oh, everything that might be against the alliance. All this, I say, is represented by the fire. And in the fire dance, my dear friend, you must stamp out these objections with your bare feet if you would become brother to the Showut Poche-dakas." "With my bare feet? Stamp out these objections?" "Yes--as represented by the fire." "You mean I must stamp out a _fire_ with my bare feet? _Actually?_" "Actually--literally--honest-to-goodnessly!" "Good night!" cried Oliver. "I'll cleave to my kith and kin." "And never learn the question that puzzled your idealistic father for thirty years? Nor whether the correct answer is Yes or No?" "But, heavens, I don't put out a fire that way!" "It's not so dreadful as it sounds," she consoled. "You join the tribe, and you all go marching and stamping about a big bonfire for hours and hours and hours, till the fire is conveniently low. Then the one who is to be admitted to brotherhood and a chosen member of the tribe--the champion fire-dancer, in short--jump on what is left of the fire and stamp it out. Of course there are objections to you from the view-point of the Showut Poche-dakas, and they must be overcome by a representative of them. If the fire proves too much for your bare feet the objections are too strong to be overcome, and you never will be an honourary Showut Poche-daka. But if the two of you conquer the fire with your bare feet the ceremony is over, and you're It. And when the other Indians see that you two Indians"--her eyes twinkled--"are getting the better of the fire, they'll jump in and help you." "A very entertaining ceremony--for the grandstand," was Oliver's dry opinion. "Of course the Indian's feet are tough as leather, and they have it on you there. Hence this liquid courtplaster. It's worth a trial. Honestly, I held my finger on the stove--oh, ever so long! A full second, I'd say." Back went her glorious head, and her teeth flashed in the sunlight as, drunk with the wine of youth and health, she sent her rollicking laughter out over the hills and cañons. "I'll be there watching and rooting for you," she assured him at last. "I can do so openly now--since you've won the heart of Adam Selden. What do you think? He told me to invite you over sometime! But all this doesn't fit in quite logically with the ivory-handled Colt I see on your hip today for the first time. Explain both, please." "Well," he said, "Selden seemed ready to cut my throat till he examined Poche's bridle and saw the B on the back of a _concha_." "Ah!" she breathed, drawing in her lips. "And then he grew nice as pie--and that's all there is to that." "And the six?" "Well, I buckled it on this morning, thinking I might practice up a bit, as you advised." "So far so good. Now amend it and tell the truth." "I went down to Sulphur Spring after the Poison Oakers left me, and as I was examining the water a bullet plunked into it from the hills and I got my eyebrows wet. As I don't like to have anybody but myself wet my eyebrows, I'm totin' a six. And I rather like the weight of it against my leg again. It reminds me!" "Who shot at you?" He shrugged. "_At_ you, do you think?--or into the water to frighten you?" "Whoever fired could not see me, but knew I was in the bushes about the spring. Took a rather long chance, if he merely wished to give me a touch of highlife, don't you think?" "I wonder if the bullet is still in the basin." "I never thought of that. I ducked for cover at once, of course, and, as nobody showed up, rode back home." She lifted White Ann to her hind legs and spun her about in her tracks. "We'll ride to Sulphur Spring and look for that bullet," she announced. "And be ambushed," he added, as Poche followed White Ann's lead. CHAPTER XIV HIGH POWER Jessamy and Oliver had wheeled their horses with such unexpected suddenness that the man who was trailing them was caught off his guard. He stood plainly revealed for a moment in the open; then he found his wits and plunged indiscriminately into the shielding chaparral. "Oh-ho!" cried Jessamy in a low tone. "The plot thickens! Did you see him?" "I'm going after him," declared her companion. "Stop!" she commanded, as he lifted Poche for a leap toward the skulker's vanishing point. He reined in quickly. "Why?" "What good will come of it? Why try to nose him out? We may be ahead in the end if we play the game as they do. We have more chance of finding out what they're up to by leaving them alone, I'd say." "Play the game, eh?" he repeated. "So there's a game being played. I didn't just know. Thought all that's afoot was the big idea of chasing me over the hills and far away. And from Selden's latest attitude, it looks as if that had been abandoned. Game, eh?" "That's what I'd call it. Quite evidently the man was spying on us." "Did you recognize him?" "I can't make sure." "But you think you know him," he said with conviction. "Yes. I imagined it was Digger Foss. But he got to cover pretty quickly." "His horse can't be far away. Maybe we can locate him somewhere along the back trail. I'd know that rawboned roan." "So should I. Let's send 'em along a little faster." They had by this time reached the opening in the chaparral into which their shadow had dodged. By common consent they passed it without looking to right or left. "He may imagine we didn't see him," whispered Jessamy. "I hope he does." There was an open stretch ahead of them, and across it they galloped, the girl piercing the thickets on the right in search of a saddle horse, Oliver sweeping the slopes that descended to the river. But neither saw a horse, and in the trail were no hoofprints not made by their own mounts. "He has been afoot from the start," decided Jessamy. "I wish I knew whether or not it was Digger Foss." They wound their way down to Sulphur Spring presently, and came to a halt in the ravine below it. "Now," said Oliver, "who knows but that my sniper is not hidden up there in the hills?" "I'll look for that bullet," she purposed, and swung out of her saddle. "Oh, no you won't!" His foot touched the ground with hers. "Yes--listen! No one would shoot at me. But they might take another crack at you, even with me along to witness it. If they were hidden and could get away unseen, you know. But they'd not shoot at me." "How do you know?" "Well, I'm one of them--after a fashion. They all like me--and at least one of them wants to gather me to his manly breast and fly with me." "But things are different since I came. You've taken sides with me. If any one looks for that slug, I'm the one that'll do it." He started toward the spring. "Stop!" she ordered, and grasped his shirt-sleeves. "Listen here: I'd bet a dollar against a saddle string that that was Digger Foss we saw up on the ridge." "Well?" "He's afoot. He can't have had time to get down here and guard Sulphur Spring." "All right. Well?" "And I know positively that Adam Selden and the boys are up north today after a bunch of drifters. So none of them can be here. That eliminates six of the Poison Oakers. There would be left only Obed Pence, Ed Buchanan, Chuck Allegan, and Jay Muenster--all privates, next to outsiders. None of them would shoot at me, and--" She came to a full stop and eyed him speculatively. "And I'm going to look for that bullet," she finished limpingly. Oliver looked her over thoughtfully. "I can't say that I get what you're driving at at all," he observed. "But it seems to me that you're trying to convey that, with the Seldens and Digger Foss eliminated, there is no danger." She closed her eyes and gave him several vigorous, exaggerated nods. "But aren't all of the Poison Oakers concerned in my speedy removal from this country?" "Well--yes"--hesitatingly. "That's right. But the four will not molest me. I know. Please let's not argue about what I _know_ is right!" His lips twitched amusedly. "But one of the four _might_ take a pot-shot at me. Is that it?" Again the series of nods, eyes closed. "You see," she said, "only the Seldens and Digger Foss accuse me of being on your side. So if any one of the other four were to see me go to the spring he'd think I was merely after water, or something. But if you were to go, why--why, it might be different." Saying which she unexpectedly darted away from him up the ravine, left the shelter of the trees, and walked boldly to the spring. She parted the bushes and disappeared from sight. Oliver stole quickly to the edge of the cover and hid behind a tree, his Colt unholstered and hanging in his hand. His eyes scoured the timbered hills on both sides of the spring, but not a movement did he see. He puzzled over Jessamy's speech as he watched for evidences of a hostile demonstration. "It smacks of a counter-plot," he mused. "All of the Poison Oakers want me out of here, but only the Seldens and the halfbreed are aware that Jessamy is friendly with me. But these four _must_ know it--everybody in the country does by now. It would look as if Old Man Selden and his chosen five are the only ones who suspect her of having an interest in me beyond pure friendship, then. That's it! She said there was another reason other than the grazing matter why Old Man Selden wants me away. And that can't be moonshining, after all; for if Pense and the others are likely to shoot me at the spring, they're in on that. But now apparently Selden wants to appear friendly. I can't get it! Jessamy's not playing just fair with me. She's keeping something back. She's too honest and straightforward to be a good dissembler; she's bungling all the way." She was returning swiftly down the ravine before he had reached the end of his conclusions. She held up something between dripping fingers as she entered the concealment of the trees. "It's perfect still," she announced. "I thought it wouldn't be flattened or bent, since it struck the water." Oliver took the small, soft-pointed, steel-banded projectile from her hands and studied it. "M'm-m!" he muttered. "What's this? Looks no larger than a twenty-two." She nodded. "So I'd say. A twenty-two high-power--wicked little pill." "And which of the Poison Oakers packs a twenty-two high-power rifle? Do you know?" "It happens that I do. I've taken the pains to acquaint myself with the various guns of the Poison Oakers. Most of them use twenty-five-thirty-fives. Old Man Selden, Bolar, and Jay Muenster use thirty-thirties. There's one twenty-two high-power Savage in the gang, and it's a new one. They say it's a devilish weapon." "Who owns it?" "Digger Foss." "Then it was Foss who shot?" "Yes--and it's he who was following us today. You see, Digger lives closer to this part of the country than any of the rest. He'd be the only one likely to come in afoot." "Do you think he tried to lay me out?" She looked off through the trees, and her face was troubled. "I'm afraid he did," she replied in a strained, hushed key. "Had you been in sight, we might determine that he had shot at the water before your face to put the fear of the Poison Oakers into your heart. But he couldn't see you, in there hidden by the dense growth. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether he got you or not. If he'd merely wished to bully you, he'd never taken the chance of killing you by firing into the growth." "I guess that's right," he said. "And now what's to be done? I'll never be able to forget the picture of Henry Dodd clutching at White Ann's legs for support in his death struggle. The situation is graver than I thought. I expected to be bullied and tormented; but I didn't expect a deliberate attempt on my life." With an impetuous movement she threw her bare forearm horizontally against a tree trunk, and hid her eyes against it. "Oh, I wish you hadn't come!" she half sobbed. "But you had to--you had to! And now you can't leave because that would be running away. And you're as good as dead if this side-winder gets the right chance at you. What _can_ we do!" Oliver was silent in the face of her distress. What could he do indeed! All the chances were against him, with his enemies ready and willing to take any unfair advantage, while his manliness would not let him stoop to the use of such tactics. They probably would avoid an out-and-out quarrel, where the chances would be even for a quick draw and quick trigger work. They would ambush him, as the halfbreed had attempted to do. He believed now that only the density of the growth about Sulphur Spring had stood between him and death, for Digger Foss was accounted an expert shot. He gently pulled Jessamy Selden from the tree. "There, there!" he soothed. "Let's not borrow trouble. They haven't got me yet. Let's ride on. And I think you'd better give me a little more of your confidence. I feel that you're keeping me in the dark about some phases of the deal." She mounted in silence, and they turned up Clinker Creek toward Oliver's cabin. "I'd never make a successful vamp, even if I were beautiful," she smiled at last. "I can't hide things. I give myself away. I'm always bungling. But I can play poker, just the same!" she added triumphantly. "Don't try to hide things, then," he pleaded. "Tell me all that's troubling you." She shook her head. "That's the greatest difficulty," she complained. "I shouldn't have let you know that I have a secret, but I bungled and let it out. And I must keep it. But just the same, I'm with you heart and soul. I'm on your side from start to finish, and I want you to believe it." "I do," he said simply. As they reached the cabin he asked: "Did you feel the end of the pipe under the water in the spring?" She nodded. Then with the promise to meet him next morning for their ride to the fiesta, she moved her mare slowly up the cañon and disappeared in the trees. CHAPTER XV THE FIRE DANCE The round moon looked down upon a scene so weird and compelling that Oliver Drew vaguely wondered if it all were real, or one of those strange dreams that leave in the mind of the dreamer the impression that ages ago he has looked upon the things which his sleeping fancy pictured. The moon rode low in the heavens. The night was waning. Tall pines and spruce stood black and bar-like against the silver radiance. Away in the distance coyotes lifted their yodel, half jocular, half mournful, as a maudlin drunkard sings dolefully a merry tune. In a cup of the hills, surrounded by acres and acres of almost impenetrable chaparral and timber, a hundred or more human beings were clustered about a blazing fire. Horses stamped in the corrals. Now and then an Indian dog cast back a vicious challenge at the wild dogs on the hill. White men and women and Indian men and women stood about the fire in a great circle, silent, intent on what was taking place at the fire's edge. Within this outer circle of spectators revolved another smaller circle of brown-skinned men and women. But one of this number was white, and in the flickering light of the fire his skin glowed in odd contrast to the skins of those who danced with him. For Oliver Drew was stripped but for a breechcloth about his loins, and directly opposite him in the circle, always across the fire from him as the human snake revolved about the flames, was a stalwart young Indian, likewise nearly nude. He it was who at the proper moment would dash upon the fire with this white man, when, with hands clasped over it, they two would strive to beat it to ashes with naked feet. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, pressed into the circle like canned fish, the fire dancers circled the leaping flames. Sweat streamed from their bodies, for the fire was a huge one and roared and crackled and leaped at them incessantly. For two solid hours the dance had been in progress. Now and then an old squaw, faint from the heat of the fire and the nerve strain which only the fanatic knows, dropped wearily out and staggered away. Then the rank would close and fill the vacancy; and this automatically made the circle smaller and brought the dancers closer to the flames, for they must touch each other always as they circled slowly. Round about them hobbled Chupurosa, adorned with eagle feathers dyed red and yellow and black. In his uplifted hand he held a small turtle shell, with a wooden handle bound to it by a rawhide thong. In the shell, whose ends were closed with skin, were cherry stones. The incessant rattling of them accompanied the dancers' elephantine tread. It was the toy of childhood, and those who danced to its croaking music were children of the hills and cañons, simple-minded and serene. Slowly as moves a sluggish reptile in early spring the dancers circled the fire, times without number. Guttural grunts accompanied the constant thud of tough bare feet on the beaten earth. Now and then they broke into chanting--a weird, uncanny wailing that sent shivers along the spine and made one think of heathen sacrifices and outlandish, cruel heathen rites. Straight downward, almost, the dancers planted their feet. When their feet came down three inches had not been gained over the last stamping step. It required many long minutes for the entire circle to complete the trip around the fire; and this continued on and on till the brain of Oliver Drew swam and the fire in reality took on the aspect of a tormenting, threatening ogre which this rite must crush. Occasionally some fanatic would spring from the line and rush upon the fire, striking at it with his feet, slapping at it with his hands, growling at it and threatening it in his guttural tongue. Then the dance would grow fiercer, and the chanting would break out anew, while always the cherry stones rattled dismally and urged the zealots on. When would it end? There was fresh, clean pitch in the great logs that blazed; and it seemed to Oliver that the exorcism must continue to the end of time. At first he had felt like an utter fool when he was led from the tent, almost nude, to face the curious eyes of thirty or more white people. His simple instructions had been given him by Chupurosa in the hut where he had been kept virtually a prisoner since his arrival. Then he had been led forth and pressed into his place in the circle, across from the other nearly naked man who swam so dizzily before his eyes. Then the slow ordeal had begun, and round and round they went till he thought he must surely lose his reason. On his feet and legs was the liquid courtplaster, and Chupurosa had not observed it. Coat after coat he had applied, and had a certain feeling of being fortified. Yet he doubted if, when the moment came for him to leap upon the fire and clasp hands with the man opposite, any of the mucilaginous substance would be left on the soles of his already burning feet. He had seen Jessamy's face beyond the fire. She had smiled at him encouragingly. But now her face had blended with the other faces that danced confusedly before his eyes, and he could not separate it as the circle went slowly round and round. An old man dropped, face down, on the earth, completely overcome. From beyond the circle of dancers a pair of arms reached through and dragged him out by the heels. The dance went on, and the dancers now were closer to the fire by the breadth of one human body. Weirdly rose the chant to the moonlit night. Coyotes answered with doleful ribaldry. A woman pitched forward on her face--a young woman. She lay quite still, breathing heavily. Oliver stepped over her body as they dragged her out to resuscitate her, and it seemed as he did so that he scarce could lift his feet so high. Now one by one they dropped, exhausted, reeking with sweat caused by the intensity of the heat from the burning pitch logs. Two fell at once--one inward, the other back. Up rose the chant as they were dragged away; fiercer grew the stamping; frenziedly the cherry stones clicked in the turtle shell. Lower and lower rode the radiant moon. Blacker and blacker grew the outlined woods. The coyotes ceased their insane laughter and scurried off to where jackrabbits played on moonlit pasturelands. And still the passionate exorcism went on and on, with men and women dropping every minute and the circle narrowing about the fire and closing in. The blaze was lower now. The pitch in the logs no longer sputtered and dripped blazing to the ground. But the heat was still intense, and the white man's tender flesh was seared as the giving out of some dancer forced the circle nearer and nearer to the flames. But into his heart had come a fierce purpose born of the fanaticism responsible for this ordeal. He was a man of destiny, he felt, though obliged to "carry on" with blinded eyes. Something of the fierce, dogged nature of these wild people of the woods entered his soul. He was dying by inches, it seemed, but the fire, glowing and spitting hatred at him, became a real enemy to be conquered by grit and stern endurance: and, held up by the bodies that pressed against his on either side, he stamped on crazily, his teeth set, the ridiculous side of his plight forgotten. And now the circle was pitiably small; and those who formed it staggered and reeled, and scarce found breath to chant or revile their dying enemy. But still the cherry stones rattled on while that old oak of a Chupurosa moved round and about, tireless as an engine. Oliver dragged his feet now; he thought he could not lift them. His brain was a dull, dead thing except for that passionate hatred of the fire that the weird chanting and the strangeness of it all had brought about. And now the fire grew lower, lower. Back of the ragged hills the moon slipped down and left the wilderness in blackness. Only the fire gleamed. Then suddenly the rattling of the cherry stones was quieted. Now the only sounds were the weary thud-thud of tough bare heels and the stentorian breathing of the zealous worshippers, an occasional heartrending grunt. On and on--round and round. The very air grew tense. Dawn was at hand. Its cold breath crept down from the snow-capped peaks. A glimmer of grey showed in the eastern sky. Only fifteen of the Showut Poche-dakas plodded now about the failing fire, by this time smouldering at their very feet. Fifteen Showut Poche-dakas--and Oliver Drew! All were men, young men in life's full vigour. Yet they swayed and reeled and staggered drunkenly as the dizzying ordeal went on through the grey silence of dawn. Now dawn came fast and spread its inchoate light over the silent assemblage in the hills. Then like a burst of sound disturbing a weary sleeper, the cherry stones resumed their rattling. At once, back of the circle of tottering dancers, a weird chant arose till it drummed in Oliver's ears and seemed to be lulling him to sleep. Out of the void taut fingers came and clasped his own. His hands were jerked high over his head. Something stung his feet and legs, and he thought of the rattler on the hill. The chant rose to a riotous shouting. The air was filled with imprecations, wailings, shrieks, and spiteful challenges. Now Oliver realized that his fingers were locked with those of the nude Indian who had danced opposite him; that they two were over the waning fire, fighting it with their feet. How long it lasted he never knew. Life came back to his mistreated muscles, and with his feet he fought this thing that stung him and seared him and filled his heart with burning wrath. Then came a long, concerted shout. In rushed the Showut Poche-dakas to the fighters' aid. Bare feet by twenty-fives and fifties slapped at the fire, and a herd of dark forms trampled over it and beat it to extinction. A long shout of triumph that sped away on swift wings toward the coming dawn and the distant mountain! And then a single voice lifted high in words which in English are these: "The evil fire god has been defeated. No barrier stands between the white man and the Showut Poche-dakas. From this hour to the end of time he who has danced the fire dance tonight and conquered the evil spirit shall be brother to the Showut Poche-dakas!" Then just before Oliver fainted in some one's arms he heard in English: "Seven hours and twenty minutes--the longest fire dance in the history of the tribe!" And the new brother of the Showut Poche-dakas heard no more. CHAPTER XVI A GUEST AT THE RANCHO Then there was feasting and racing and dancing and much ado. Dice clicked; cards sputtered; the pawn passed in the ancient _peon_ game. There was a barbecued steer, athletic contests, and competitions in markmanship. The Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio was to continue throughout the entire period of the full moon, and there must be diversion for every day and every night. Oliver Drew awoke the next day after the fire dance in the _ramada_ which had been assigned to him. He felt as if he had been passed through a stamp mill, so sore were his muscles and so burned and blistered were feet and legs. He had been carried to his bed of green willow boughs directly after the dance, where he had slept until nearly nightfall. Then he had been awakened and given food. After eating he fell asleep once more, and slept all night, his head in the silver-mounted saddle that Bolivio had made. He dragged himself from the shakedown and went and sat at an opening in the booth. The _ramada_ of the California Indian is merely an arbourlike structure built of newly cut limbs of trees, their still unwithered leaves serving to screen the occupants from outside eyes. The birds were singing. Up the steep mountainside back of the reservation the goats and burros of the Showut Poche-dakas browsed contentedly on buckthorn and manzanita bushes. There was the smell of flowers in the drowsy air, mingling strangely with that indescribable odour that permeates an Indian village. It was noticeably quiet outside. Doubtless the Indians were enjoying an early-morning siesta after some grilling orgy of the night before. Oliver groaned with the movements necessary to searching his pockets for cigarette materials. His groan was mimicked by a familiar voice in the doorway. Jessamy Selden entered. "I've been listening for a sound from you," she chirruped. "My, how you slept! All in?" "Pretty nearly," he said. She came and sat beside him on a box. "Are you badly burned?" "Oh, no. I guess your courtplaster helped some. But I'm terribly sore. And, worst of all, I feel like an utter ass!" "Why, how so?" He snorted indignantly. "I went nutty," he laughed shortly. "I have lost the supreme contempt which I have always had for people who go batty in any sort of fanatical demonstration, like that last night. I've seen supposedly intelligent white folks go absolutely wild at religious camp meetings in the South, and I always marvelled at their loss of control. Now I guess I understand. Hour after hour of what I went through the other night, with the chanting and wailing and the constant rattle of those confounded cherry stones, and the terrible heat, and men and women giving out all about me, and the perpetual thud-thud of bare feet--ugh! I wouldn't go through it again for ten thousand dollars." "I thought it best not to warn you of the severity of it beforehand," she announced complacently. "Very few white men have ever danced the fire dance, and only one or two have held out to the end. Of course failure to do so signifies that the powers working against the affiliation are too strong to be overcome. These men who failed, then, did not become brothers of the Showut Poche-dakas." "Lucky devils!" "Here, here!" she cried. "Don't talk that way. You're glad, aren't you?" "I'm tickled half to death." "Is it possible that you do not take this seriously, Mr. Drew?" "Look here," he said: "why didn't you tell me more of what I might expect at this fool performance?" "I was afraid you might look at the matter much as you're looking at it now," she answered. "I knew you'd go through with it, though, if you once got started. I knew it to be a terrible ordeal, but I was confident that you would win." "I thank you, I'm sure. Win what, though? The reputation of being a half-baked simpleton?" "Do you imagine that the white people who saw you are ridiculing you?" "Aren't they?" "Absolutely nothing of the sort! You're the hero of the hour. People about here always attend the fiestas, and you'll be surprised to note the seriousness and lack of levity that they show in regard to the rites and ceremonies of the Showut Poche-dakas. It's an inheritance from the old days, I suppose, when the few white men who were here found it decidedly to their advantage to be friendly with the Indians. They glory in your grit, and everybody is talking about you. You should have heard Old Man Selden. 'There's a regular man,' he loudly informed every one after the dance. And folks about here listen to what Old Man Selden says, for one reason or another." "But it was such an asinine proceeding!" "Was it? I thought you respected the other fellow's beliefs and religious practices." "Was that a religious dance?" "Decidedly. All of their dances are religious at bottom. You were trying to overcome the evil spirit, represented by the fire, that stood between you and your union with the Showut Poche-dakas. You are one of the few who have weathered this ordeal and won. And now you're a recognized member of the tribe." "And is that an enviable distinction?" "What do _you_ think about that?" Oliver was silent a time. "Tell the truth," he said at last, "I've been thinking more of my sore muscles and scorched legs, and of the ridiculous figure I supposed I had cut the other night. I suppose, though, that when a hundred or more fellow creatures unanimously admit a rank outsider to the plane of brotherhood, one would be shallow minded indeed to look upon it too lightly." "Exactly. Just what I wanted to hear you say. And the more simple natured and trusting they are, the more it devolves upon you to treat their brotherhood with respect and reverence. You are now brother to the Showut Poche-dakas; and you'll be a wiser man before you're older by many days. In this little village you have always a refuge, no matter what the world outside may do to you. Nothing that you could do against your own race can make you an utter outcast, for here are your brothers, always eager to shelter you. If you owned a cow and lost it, a word from you would send fifty mounted men scouring the hills till the cow had been found and restored to you. Will the people of your own race do that? If the forest was burning throughout the country, rest assured your property would be made safe before your brothers turned their efforts to protecting the homes of other white men. Is it trivial, my friend?" "No," said Oliver shortly. "You have been greatly honoured," she concluded. "You are the first white man on record who has been adopted by the Showut Poche-dakas without first marrying an Indian girl. And even then they must win out in the fire dance. If they fail, their brides must go away with them, ostracized from their people for ever." "How many white men have been honoured with membership?" he asked. "Very few. Old Dad Sloan was over and saw the dance. He always attends fiestas if some one will give him a ride. He said after the dance that he knew of only three white men before you who had won brotherhood, though he had seen a dozen or more try for it." "Did he mention any names?" "Yes," she said. "He mentioned Old Man Selden, for one." "Does he belong to the tribe?" cried Oliver. "No, he fell down in the fire dance. He had married an Indian woman, and after the dance he took his bride away with him. She died six months afterward--pining for her people, it was supposed." "And who else did he speak about?" "You remember the name of Dan Smeed, of course." "'Outlaw, highwayman, squawman,'" quoted Oliver, trying to imitate the old '49er's quavery tones. "Yes," she said. "He conquered the fire and was admitted to full brotherhood." "And got gems for his bridle _conchas_," Oliver added. Jessamy nodded. "And in some mysterious manner paved the way for you to become adopted thirty years later." He turned and looked her directly in the eyes. "Was Dan Smeed my father?" he asked abruptly. Her eyes did not evade his, but a slow flush mounted to her cheeks. "I think we may safely assume that that is the case," she told him softly. Oliver stared at the beaten ground under his feet. "Outlaw--highwayman--squawman!" he muttered. Quickly she rose and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't! Don't!" she pleaded sympathetically. "Don't think of that! Wait!" "Wait? Wait for what?" "Wait till the Showut Poche-dakas have taken you into full confidence. Wait for my Hummingbird to speak." Oliver said nothing. She waited a little, then resumed her seat and said: "And the next man that Old Dad Sloan mentioned as having tried the fire dance was--guess who?" "The mysterious Bolivio." She nodded vigorously, both eyes closed. "He succeeded?" "He did." "And the third man to succeed before me?" "I forget the name. It is of no consequence so far as our mystery is concerned." "_Your_ mystery, you mean," he laughed. "I'm beginning to believe you know all about it--all about me, about my father and his young-manhood days." "Oh, no!" she quickly protested. "But you know more than I do. And you see fit to make mystery of it to my confusion." "Silly! I'm doing nothing of the sort. I've positively told you all I can." "Be careful, now! Can, will, or may?" "Don't pin me down. You know I'm a feeble dissembler." "You've told me all you _may_, then," he said with conviction. "Have it that way if you choose. How about some breakfast?--and then your triumphal entry into the festivities?" "I hate to show myself--actually." "Pooh! I'm disappointed in you. Come on--I've ordered breakfast for us in the restaurant booth. Red-hot chili dishes and _bellota_. It should be ready by now." The Showut Poche-dakas, at least, paid very little attention to Oliver as he limped from the _ramada_ at Jessamy's side. But he was congratulated by white men on every hand, among them Mr. Damon Tamroy, the first friend he had made in the country. "I wish you could 'a' heard what Old Dad Sloan had to say after the dance," was Tamroy's greeting. "The dance got the old man started, and he opened up a little. Selden wasn't about at the time, and Dad said that once, years ago, Selden married a squaw and made a try at the fire dance. There was two dances that night, Old Dad said. Selden's partner, too, married an Indian girl, and both of 'em danced. Selden's partner won out, and was made a member o' the tribe; but Selden fell down." "Did you get this partner's name?" asked Oliver. "Le's see--what was the name Dad said?" "Smeed?" asked Oliver. "That's it. Dave Smeed. No--Dan Smeed. This Smeed lived with the tribe afterwards, it seems, but Selden and his girl beat it, accordin' to the rules, and--" "Sh!" warned Oliver. "Here comes Old Man Selden now." The old monarch of the hills strode straight up to them, rowels whirring, chaps whistling. "Howdy, Mr. Drew--howdy!" he boomed. "Howdy, Tamroy." He extended a horny hand to each. "Some dance, as they say--some dance," he went on admiringly, and there was almost a smile on his stern features. "The boys was bettin' on how it would come out. The odds was ag'in ye, Mr. Drew. But I told 'em ye'd hold out. I been through the mill myself. Might as well own up, since everybody knows it now--and that I danced to a fare-you-well, but fell down hard. When ye gonta' pull yer freight, Mr. Drew?" "I thought of riding home today," said Oliver. "I was just talkin' to Jess'my," Selden continued. "Her and me concluded this here'd be a good time to invite ye over to get acquainted. Can't ye ride to Poison Oak Ranch with us just as well as ye can ride on home?" He tried to grin, but the effort seemed to cause pain. Toward them Oliver saw Jessamy walking. He always had admired her long, confident stride, and he watched her throughout the brief space allowed him by courtesy to study his answer to her step-father. Then he caught her eye. She began nodding vigorously. "I should have watered my garden before coming to the fiesta," he told the old man. "I'm afraid it will suffer if I don't get back to it directly. But--" "Oh, she'll stand it another day. Folks irrigate too much, anyway. Ride home with us today and stay all night." "I thank you, I'm sure," said Oliver. "Yes, do come, Mr. Drew," put in Jessamy as she reached the group. "Just so!" added Selden. And so it was arranged. The four stood in conversation. Over the girl's shoulder Oliver now saw Digger Foss and two of the men who had ridden with Selden the day he called at the cabin. They were staring at their chief and Jessamy. A glowering look was on the face of at least one of them, and that one was the halfbreed, Digger Foss. He stood with feet planted far apart, his fists on his hips--squat, his bullet head juked forward aggressively, his Mongolic black eyes glittering. A sneer curled his lips. He nodded now and then as one or the other of his companions spoke to him, but he did not reply and did not remove his steadfast glance from the group of which Oliver made one. "They's a hoss race comin' off in a little," Selden was saying. "We'll stay for that, then throw on the saddles and cut the dust for the rancho." Here Foss, with a shrug of his wide, strong shoulders, turned away and disappeared in the crowd, his companions following at his heels. Presently Selden and Tamroy left Jessamy and Oliver together. "What's the idea?" Oliver asked her. "It's quite apparent that he wants to be friendly with you," she pointed out. "It's just as well, of course," said he. "But I can't fathom it. And at least one of the Poison Oakers doesn't approve. I just saw Digger Foss glowering at us from behind Old Man Selden's back." Jessamy elevated her dark eyebrows. "No, he wouldn't approve," she declared. "That's merely because of me, I guess. Well, we can't help that. It's your part to play up to Old Man Selden and find out what is the cause of his sudden change of heart toward you." "It's my riding outfit," he averred. "That, and the fact that I've danced the fire dance. I'm gradually picking up a thread here and there. By the way, you neglected to tell me this morning, when we were on the subject, that Dan Smeed's partner was none other than Old Man Selden." She glanced at him quickly. "I see that Mr. Damon Tamroy is in character today. He does love to talk, doesn't he?" "You knew it, then?" She hesitated. "Yes--Old Dad Sloan let it out last night," she admitted. "I think he would have told me as much the day you and I called on him if he hadn't thought it might hurt my feelings. I don't think it was his forgetfulness that made him trip over the subject that day." "But if he mentioned it in your presence after the fire dance, he must have forgotten that you are vitally interested." Her long black lashes hid her eyes for an instant. "That's true," she admitted. Oliver smiled grimly to himself. A lover would have small excuse for distrusting this girl, he thought, for deception was not in her. A little later he left her and sought out Damon Tamroy again. "Just a question," he began: "You know I'm seeking information of a peculiar character in this country; so don't think me impertinent. You said that Old Man Selden wasn't about when Dad Sloan spoke of him as having been the partner of Dan Smeed." Tamroy nodded. "He'd gone to bed in one o' the _ramadas_," he said. "Did Jessamy Selden overhear Old Dad Sloan when he told that?" "No, she wasn't there either," replied Tamroy. "I reckon she'd gone to bed too." "Thank you," Oliver returned. He knew now that Jessamy Selden had merely been repeating some one else's version of Dad Sloan's disclosures. He knew that she had been aware all along that Dan Smeed, his father, had been the partner of Adam Selden. Had she known it, though, the day she questioned the patriarch? It had seemed that she was trying her utmost to make him mention the name of Dan Smeed's partner. Perhaps she had felt safe in the belief that, out of consideration for her feelings, Dad Sloan would not couple her step-father's name with that of a "highwayman, outlaw, and squawman" who, he had said, was a "bad egg." Oliver was beginning to believe that Jessamy Selden at that very moment knew the question that had puzzled Peter Drew for thirty years, and what the answer to it should be. He believed that Jessamy had known just who he was, and why he had come into the Clinker Creek Country, the day she rode down to make his acquaintance. It seemed that she had considered it a part of her life's work to seek him out. Later, she had worried a little for fear he might think her bold in riding to his cabin as she had done. She had not been seeking his companionship because she liked him, then. There was some ulterior motive that was governing her actions. In him personally, perhaps, she had no interest whatever. There was some secret connected with Old Man Selden, and it dated back to the days when Selden and Oliver Drew's father were partners, and had both married Indian girls. Jessamy had stumbled on this, and when Oliver came she had known the reason that brought him, and had made haste to ally herself with him in order to carry out whatever she had in mind. It was this that had kept her in such close touch with him--not friendship for Oliver himself. Oliver brooded. The thought hurt him. The damage had been done. He had learned all this too late. He loved her now, and wanted her more than he wanted anything else in life. She knew he loved her. She must know that he was not the sort to tell her what he had told her if he had not meant it, and to grasp her in his arms and kiss her, even under the strange condition in which the scene had occurred. Not a word had passed between them regarding that episode since he had blushingly apologized for his behaviour. She had taken it quite serenely, as she seemed to take most things in life, and had displayed no confusion when next they met. "You look so funny," she remarked when he at last sought her out after the pony race. "Is anything the matter?" "Nothing at all," he told her. "I'm going for our _caballos_ now. Selden and the boys are saddling up. I suppose we'll all ride together." A little later he shook the withered hand of Chupurosa Hatchinguish and bade him good-bye in Spanish. The chief of the Showut Poche-dakas called him brother, and patted his back in a fatherly manner as he followed him to the door of his hovel. But he made no mention of a future meeting, and said nothing more than "brother" to indicate that a new relation existed between them. Oliver led Poche and White Ann to Jessamy, and they swung into the saddles and galloped to where Old Man Selden, Hurlock, and Bolar were awaiting them in the dusty road. Hours later the little party of five rode over the baldpate hill, then in single-file formation descended by the steep trail to the bed of the American River. A half-hour afterward they entered the cup in the mountainside, and Oliver Drew looked for the first time upon the headquarters of the Poison Oakers. The girl, Selden, and Oliver left their saddles at the door, and the boys rode on and led their horses to the corrals. Oliver was conducted into the immense main room of the old log house, where he was presented by the girl to her mother. The afternoon was nearly gone, and the two women at once began preparing supper, while Old Man Selden and his guest sat and smoked near a window flooded with the reflection of the sunset glow on fleecy clouds above the cañon. Selden's talk was of cows and grazing conditions and allied topics. Oliver Drew, half listening and putting in a stray comment now and then, watched Jessamy in a rôle which was new to him. She had put on a spotless red-checkered gingham dress that fitted perfectly, and revealed slim, rounded, womanly outlines which are the heritage of strength and perfect health. Her black hair was coiled loosely on top of her head, and a large red rose looked as if Nature had designed it to splash its vivid colour against that ebony background. With long, sure strides this girl of the mountains moved silently about from the great glossy range to the work table, washing crisp lettuce, deftly beheading snappy radishes, her slim fingers now white with dough and flour, or stirring with a large spoon in some steaming utensil over the fire. An extra fine dinner was in progress of preparation in honour of the Seldens' guest; yet the girl worked serenely and swiftly, with not a false move, not a flutter of excitement, never gathering so much as a spot on her crisp, stiff dress, always sure of herself, master of her diversified tasks. Was this the girl that an hour before he had seen so gracefully astride in a fifty-pound California saddle, her slim legs covered by scarred, fringed chaps, her black hair streaming to the bottom of her saddle skirts in two long, thick braids? There was a desperate tugging at the heart-strings of Oliver Drew. He knew now that if he failed to win this girl it were better for him had he not been born. And again and again she had sought him out for some obscure reason in no way connected with a desire for his companionship. He thought again of the episode on the hill after the rattlesnake bite, and he grew sick at heart at remembrance of the feel of those soft, firm lips. When they arose from the bounteous meal Selden said to his guest: "It's still light outdoors. Wanta look over the ranch a bit?" They two strolled out to the stables and talked horses and saddles. They looked perfunctorily over the green young fruit in the orchard, and Selden showed Oliver the new pipe line which now carried spring water into all three of the living houses. They killed time till late twilight, and as one by one the stars came out the old man led the way to a prostrate pine at the edge of a fern patch. On it they seated themselves. "They was little matter I wanted to talk to you about," said Selden half apologetically. "Le's have a smoke and see if we can't come to an understandin'. Just so! Just so!" CHAPTER XVII THE GIRL IN RED Jessamy Selden finished washing and drying the supper dishes. Then she hurried to her room and slipped into a red-silk dress, by no means out of date, silk stockings, and high-heeled pumps with large shell buckles. A few deft pats and her rich hair suited her, and the red rose glowed against the black distractingly. She spun round and round before the mirror of her plain little dresser, one set of knuckles at her waist, like a Spanish dancer, her face trained over her shoulder at her reflection in the glass. There was a mischievous gleam in her jetty eyes as she reached the conclusion that she was all right. Just a hint of heightened colour showed in her cheeks when she started for the living room. Old Man Selden had not yet returned with the guest of the house. The trace of a pucker of disappointment came between her eyes, then she was serene again as she lighted coal-oil lamps and sat down with a book. She was alone in the great rough-walled room, like a gorgeous flower in a weather-beaten box. Her mother was dressing--one dressed after dinner instead of _for_ dinner in the House of Selden. Bolar and Moffat presumably had gone to sit and look at their saddles while daylight lasted, since coming night forbade them to mount and ride. Minutes passed. Jessamy stared at the open book in her hands, but had not read a word. Why was Old Man Selden keeping their guest out there in the night? A girlish pout which might have surprised Oliver Drew, had he seen it, puckered her lips. The girl looked down at her red-silk dress and the natty buckles on her French-heel pumps, and the pout grew more pronounced. She went out doors, but no sound came to her save the intimate night sounds of the wilderness. "_Darn_ the luck!" she cried in exasperation, her serenity for once completely unavailing. Five minutes later she stepped from the gorgeous dress with a sigh of resignation. She kicked off the pumps and pulled on her morocco-top riding boots. She donned shirt and riding skirt, and slipped out by her own door into the young night. Cautiously she approached the stables and corrals, but found nobody. Lights gleamed in the windows of Hurlock's and Winthrop's cabins, and from the latter came the doleful strains of Bolar's accordion. She doubted if Selden and Oliver were in either of these houses. She walked up the hill toward the spring, and presently heard the bass boom of Old Man Selden's voice. A little later, flat on the ground, she was wriggling her way through tall ferns toward two indistinct figures seated on a fallen pine. Like an Indian she crept on silently, till by and by she lay quite still, close enough to hear every word that passed between the men who sat in front of her. And her conscience seemed not to trouble her at all. It had been practicable to come to a pause at some little distance from the two, for their voices carried a long way through the tranquil wilderness night. Behind her and up the hill the frogs were croaking at the spring. Their horse-fiddling ceased abruptly, as if they had been suddenly disturbed, and it was not immediately continued. Trained to read a meaning in Nature's signs, she wondered at this; then presently she heard a stealthy step between her and the spring. Lifting her head and shoulders above the fronded plants, she saw a dark, crouched shape approaching warily. Some one had walked past the spring and disturbed the croaking choir. She ducked low and waited breathlessly, hoping that this second would-be eavesdropper, whoever he might be, would not come upon her engaged in a like pursuit. At the same time she was trying to hear what Selden was saying to Oliver Drew. It seemed from Old Adam's slightly hesitating manner that he was as yet not well launched on the subject that had caused him to pilot Oliver to this lonely spot. He said: "I reckon they told ye ye wouldn't be welcome down on the Old Ivison Place. Didn't some of 'em say, now, that a gang called the Poison Oakers might try to drive ye out?--if I'm not too bold in askin'." "Yes," said the voice of Oliver Drew. "Uh-huh! I thought as much. Well, Mr. Drew, ye got to make allowances for ol'-timers in the hills. We get set in our ways, as the fella says; and I reckon we _don't_ like outsiders to come in any too well. "But anybody with any savvy oughta know its different in a case like yours. Why, what little feed we'd get offen your little piece, if you wasn't there, wouldn't amount to the price of a saddle string. It was plumb loco for any one to tell ye we'd raise a rumpus 'bout ye bein' down there." "I thought about the same," observed Oliver Drew quietly. There came a distinct pause in the dialogue. Once more Jessamy straightened her arms and pushed head and shoulders above the ferns. The person who had disturbed the frogs was nowhere to be seen. He too, perhaps, had taken up a lizardlike progress through the ferns, and was now listening to all that was being said by Oliver and Selden. She flattened herself again, and held one hand behind her ear to catch every word. "Yes, sir, plumb loco," Old Man Selden reiterated. "And they ain't no reason on earth why you and us can't be the best o' friends. That's what we oughta be, seein' we're pretty near neighbours." "I'm sure I'm perfectly willing to be friendly, Mr. Selden." "Course ye are. Just so! An' so are we. And listen here, Mr. Drew: Don't ye put too much stock in that there Poison Oaker racket." "I don't know that I understand that." "Well," drawled Selden, "they ain't any such thing as a Poison Oaker Gang. That there's all hot air. It's true that Obed Pence and Jay Muenster and Buchanan and Allegan and Foss run what cows they got with ourn, and they're pretty good friends o' my boys an' me. But as fer us bein' a gang--why, they's nothin' to it. Nothin' to it a-tall! Just because we use a poison-oak leaf for our brand--why, that's what got 'em to callin' us the Poison Oakers. And when anything mean is done in this country, why, they gotta hang it onto somebody--and as a lot of 'em don't like me and my friends, why, they hang it onto us and call us the Poison Oakers. Now that there ain't right and just, is it, Mr. Drew?" "When you put it that way," Oliver evaded, "I should say that it is not." "No, sir, it ain't--not a-tall! An' I'm glad ye understand and ain't got no hard feelin's." There was another long pause. Fragrant tobacco smoke floated to Jessamy's nostrils. "If I ain't too bold in askin', Mr. Drew--what was ol' Damon Tamroy fillin' yer ear with about me today?" "He was telling me how Old Dad Sloan had spoken of your having once danced the fire dance." "Uh-huh! Just so! Some o' my friends overheard Old Dad spoutin' about it after I'd hit the feathers. Well, I don't reckon I care any. It's nothin' to try to hide. Was that all Tamroy had to say?" Jessamy could imagine on Oliver Drew's lips the grave, half-whimsical smile that she had seen twitching them so often. She waited eagerly for his reply. "I think that the subject you mention is all that he talked to me about," it came at last. "Just so! Just so!" muttered Selden. "But didn't he say as how others had danced the fire dance besides me and you?" "Yes, he mentioned others." "Just so! And who, now--if I ain't too bold in askin'." "Let me see," said Oliver after a pause. "Some other man's name was mentioned. A short name, if I remember correctly." "Uh-huh! Plumb forget her, eh?" "It seems to me it was Smeed, or something like that. Yes--Dan Smeed." Silence. Again tobacco smoke was wafted over the ferns. "Dan Smeed, eh?" ruminated Selden finally. "Mr. Drew, did ye ever hear that name before Damon Tamroy said it to ye?" Another thoughtful intermission; then-- "Yes, I had heard it before." "Just so! Just so! And if I ain't too bold in askin'--just where, Mr. Drew?" "Why, I heard it first from Old Dad Sloan himself. Miss Selden and I rode over to his cabin one morning, and we got him to talking of the days of 'Forty-nine. He can be quite interesting when he doesn't wander." "Uh-huh! And ye say ye heard the name Dan Smeed over to Old Dad Sloan's fer the first time?" "Yes, sir." "_The first time in yer life, Mr. Drew?_" "Yes. I had never heard of it until then." A short, low snort from Selden. Jessamy knew it well. It signified: "I don't believe you!" Said Selden presently: "Well, then, I'm gonta put another question to ye, Mr. Drew. I don't want ye to think I'm tryin' to butt in, as the fella says. But s'long's Tamroy was talkin' about me, I reckon it's right an' just that I should be interested. Now, what did Tamroy tell ye Old Dad Sloan had to say 'bout this here Dan Smeed and _me_?" "He said that you and Dan Smeed were one time partners." "Oh! Uh-huh! Just so! Partners, eh? And was that the first time ye ever heard that, Mr. Drew?" "Yes, the first time," said Oliver patiently. Again that peculiar little snort of Selden. "How ye gettin' along down to the Old Ivison Place, Mr. Drew?" was Selden's abrupt shift of the conversation. "Oh, my garden is fine. And I have two colonies of bees storing up honey for me. Besides, I've located another colony up in the hills, and will get them as soon as I can get around to it." "But ye can't live on garden truck an' honey!" "I suppose I should have some locusts to go along with them," laughed Oliver; but his flight was lost on Old Man Selden. "You forget, though," the speaker added, "that I am writing for farm journals. I've sold three little articles since I settled down there. I'll get along, if my luck holds out." "Oh, yes--ye'll get along. I ain't worryin' 'bout that. I'll bet ye could draw a check right this minute that'd pay fer every acre o' land 'tween here an' Calamity Gap." "I'll bet I couldn't!" Oliver positively denied. Old Man Selden chuckled craftily. "Ye're pretty foxy, Mr. Drew--pretty foxy!" He had lowered his deep tones until Jessamy could barely distinguish words. "Yes, sir--_mighty_ foxy! A garden an' bees an' writin' for a story paper, eh? Oh, ye'll get along. I'll tell a man ye'll get along!" "I really have no other source of revenue, Mr. Selden." "Just so! I understand. Well, Mr. Drew, maybe I been a mite too bold; but I'll step in another inch or two and say this: When ye need any help down there on the Old Ivison Place, just send word to Dan Smeed's partner. D'ye understand?" "I thank you, I'm sure," Oliver told him dryly. "But really I don't think I'll need any help. My garden is so small that--" "Just so! Still, ye never can tell when a foxy fella like you'll need help. And Dan Smeed's partner'll be always ready to help. Just remember that." "Help with what?" asked Oliver testingly. "In watchin' the dead," was Selden's surprising answer, spoken in a crafty half-whisper. "In watching the dead!" cried his listener. "Why, I--" "Le's go in to the womenfolks now," interrupted Selden. "And keep thinkin' over this, Mr. Drew. Always ready to help--d'ye savvy? And don't ye pay no attention to that there supposed gang that they call the Poison Oakers. They ain't no such gang. But if anybody does try to bother ye, tell me. Get me? Tell Dan Smeed's partner. He'll help ye watch the dead." "You're talking in riddles," Oliver snorted. "I don't understand--" "Oh, yes, ye do! Ye savvy, all right. Ye're foxy, Mr. Drew. I'll say no more just now. But when ye need my help...." Their voices trailed off. Once again the girl's supple body rose from the hips, and she searched the ferns on every side. For several minutes she lay quite still in the same position. Then, perhaps fifty feet on her left, a head rose above the tall fronds, and then a body followed it. Next instant a dark figure was hurrying back toward the spring. Jessamy waited until sight and sound of it were no more, then rose and ran with all her might toward the house. She slipped in at her private door, hustled out of her clothes, and began donning her gorgeous red dress again. "So Old Man Selden always shoots straight from the shoulder, eh?" she muttered. "Piffle! When he wants to be he's a regular Barkis-is-willin'!" In the midst of her dressing her mother tapped. "Jessamy, where have you been?" she asked. "Mr. Selden and Mr. Drew are in the living room now. I've knocked twice, but you didn't answer." "I was outdoors," Jessamy replied. "I'm dressing now. I'll be right out." And a minute or two later Oliver Drew gasped and his blue eyes grew wide as a silk-garbed figure, with a red rose in her raven hair, glided toward him. Yea, even as the girl in red had planned that he should gasp! CHAPTER XVIII SPIES Smith, the shaggy, mouse-coloured burro, lifted his voice in that sobbing wail of welcome which has caused his kind to be designated as desert canaries, as Oliver rode into the pasture. Smith's was a gregarious soul. To be left entirely alone was torture. His ears were twelve inches long, and the protuberances over his eyes were so craggy that Oliver had hesitated between the names of Smith and William Cullen Bryant. On the whole, though, "Smith" had seemed more companionable. Oliver loosed Poche to console the lonesome heart of Smith and went at the irrigating of his garden. When a stream of water was trickling along every hoed furrow he put on heavy hobnailed laced-boots and went into the hills in search of his third bee tree. It seems illogical to set down that one could live for nearly two months on forty acres of land without having explored every square foot of it. But Oliver had not trod upon at least two thirds of his property. Locked chaparral presents many difficulties. Farmers detest it, and artists go wild over it. But farmers are obliged to sprawl flat and crawl through it occasionally, while artists sit on their stools at a distance from it that brings out all the alluring browns and yellows and greens and olives of which it is capable under the magic of the changing sunlight. Oliver had seen bees darting like arrows from the flowers in the creekbed in a westerly direction, up over the thickest of the chaparral. Up there somewhere was another colony of winged misers and their hoarded wealth of honey. Honey was bringing a good price just then, and a merchant at Halfmoon Flat would buy it. So now the beeman climbed the hill and crawled into the chaparral in the direction the insects had flown. Scattered here and there through the dense thicket were pines and spruce and black oak. In one of these trees the bees must have their home; and his task of finding it was not entirely a haphazard quest. When he crawled to an opening in the bushes he would climb into the crotch of one of them and locate the nearest tree. Then, flattening himself once more, he would crawl to this tree and look for a hollow for the bees. Finding none, he would locate another tree and crawl to it. Thus wearisomely engaged he crawled into a depression three feet deep in the earth beneath him. This allowed him to sit erect for the first time in minutes, and he availed himself of the chance, industriously mopping his brow. Now, Oliver Drew was not a miner, but he was a son of the outdoor West and knew at once that he was seated in an ancient prospect hole. About the excavation were piled the dirt and stones that had been shovelled out. He speculated over it. For all he knew, it might date back to the fascinating days of '49. A great forest of pines might have stood here then. Or maybe the pines had been burned away, and a forest of gigantic oaks had followed the conifers, to rear themselves majestically above the pigmies that delved, oftimes impotently, for the glittering yellow treasure at their roots. Or, again, the prospect hole might have been dug years later, after the oaks had disappeared and the chaparral had claimed the land. There was no way of telling, for every decade or so forest fires swept the country almost clean, and some new growth superseded the old in Nature's endless cycle. Fifty feet farther on he plopped into a second prospect hole, and a little beyond that he found a third. He noted now that in all cases no chaparral grew up through the muck that had been thrown out. This would seem to signify that the work had been done in recent years, while the bushes that now claimed the land still grew there. He found a fourth hole soon, and near it were manzanita stumps, the tops of which had been cut off with an ax. This settled it. While the soil might show evidences of the work of man for an interminable length of time, the roots of the lopped-off manzanitas would rot in a decade, perhaps, and freezing weather would loosen the stumps from their moorings. But this wood was still sound. The prospecting had been done not many years before. And who had been prospecting thus on patented land? When he had wormed his way to the crest of a hill he had passed about twenty of these shallow holes. Now, at the top, the earth had been literally gophered. The workings here looked newer still; and presently he came upon evidence that proved work had been done not longer than a year before, for dry leaves still clung to the tops of manzanita bushes that had been chopped off and pitched to one side. It has been stated that he was not a miner. Still, having been born and raised in a mining country, he knew something of the geological formations in which gold ordinarily is found. He was in a gold producing country now, yet the specimens that he picked up near the prospect holes proved that only a rank tenderfoot would have searched so persistently in this locality. He picked up a bit of white substance and gave it study. It resembled lithia. The water of his spring contained a trace of lithium salts, according to the analysis furnished him by the State Agricultural College, to which he had mailed a sample. He pocketed the specimen for future reference. As he sat on the edge of this hole, with his feet in it, he heard a rustling in the bushes close at hand. At first he thought it might be caused by a jackrabbit; but soon it became certain that some heavier, larger body was making its way slowly through the chaparral. A coyote? A bobcat? A deer? He carried no gun today, and the swift thought of a mountain lion was a bit unpleasant. He quickly slid from his seat and stretched himself on the ground in the shallow excavation. Oliver was an ardent student of nature, and he liked nothing better than secretly to watch some wild thing as it moved about it its customary routine, unconscious of the gaze of human eyes. Once he had hidden in wild grapevines and watched a skunk searching for bugs along a creekbed, until suddenly the moist bank crumbled beneath him, and he fell, and--But what followed is what might be called an unsavory story. The crackling, scraping sounds drew nearer, but whatever was making them was not moving directly toward him. They ceased abruptly, and then he knew that the man or animal had reached the open space in the brush in which the prospect holes were situated. As the noises were not continued, he began raising himself slowly, until he was able to look over the edge of the hole. It was not a browsing deer nor a hunting coyote upon which he gazed. A squat, dark man, with chaps and spurs and Stetson, was making his way across the open space to the continuation of the chaparral beyond it. His eyes were mere slits, black, Mongolic. He was Digger Foss, the half-white, right-hand man of Adam Selden. The progress of the gunman was not stealthy, for undoubtedly he considered himself particularly safe from observation up here in the wilderness of chaparral. He slouched bow-leggedly across the break in the thicket, and dropped to hands and knees when he reached the edge of it. He disappeared in the chaparral. The general direction that he was pursuing was straight toward Oliver's cabin. Oliver lay quite still and listened to the renewed sounds of his progress through the prickly bushes. Then once more they stopped suddenly. Oliver knew that in the short space of time elapsed Digger Foss could not have crawled beyond the reach of his hearing. He had paused again. For perhaps five minutes he listened, but could hear no further sounds. Then from not far distant there came the familiar clatter of a dry pine cone in the manzanita tops. A moment more and Oliver was smiling grimly. For Foss had suddenly appeared above the tops of the chaparral. He was climbing a giant digger pine, which only a short time before Oliver had investigated as the possible home of the bees he was striving to find. There in plain sight the halfbreed was climbing like a bear from limb to limb, keeping the trunk of the tree between his chunky body and the cabin in the valley. Presently he settled astride a horizontal bough on Oliver's side, his back toward the watcher. He adjusted himself as comfortably as possible, and then there appeared in his hands a pair of binoculars. Leaning around the tree trunk, screened by the digger pine's long, smoke-coloured needles, he focused the glasses on the cabin down below. It looked to Oliver Drew as if this were not the first time that the gunman had perched himself up there to watch proceedings in the cañon. There had been no hesitancy in his selection of a tree which stood in such a position that other trees would not obstruct his view from its branches, no studying over which limb he might occupy to the best advantage. Vaguely Oliver wondered how many times he had laboured and moved about down below, with the keen, black, Chinese eyes fixed on him. It was not a comfortable feeling, by any means. Now, though, his thoughts were taken up by the problem of getting away unobserved by the spyglass man. Digger Foss was not a hundred feet from where Oliver lay and watched him. If he should turn for an instant he would see Oliver there, flat on his face in the excavation, for the halfbreed's perch was twenty feet above the tops of the chaparral. Oliver had decided to make a try at crawling on up the hill as noiselessly as possible, when new and far slighter sounds came to his ears. So slight they were indeed that, if he had not been close to the earth, he might not have detected them at all. But no bird or small animal could be responsible for them, for they were continuous and dragging. Once again he hugged the ground while he watched and waited. The sounds came on--sounds that seemed to be the result of some one's dragging something carefully over the shattered leaves on the ground. And presently there hove into view another human being. He was an Indian--a Showut Poche-daka. Oliver remembered his swarthy face, his inscrutable eyes. He had been pointed out to him at the fiesta by Jessamy as the champion trailer of all the Paubas, of which the Showut Poche-daka Tribe was a sort of branch. Often, Jessamy had said, this Indian, who was known by the odd and laughable name of Tommy My-Ma, had been employed by the sheriff of the county in tracking down escaped prisoners or fleeing transgressors against the law. He wore no hat. He was barefooted. His only covering seemed to be a pair of faded-blue overalls and a colourless flannel shirt. Neither did he carry any weapon, so far as Oliver could see. His progress was now soundless as he came from the chaparral, flat on his belly, wriggling along like a lizard with surprising speed. His black, glittering eyes were unquestionably fixed with rapt intentness on the man aloft in the digger pine; and by reason of this alone he did not see Oliver Drew. His movements commenced to be extraordinary. He wriggled himself speedily over the unlittered earth and made no sound. There was a pile of dry brush at one edge of the clearing, the tops of the bushes that had been cut off to facilitate the sinking of the prospect holes. Toward this Tommy My-Ma glided; and when he reached it he passed out of sight on the other side. Then suddenly he reappeared again. Instantly he lowered his head to the ground at the edge of the pile of brush; then swiftly the head and shoulders disappeared, the trunk and legs following. For a second Oliver saw the bare brown feet, then they too went out of sight. Oliver understood the disappearing act of Tommy My-Ma, he thought. The pile of brush covered another of the prospect holes, and into the hole the Showut Poche-daka had snaked himself. It seemed that he too had sought a hiding place often frequented. In there he perhaps could sit erect and, screened by the pile of brush, would be entirely hidden, while he himself could watch the spy in the branches of the digger pine. For that he was in turn spying on the man who was watching Oliver's cabin Oliver did not for a moment doubt. But why? That was another matter! He was quite aware of his own unprotected position; and with Tommy My-Ma now hidden in the brush scarce fifty feet away from him, he dared not get out of his hole and try to crawl away. The situation struck him as ridiculous in the extreme. Foss trying to spy on him; Tommy My-Ma spying on Foss--the object of all this intrigue, Oliver himself, spying on both of them! And how long must it continue? The only sounds now were the soft moaning of the wind through the needles of the pines, and from afar, occasionally, the clear, cool call of a valley quail: "Cut that out! Cut that out!" The sun was hot on the resinous needles of the pines, and the smell of them filled the air. CHAPTER XIX CONTENTIONS Two horsemen met on the backbone of the ridge that separated Clinker Creek and the green American. Obed Pence was a tall individual with a small mouth, a great Roman nose, close-set black eyes over which black brows met so that they formed a continuous line, and large, tangled front teeth. The man who met him in the trail--a boy who had just turned twenty-one--was sandy-haired, freckled, snub-nosed, and blue-eyed. His face was too boyish to show marked wickedness, but Chuck Allegan was not the least important member of the Poison Oaker Gang. "Howdy, Pencie?" he drawled, crooking his leg about his saddle horn as his black horse stopped to rub noses with the bay that the other rode. "Where you headin' for?" asked Obed Pence. "Down toward Lime Rock. There's some cows o' mine and a bunch o' calves down there. That breechy old roan devil steered 'em up thataway. She's always wanderin' off with a bunch like that. Come on down with me--I want to move 'em up with the rest o' the bunch. Soil's thin down thataway, an' grass's already gettin' brown." "Any o' mine in that bunch?" "I dunno. Like's not. Come on--you ain't got nothin' to do." "Maybe I have and maybe I ain't," retorted Pence half truculently. "What you doin', then?" "Watchin' out for that fella Drew." "Who told you to? Old Man?" Pence spat a stream of tobacco juice. "Not a-tall," he replied. "I guess you ain't heard what's new." "I ain't heard nothin' new. Spring it!" "Foss is the one told me to keep my eye on Drew. Said for me to keep to this ridge over here and try to get a line on what he's up to if he come up this way. Digger's over in the hills on the other side o' the cañon, watchin'. He's got glasses." "What's the good o' watchin' this guy? Why don't we get in and fire 'im out o' the country, like we said we was goin' to do?" Obed Pence's irregular teeth twisted off another chew of tobacco. "That's the funny part of it," he observed. "Digger's workin' alone, it seems. Old Man tells him not to bother Drew at all. Says he'll tend to 'im 'imself, when he gets 'round to it. First time I ever saw Old Man Selden hang back on puttin' a bur under anybody's tail when he wanted to get rid of 'im. An' now he passes the word for nobody to bother Drew till he says to. Digger don't like it. He's sore on the old man." "What'd Digger say?" "I just know mostly by the way he acts. There's somethin' funny goin' on. Ever since that day we all rode down to Drew's cabin and heard the shot inside, Old Man's been actin' funny. Digger an' me was wonderin' what them two was talkin' about in the cabin, that made the old man change the way he done. Why, say, he went down there to scare the ticks outa Drew that day. And after that, you know, we had it all made up to turn cows in on Drew's garden when he was away, an' let 'em get at his spring. Then Jay Muenster was goin' to slip in sometime and put a live rattlesnake in Drew's bed. And if all that didn't start 'im, we was gonta begin plunkin' at him from the chaparral, you know--just drop a few bullets at his feet when he was workin' in his garden. Wasn't that right?" "Sure was, Pencie." "An' we rode down there to start things goin'," Pence continued. "And when Old Man come outa the cabin he was bowin' and scrapin', and this and that and the other, like him and Drew had been pals all their lives. There's somethin' funny. Digger don't like it a-tall!" "Does Ed know anything?" asked Chuck after a pause. "No, he don't," answered Obed Pence. "It was Ed told Old Man 'bout Digger takin' a crack at Drew when he was monkeyin' 'round Sulphur Spring. And Old Man told Ed to tell Digger to cut it out, and that he was runnin' the gang and would tell anybody when he wanted 'em to throw down on Drew." "I know." "And Digger asks 'im when he sees 'im did he want Drew monkeyin' about the spring and gettin' onto the pipe that took water to the still. And Old Man says to hell with the still; he was gonta cut out makin' booze, anyway." "Cut it out?" "That's what he told Digger Foss." "Hell, he makes more money sellin' monkey rum to Standard than outa anything else! And it's always been safe. Pro'bition didn't cut no ice with us--just give us ten times the profit!" Pence shrugged his ridgy shoulders. "I'm just tellin' you how things are goin'. Drew made us loose the Sulphur Spring water to run the still with, and Old Man didn't seem to give a whoop about it. Drew finds the pipe, like as not, and that don't seem like it worried the boss. Just says he'll cut out distillin'. Why, he's layin' right down to this fella Drew. Drew's got Old Man buffaloed!" "Not a-tall," disagreed Chuck Allegan. "You know better'n that, Pencie. Man don't live that c'n buffalo Old Man Selden. He's double-crossin' us--that's what! There's somethin' behind all this. What's Digger watchin' Drew for? Is that any way to run a man outa the country? I'm askin' you!" "That runnin'-out-o'-the-country business has got to be an old gag. Le'me tell you somethin': I wasn't goin' to, but I will. Digger said not to mention it. But listen! You know Old Man took Drew home with 'im after the fiesta." Chuck nodded his boyish head. "Well, Digger wasn't asleep at the switch. When it got dark he rides across the river and into the ranch to see if he c'n find out what's stirrin'. He ain't liked the way things 'a' been goin' since he got outa jail. Course it's Jess'my that's got his goat. Drew's cuttin' 'im out; and since the day we rode into Drew's Digger thinks Old Man's ag'in 'im, an's helpin' Drew get Jess'my. "Anyway, whatever's the reason, Digger leaves his horse in the chaparral and sneaks in and sees 'em at supper. And he sticks 'round till supper's over and Old Man steers Drew out to the corrals for a talk. They set down on that old felled pine in the ferns below the spring, and Digger snakes up through the ferns and hears 'em talkin'." "What'd he say they said?" Chuck asked eagerly. "Didn't have any too much to say about it," Pence replied. "Just said Old Man and Drew was nice as pie to each other; and Old Man told Drew there wasn't any use him bein' scared o' the Poison Oakers, 'cause there wasn't no such outfit." "Said there wasn't no such outfit?" "That's what I said!" "And Digger wouldn't tell no more?" "No, he wouldn't. And I'll bet you there was a lot more to tell. I savvied Digger wasn't springin' all he heard. But he don't like it." "Maybe they was talkin' 'bout Jess'my. Then he wouldn't have nothin' to say, you can bet yer life!" "I got my doubts," Pence ruminated. "No, there was somethin' else. I know that shifty little bullet eye o' Digger's. He was keepin' somethin' back that he ought to told the rest of us. I don't like the way things are goin'. Since this Drew showed up, seems like we all got somethin' to keep from one another. Old Man's tryin' to double-cross the gang someway. Foss is tryin' to get in on it, or else he's aimin' to double-cross us an' Old Man, too, all on his lonesome. An' we can't make any more booze 'cause o' Drew; an' Old Man says, We sh'd worry! A hell of a mess! We're due for a big bust-up, I'm thinkin'. What's Foss sneakin' about watchin' Drew for? Huh! Answer me that? An' why'd he tell me to watch up here an' trail 'im if I saw 'im, without tellin' me why? I'm gettin' about sick o' the whole dam' deal! I ain't takin' orders from Digger Foss!" "Me, too," agreed Allegan. "And that fire dance--that's 'at gets me! Funny about this guy Drew, comin' here a stranger, an' dancin' the fire dance right away. Somethin' funny, all right! Most folks thought maybe he'd hooked up with a squaw, but it ain't that. Gets _my_ goat! But how 'bout the Selden boys?" "They ain't said a word. I reckon they're in with Old Man, whatever he's got on his chest. If we come to a split-up, that'll make Old Man and the four boys on one side, and me an' you an' Ed Buchanan and Jay Muenster on the other side. Five to four." "But how 'bout Digger? He's always been strong with Old Man Selden. He'll stick with him." "Maybe--maybe. He won't be with us, though. An' I'm doubtin' if he'll be with Selden, either. He's out fer Foss!" "Fer Jess'my, ye mean!" "'Sall the same," shrugged Obed Pence. "Le's ride down an' get a couple o' drinks, an' then I'll fog it down to Lime Rock with ye. T'hell with Digger Foss an' his orderin' me 'round!" They rode away in silence, winding their way down into Clinker Creek Cañon when a mile or more below the forty acres of Oliver Drew. They dismounted at Sulphur Spring and pushed through the growth surrounding it. Only a little water now remained in the clay-lined reservoir. The protruding end of the three-quarter-inch pipe was now plainly visible, eight inches above the surface of the tiny pool. "Just think," Obed Pence observed: "That pipe's took water down the cañon for us for years; and s'long's the pool was full o' water nobody ever found the end of it here. At least they never let on they did. An' now comes this Drew an' puts the kibosh on everything! I'll tell a man I'm gettin' sore about it, Chuck. I want my booze, and I want my share o' what we could get out of it. I'm bettin' Standard'll be wild when he learns Old Man won't distil any more." "Can't," corrected Chuck. "Can't, eh? Who's stoppin' 'im? Drew, that's who, and nobody else! And he won't send Drew over the hills talkin' to 'imself, like he's done to many a better man before 'im. I'm sore, I tell you. And I'm gonta find out what's doin', or know the reason why." "Le's get clay an' cover the end o' the pipe," suggested Chuck. "Some deer hunter's likely to see it if we don't, now that the water's pretty near gone." They solemnly administered this rite in remembrance of dead days, and rode on down the cañon single-file. Over three-quarters of a mile from the spring they left their horses in the creek bottom and clambered up a steep slope, slipping on the polished pine needles underfoot. Near the summit the trees thinned, and heavy chaparral usurped the land. On hands and knees they plunged into it, and presently were crawling on their stomachs over an unmarked route. In the heart of the chaparral they came suddenly upon a circular opening made by the hand of man. Here was a high ledge of schist, and under it a small cave. Grass grew here, for the spot marked the other end of the pipe line from Sulphur Spring, and the water that had represented the spring's overflow had trickled out to cool the copper coil of the Poison Oakers' still, incidentally refreshing the barren land. The pipe line represented a great amount of toil and patience, but, as the pipe had been stolen from a railroad shipment, no great outlay of funds. Clinker Creek Cañon dipped so steadily below Sulphur Spring that it had been possible to lay the pipe to this hidden spot in the heart of the chaparral, far up on the hillside, and still maintain a goodly fall for the flow of water. Only by crawling flat on his face could one reach this secluded rendezvous; and in all the years that they had made molasses rum here the Poison Oakers had not been disturbed. Not even a hunter would find it necessary to penetrate this fastness. Men would have laughed if told that water was flowing up here on the dry, rocky eminence. Before the cave's mouth was an adobe furnace for the fire, and over it the now dry end of the pipe hung uselessly. The still was removable, and was now in the cave, together with distilled stock on hand and kegs of molasses that had been packed into the cañon on burros' backs, then trundled laboriously up into the chaparral. Chuck and Obed entered the open cave and sat themselves down beside a barrel with a wooden spigot. They found glasses and wiped soil and cobwebs from them with their thumbs, and soon the water-coloured liquor flowed to the temporary gladdening of their hearts. But as it flowed again and again they began renewing their grievances, and shook their heads over "the good old days," and mouthed vague threats, and forgot all about Lime Rock and the breachy cow. In the midst of their maudlin conversation Obed Pence heard a sound, despite his rum-dulled sensibilities. "Cut it out!" he husked. "Somebody's beatin' it in here." He lay flat in the mouth of the cave and looked down the hillside under the chaparral. "Old Man and Bolar," he announced. "Le's get out an' beat it over the hill, and back down to our _caballos_--and they won't know we been here," Chuck suggested. "Huh! Not me!" retorted Pence. "They already seen our horses, I'll bet. Anyway, I'm liquored up just right to tell Old Man how the war broke out. I'm glad he's comin'. I'm gonta know what's what right pronto!" CHAPTER XX "WAIT!" For over an hour Oliver Drew was obliged to lie flat at the bottom of the shallow prospect hole, while Foss remained astride the limb of the digger pine and Tommy My-Ma kept hidden under the pile of brush. There was no chance to steal out and crawl away through the chaparral, for, while Digger's back was always toward him, he could not tell which way the brush-screened Showut Poche-daka was looking. At last, though, the man on lookout began to show signs of vast uneasiness. His position was uncomfortable, and down at the cabin there was, of course, no movement to arouse his interest and relieve the tedium of his watch. He squirmed incessantly for a time; and then apparently he decided that the object of his espionage had left the ranch, for he thrust his glasses in his shirt front and began monkeying to the ground. Oliver's security now was in the hands of chance. If the halfbreed left his observation post by a route which passed near the prospect hole, Oliver would be discovered. If he decided to leave the thicket by crawling downhill, Oliver would be safe from detection. It was rather a breathless minute that followed, and then he heard the gunman moving off through the chaparral in the direction of the cañon--the least difficult route by far. Apparently he had not come mounted, else he would have retraced his course back to where he would have left his horse. Gradually the sounds of his retreat died away. Still there was no movement in the pile of brush, so far as Oliver's ears were able to detect. He dared not look up over the edge of the prospect hole that hid him. Minutes passed. Quail called coolly from afar. Still not the slightest sound from the brush pile. For half an hour longer Oliver lay motionless and silent. Had Tommy My-Ma slipped out noiselessly and followed Foss? Or was he for some obscure reason still hiding under the dry manzanita tops? At the end of this period Oliver decided that the Indian must have gone. Anyway, he did not purpose to remain in that hole till nightfall. So he elevated his nose to the land level and peered about cautiously. Everything remained as he had seen it last. He rose to his feet, left the hole, and walked boldly to the brush pile. A swift examination of the ground showed that Tommy My-Ma had left his place of concealment, perhaps long since. There was a plainly marked trail through the shattered leaves that led in the same direction taken by the departing halfbreed. Oliver studied the brush pile, and found that the facilities for hiding were as he had deduced. Pine limbs had been laid across the hole like rafters, and the brush heaped on top of them. Beneath was a space deep enough for a man to sit erect; and he might thrust his head up into the brush and peer out in all directions. Loose brush concealed the entrance, and it had been replaced when the Indian took his leave. What was the meaning of it all? Foss, of course, had reason to hate him; but what could he gain by secretly watching him from cover? And why was the Indian watching Foss in turn? All indications pointed to the belief that Foss had occupied his observation tree often, and that his shadow had as frequently trailed him and spied on him from a prearranged hiding place. What strange, mysterious intrigue had enveloped his life because of the unanswered question with which old Peter Drew had struggled for over thirty years? When would he face the question? Would the answer be Yes or No? Would his college education prove a safeguard against his reading the answer wrong, as his poor, unlettered old father had hoped? And Jessamy! Would she figure in the answer? Somehow he felt that hope and life and Jessamy hung on whether his answer would be Yes or No. His dead father's hand seemed to be weaving the warp and woof of his destiny. Oliver gave up further search for the bees that day. By a circuitous route he returned to his irrigating of the garden. June days passed after this, and July days began. The poison oak had turned from green to brilliant red, and now was dark-green once more. The air was hot; the grass was sear and yellow; the creek was dry but for a deep pool abreast the cabin. But Oliver did not worry much now about the creek, except for the loss of its low, comforting murmur and the greenness with which it had endowed its banks, because the enlarged flow from his spring was ample for his needs. No longer did linnets sit near his cabin window and sing to the accompaniment of his typewriter keys. Their season of love was over; the young birds were feathered out and had left their nests. The wild canaries still were with him, and hovered about the rambling willow over the spring. Eagles soared aloft in the clear, hot skies. Lizards basked lazily about the cabin, and blinked up contentedly when he tickled their sides with a broomstraw, or dangled pre-swatted flies before their grinning lips. For a week now he had seen no member of the Poison Oaker Gang. The cows bearing their brand were all about him, but gave him no trouble, and he thought it strange that he chanced to meet no one riding to look after them. He had not been bothered. Whether Digger Foss spent his idle hours watching him from the branches of his lookout pine he did not know or care. He had not seen Jessamy since the morning he left Poison Oak Ranch, and all his worriment and discontent found vent in this. Why had she not ridden down to him, as of old? Had he offended her in any way? The thought was unbelievable, for he could recall not the slightest hint of any misunderstanding. He brooded and moped over it, and loved her more and more--realized, because of her absence, just how deeply he desired her. He experienced all the tortures of first love; and then one day he found his senses. Then he laughed loud and long, and ran for Poche, and threw the silver-mounted saddle on his back. She had come to him when he could not go to her. Now her step-father had invited him to her home, and if he wished her companionship he must take the male's part and seek it. What an utter ass he had been indeed! It was one o'clock when Poche bore him into the cup in the mountains that cradled Poison Oak Ranch. At once the longed-for sight of her gladdened his heart once more, for she apparently had seen him coming and was walking from the house to meet him. How her sturdy, womanly figure thrilled his soul! Black as night was the hair that was now coiled loosely on her head, in which a red rose blazed as when he had seen her last. The confident poise of her head, the warm tints of that strong column that was her neck, the brave carriage of her shoulders, her swinging stride, the long black lashes that seemed to be etched by an Oriental artist--they set his heart to pounding until he felt faint; the yearning, hopeless void of love tormented him. And then with his senses awhirl he leaned from the saddle and felt her warm, soft hand in his, and gazed dizzily into the unsounded depths of the trout pools shaded by grapevines, to which his fancy had likened her eyes. His hand shook and his heart leaped, and his soul cried out for her; and all that he could say was: "How do you do, Miss Selden!" He saddled White Ann, and over the hills they rode together. Commonplaces passed between them until the wilderness enveloped them. Then as they sat their horses and gazed down a precipitous slope to the river, she asked: "Just why have you kept away from us all these weeks?" He reddened. "I'll tell you frankly," he said: "I was a fool. I was moping because you had not ridden to see me. You had come so often before. And I woke up only today. Today for the first time I realized that, since Old Man Selden has opened his door to me, it is my place to go to you." "Of course," she said demurely. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Some time ago," he told her, "I realized that you sought me out in the first place for a purpose." He paused, and the look he cast at her was eager, though guarded carefully. "Yes?" she questioned. "Yes," he went on. "I realized that. And also that you _continued_ to come because that purpose was not yet fulfilled, and because conditions made it necessary for you to look me up." "Yes, I understand--" as he had come to a stop, rather helplessly. "Well, just that," he floundered. "And then Selden changed his tactics, and I could go to you. So you--you didn't come to me any more." "Fairly well elucidated," she laughed, "if repetition makes for clearness. Well, you understand now--so let's forget it." "I want you to understand that it wasn't because I didn't wish to come. It was just thick-headedness." "So you have said. Yes, I understand." The gaze of her black eyes was far away--far away over the deep, rugged cañon, over the hills that climbed shelf after shelf to the mystic snow-topped mountains, far away into a country that is not of the earth earthy. Under her drab flannel shirt her full bosom rose and fell with the regularity of her perfect breathing. Her man's hat lay over her saddle horn. Like some reigning goddess of the wilderness she sat and overlooked the domain that was hers unchallenged; and the profile of her brow, and the long, black, drooping lashes, tore at the heart-strings of the man until he suffered. "I can't stand that!" he cried out in his soul; and a pressure of the reins brought Poche close to White Ann's side. "Jessamy!" said the man huskily. "Jessamy!" He could say no more, for his voice failed him, and a haze swam before his eyes as when he had lost control of himself on the hillside. "Jessamy!" he managed to cry again; and then, for lack of words, he spread his arms out toward her. The black lashes flicked downward once, but she did not turn her face to him. The colour deepened in her throat and mounted to her cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell more rapidly. Then slowly she turned her face to his, and her level gaze searched him, unafraid. But not for long this time. Down drooped the black lashes till they seemed to have been drawn with pen and India ink on her smooth brown cheeks; and they screened a light that caused his heart to bound with expectation that was half of hope. Her red lips moved. "Wait!" she whispered. His arms fell to his sides. "You--you won't hear me!" "No--not now." "You know what I'm trying so hard to say. It means so much to me. It's hard for a man to say the one word which he knows will make him or break him for all time to come. He'd rather--he'd rather just hope on blindly, I guess, than to speak when he can't guess how the woman feels. Must--must I say it--right out, Jessamy?" "No, my friend, don't say it." "Is there anything that stands between us?" "Yes. But don't ask what." "Then you don't love me!" Her red lips quivered. "I said for you to wait," she told him softly. "Why should I wait? For what? I know myself. I'm grown. I know that I--" "Don't!" she interrupted. "Wait!" And she leaned in the saddle and swung White Ann away from him. "Let's ride back home," she said. "You'll stay to supper? The moon will be bright for your ride home later. I'll make you a cherry pie!" CHAPTER XXI "WHEN WE MEET AGAIN!" It will be necessary to return to the day that Chuck Allegan and Obed Pence met on the ridge beyond the Old Ivison Place, and rode together to the hiding place of the Poison Oakers' moonshine still. Obed Pence continued to lie prone in the mouth of the cave, while his close-set eyes angrily watched the progress of Old Man Selden and his son Bolar through the chaparral. As the continued crawling of the coming pair brought them nearer to the retreat Obed Pence withdrew his lank figure into the shadowy cave; and he and his companion endeavoured to appear innocent and unconcerned. Then when Old Man Selden and the boy reached the opening and stood erect, Obed appeared at the mouth again and greeted them with a matter-of-fact: "Hello, there!" "Why, howdy, Obed," returned Adam Selden. "Didn't know ye was here. Who's with ye?" "I reckon you see our horses down in Clinker Cañon," returned Obed in trouble-hunting tones. "And you know every horse between Red Mountain an' the Gap." "Yea, me and Bolar thought we saw a couple o' animals through the trees. But we hit the ground farther up the creekbed, and come in slonchways. Thought maybe one o' the brutes was Chuck's." Obed Pence snorted softly, but did not add more fuel to an argument along this line. "Me an' the kid was packin' a sack o' salt on a burro down toward the river," Adam observed, approaching the cave, "an' thought we'd belly up an' have a little smile. Cows need salt. Hello there, Chuck!"--as the round, boyish face of Allegan shone like a small moon from the dark interior. "Hello, Old Man!" replied the youth. He was apprehensive over Pence's glowering silence, and, to hide his feelings, quickly opened the spigot over a glass and passed the water-white drink to his chief. Adam Selden sat down with it, and Bolar came into the cave and was also given a drink by Chuck. "How early you gonta start the drive for the mountains this year, Old Man?" asked the self-appointed host, nervously filling glasses for himself and the glowering Pence, who stood with arms folded Napoleonlike across his breast, scowlingly regarding the newcomers. "Well, grass's holdin' out _muy bueno_," said Selden thoughtfully. "Late rains done it. I don't think we'll have cause to move 'em any earlier than common. The filaree down in the river bottom is--" But here Napoleon broke his moody silence. "I got somethin' to talk about outside o' grass," snapped Obed Pence. A tense stillness ensued, during which Old Man Selden deliberately drained his glass and passed it back to Chuck to be refilled. "Well, Obed," he drawled lazily, "got anything important to say, just say her." "Oh, I'll say her!" cried Pence, and tossed off his drink of burning liquor by way of fortification. "Ain't been settin' here by that bar'l a mite too long, have ye, Obed?--if I ain't too bold in askin'," was Selden's remark, spoken in the tone which turneth away wrath. "No, I ain't been here too long," Pence told his captain. "And I'm glad you've come, Old Man. I want to talk to you about this fella Drew, and the way things 'a' been a-goin'." "Shoot!" invited the old man's booming voice. Obed came directly to the point. "Well, why ain't we runnin' Drew out?" Old Man Selden balanced his glass on one peaked knee while he reached into a pocket of his _chaparejos_ for a plug of tobacco. He was deliberate as he replied: "Well, Obed, I was waitin' a spell 'count of a little matter that's on my mind just at present. I'd advise ye not to be worryin' about Drew. I'll tend to him when it's the proper time." "Yes, you will!" sniffed Pence sarcastically. "But, allowin' that you will, I want my booze in the meantime." "There's the bar'l," said Old Man Selden. "That ain't gonta last forever!" "Just so! But time she gets low, we'll be makin' more ag'in. Time Drew's gone and we get water runnin' from Sulphur Spring ag'in." "And I'm wantin' my profit from what we could sell," Pence added, unmollified. "I got no money, and won't have none till killin' time, 'less the still's runnin'. 'Tain't worryin' you none. You got all you want without makin' monkey rum. But it ain't like that with me. Why, we was makin' five gallon a day--at twenty-five bucks a gallon! And now nary a drop. I need the money." "Well, Obed, they's money all about ye," the old man boomed. "And they's things that can be turned into money layin' 'round loose everywhere." "And there's a county jail, too!" snapped Pence. "And also federal prisons," Adam added, nodding toward the still and the crude fermentation vats. "Rats! Pro'bition sneaks ain't got me scared! But bustin' into somebody's store's a different matter. And while we're talkin' about it, Old Man, I don't see as you're so keen for a little job like that as you was some months ago." "Gettin' old, Obed--gettin' old, as the fella says. Squirt another shot into her, Chuck." He passed his glass again. "I'll leave all that to you kids in future, I'm thinkin'." "But take your share, o' course," sneered Pence. "Oh, I reckon not, Obed--I reckon not. I got enough to die on--that's all I need. Just putter 'round with a few critters for my remainin' years, then turn up my toes peaceful-like. I'm gettin' old, Obed--just so!" There was another prolonged, strained silence. Pence emptied his glass twice while it lasted, and his Dutch courage grew apace. "Looky-here, Old Man," he said at last, "Le's get down to tacks: You're double-crossin' us, an' we're dead onto it. For some reason you don't wanta drive Drew outa Clinker Creek Cañon. It's got somethin' to do with that fire dance. There's more in it for you if you leave Drew alone than if you put a burr under his tail. That's all right so far's it goes. But you're tryin' to hog it. You're squeezin' the rest o' the Poison Oakers out--all but your four kids. Ed and Digger and Chuck here and Jey and me's left out in the cold. That's what! And we don't like it, and ain't gonta stand for it. If there's more profit in it to leave Drew alone, leave 'im alone. But le's all get our share o' this big profit, like we always did." "Couple o' more shots and ye'll be weepin' about her, Pencie," dryly observed old Adam. "Never mind that! I c'n handle my booze. You come across." "I've known ye about thirteen year, Obed," said Adam in tones dangerously purring, "and I've never heard ye talk to me thataway before. I wouldn't now, if I was you." "And I've never seen you act like you're doin' in those thirteen years!" cried Pence. "Before now there wasn't no need to bawl you out. But you're turnin' crooked." Adam rose and placed an enormous hand on Obed's shoulder. "Just so! Just so!" he purred. "Now, you ramble down an' get in yer saddle an' ride on home, Pencie. Ye've had enough liquor for today. An' when ye're sober we'll all talk about her. Just so! That's best. Go on now--yer blood's hot!" Pence jerked his shoulder away and backed farther into the gloom of the cave. Old Man Selden quickly moved so that his body was not silhouetted against the light streaming in at the mouth. "I don't want none o' yer dam' fatherly advice," growled Pence. "I just want a square deal. If there's a reason why Drew oughta be left alone I want to know it. And I want to know it now!" "Just so! Are ye really mad, now, Pencie?" "I am mad!" "_And_ sober?" "Yes, sober. Shoot her out!" The eagle eyes of Old Man Selden were fixed intently on the face showing from the gloom. Every muscle was tense, every faculty alert. His beetling grey brows came down and hid his eyes from the younger man, but those cold blue eyes saw everything. "Bein's ye're sober, Obed," the old man drawled, "I'll be obliged to tell ye that no Poison Oaker ner any other man ever talked to me like you been doin' and got away with it. Just so! And, bein's ye're sober, I'll say that my business is my own, an' I'll keep her to myself till I get ready to tell her. Furthermore, I'm still runnin' the Poison Oakers, and what I say goes now same as a couple months ago. I know what's good for us boys better'n any o' the rest o' ye, and I'm doin' it." "You're a dam' liar!" shouted Pence. Old Man Selden's gun hand leaped to his hip. "Come a-shootin', kid!" he bellowed. He whipped out his Colt, shot from the hip. The roar of his big gun filled the cave. Screened by the smoke of it, Old Man Selden sprang nimbly to the deeper shadows. There he crouched, his cavernous eyes peering out through the dense, confined smoke like a lynx posing to spring upon a burrowing gopher. Obed Pence had not been slow. He too had leaped the instant the old man's hand dropped to his holster. He had ducked into deeper shadows still, and had not been hit. Now he fired through the smoke wreaths in the direction he supposed the old man had darted. A report from Adam's gun roared on the heels of his own, and rocks and earth rattled down a foot from his shoulder. The cave extended to right and to left of the opening. Each of the fighters was hidden by the darkness of his particular end, and now the smoke of the three shots hung in a heavy blanket between them directly opposite the door. Under cover of this Chuck and Bolar, sprawling flat, had wriggled frantically out of the cave. Each from his own nook, the belligerents leaned cautiously forward, guns ready, breath held in, and tried to pierce the rack of smoke and the obscurity of the other's hiding place. It seemed to the younger men, gazing in, that the situation meant a deadlock. Neither gunman could see the other, and, with no breath of air stirring in the cave, the smoke lay between them like a solid wall. Five minutes passed without a sound inside. Then Bolar drew nearer to the cave and shouted in: "What you gonta do? Neither o' you c'n see the other. You can't shoot. What you gonta do?" Complete silence answered him. Then he realized that neither his father nor Obed Pence would dare to speak lest the sound of his voice reveal his whereabouts and call forth a shot from the other end of the cave. "You got to give it up for now!" he shouted in again. "I'll count one-two-three; and when I say three, both o' ye throw yer guns in front o' the mouth. I'll ask if ye'll do this. Both o' you answer at once. Ready!... Will you?" "Yes," came the smothered replies of both men in the cave. "All right now. Get ready! One ... two ... _three_!" At the word "three" two heavy-calibre Colts clattered on the dirt floor before the entrance and lay not a foot apart, proving that there was a recognized code of honour among the Poison Oakers. Bolar stooped and entered, gathering them in his hands. "All set," he announced. "Come out an' begin all over ag'in." Old Man Selden was the first to come out. Pence quickly followed him. Bolar had emptied both weapons of cartridges, and now he silently passed each his gun. "What'll it be, Pencie?" asked Old Man Selden, bending his fiery glance on his dark, slim enemy. "Shall we draw when we meet ag'in, er forget it entirely--or see who c'n load an' shoot quickest right here an' now?" "It's up to you, Old Man." "Forget it," advised Bolar. "For now, anyway." "Shall we go our ways now, an' draw when we come together ag'in?" It was Old Adam's question. "Why can't you come across an' do the square thing now?" Pence growled. "Then ever'thing's settled." "Just so! But y're answerin' my question with another'n. Do we draw when we meet ag'in?" "You won't be square?" "I'll tell ye nothin'. Ye called me a dam' liar, so you couldn't believe it if I had anything to say to ye." Pence shrugged indifferently and turned away. "When we meet ag'in," he said lightly. "Just so!" drawled Old Man Selden. "Just so!" CHAPTER XXII THE WATCHMAN OF THE DEAD Oliver Drew knew that the Mona Fiesta would be held by the Showut Poche-dakas when the July moon was full. The Mona Fiesta was the tribal "Feast of the Dead." It was purely an Indian rite, unmixed with any ceremonies incident to the feast days of the Catholic saints, as were most other celebrations. Consequently, while the whites were not definitely prohibited from being spectators, they were not invited to attend. They often went out of curiosity, Oliver had been told by Jessamy, but always they observed from a respectful distance and went unnoticed by the worshippers. The underlying principle of the Feast of the Dead was ancestor worship, in which all of the Pauba Tribes were particularly devout. Jessamy told Oliver that she had witnessed the ceremony once from a distance, but that, as it occurred at night, she had seen little of what was taking place. Oliver had wondered that he had received no message from old Chupurosa Hatchinguish after the night of the fire dance. He was now a member of the tribe, he supposed, but all actual contact with his new-found brethren seemed to have ceased when he rode away from the fiesta. The mystery of why he was in this country hung on his connection with the Showut Poche-dakas. He was impatient to get in closer touch with the wrinkled old chief and bring matters to a head. And now another feast day was close at hand. In two more nights a full moon would shower its radiance over the land of the Poison Oakers. He had received no word, no intimation that he would be wanted at the reservation for the Mona Fiesta. Whites were excluded, he knew; but, then, he was now a brother of the Showut Poche-dakas, and he hoped against hope that he would be commanded to appear. But the two intervening days went by, and the evening of the celebration was at hand, with no one having arrived to bid him come. He was seated on his little porch that evening, listening to the night sounds of chaparral and forest, as the moon edged its big round face over the hill and smiled at him. He was thinking half of Jessamy, half of an article that he had planned to write. Two fair-sized checks for previous work had reached him that week, and he was beginning to have visions of a future. In a pine tree close at hand an owl asked: "Who? Who? Who--o-o-o?" in doleful tones. From a distant hilltop came the derisive, outlaw laughter of coyotes. A big toad hopped on the porch, blinked at the man in the moonlight, and then started ponderously for his door. Oliver rose and with his foot turned him twice, but the toad corrected his course immediately and seemed determined to enter the house willy-nilly. "But I don't want you in there," Oliver protested boyishly. "I might step on you in the dark, or accidentally put my hand on your old cold back." He closed the door, and the toad hopped on the threshold, as if resolved to await his chance for a strategic entrance. "All right," said Oliver. "Sit there! When I'm ready to go in I'll climb through a window. You are not going into that house!" He laughed at himself. His was a lonesome life when he was not with Jessamy; and, always a lover of every living thing that God has created, he had made friends with the wild life that moved about his cabin, so that toads and lizards, birds and squirrels looked to him for food and had no fear of him. He sat puffing at his pipe and giving the obstinate toad blink for blink, when there came to his ears strange sounds from up the lonely cañon. At first he imagined they were made by roving cattle, then he recognized the ring of shod hoofs on the stones in the trail. Then voices. And presently he knew that many horsemen were riding toward the cabin--a veritable cavalcade. He rose from his chair and stood listening, not without a feeling of apprehension. As the concerted thudding of many hoofs drew closer and closer he ran into the cabin and strapped on his six-shooter. He had been at a complete loss to interpret Old Man Selden's later attitude toward him, and was wary of a trap. The sounds he heard could mean nothing to him except that the Poison Oakers were at last riding upon him to begin their raid. Suddenly from the other direction came the clattering hoofbeats of a single galloping horse. Silvery under the magic light of the moon, a white horse burst into view, galloping over a little rise to the south. It carried a rider. Now came a familiar "Who-hoo!" And Jessamy Selden soon was bending from her saddle at the cabin door. "Thank goodness, I'm in time!" she said. "I didn't know when they would start, and I waited too long." "What in the mischief are you doing in the saddle this time of night?" he demanded. "Oh, that's nothing! I get out of bed sometimes and saddle up for a moonlight ride. I love it." "But--" "Here they come! I wanted to get here ahead of them and warn you to pretend you were expecting them. You're--you're supposed to know." "I'm supposed to know what?" "About the Mona Fiesta. It's to be observed here on the Old Ivison Place. It always is. And--and you're supposed to know it." "How explicit you aren't! Well, what--" "Sh! There they are! I can't explain now." Oliver's thoughts were moving swiftly, and he did not put them aside even when he saw his gate being opened to a large company of horsemen. "I've got you," he said. "Your little attempt at subterfuge has failed again. Those are the Showut Poche-dakas coming?" She nodded in her slow, emphatic manner. "Uh-huh! I see. And you might have told me many days ago that they would come. And if that isn't so, you could have got here much earlier tonight to warn me in time. But that would have given me an opportunity to question you, and this you didn't want. So you waited till they were almost upon me, then made a Sheridan dash to warn me, when there would be no time to answer embarrassing questions. Pretty clever, sister! But you see I'm dead on to your little game." Her laugh was as near to a giggle as he had ever heard from her. "You're a master analyst," she praised. "I'll 'fess up. It's just as you say. You know my nature makes it necessary for me to dodge direct issues, where your mystery is concerned. But they're right on us--go out and meet 'em." "You'll wait?" "Sure." The foremost riders of the long cavalcade were now abreast the cabin, and Oliver Drew stepped toward them as they halted their ponies. The strong light of the full moon was sufficient to reveal the wrinkled-leather skin of old Chupurosa Hatchinguish, who rode in the lead, sitting his blanketed horse as straight as a buck of twenty years. Oliver reached him and held out a hand. "Welcome to the Hummingbird," he said in Spanish. "Greetings," returned the old man, solemnly taking the offered hand. "The July moon is in the full, brother, and I have brought the Showut Poche-dakas for the yearly Mona Fiesta to the spot where our fathers worshipped since a time when no man can remember." "Thou art welcome," said Oliver again, entirely lost as to just what was expected of him. Chupurosa left the blanket which he used as a saddle. It was the signal for all to dismount, and like a troop of cavalry the Showut Poche-dakas left their horses. They tied them to fenceposts and trees out of respect for the landowner's rights in the matter of grass. "Is all in readiness?" asked the ancient chief. "Er--" Oliver paused. A hand gripped his arm. "Yes," Jessamy's voice breathed in his ear. "All is in readiness," said Oliver promptly. Jessamy then stepped forward and offered her hand to Chupurosa. "Hello, my Hummingbird!" she caroled mischievously in English. "The light of the moon takes nothing from the Señorita's loveliness," said the old man gallantly. By this time the Showut Poche-dakas had formed a semicircle before the cabin. "Let us proceed to the Mona Fiesta," said Chupurosa. "Let the son of Dan Smeed lead the way." Over this strange new designation Oliver was given no time for thought; for instantly Jessamy laid a firm grip above his elbow and led him to the pasture gate. The Showut Poche-dakas followed at the heels of Jessamy's mare. "Don't worry," the girl whispered into Oliver's ear. "Nothing much will be required of you. Just try to appear as if you know all about it, and had attended to the preliminaries yourself." "Yes, yes," said Oliver dazedly, his mind now in a whirl. She led him across the pasture in the direction from which she had ridden so unexpectedly to the cabin. They reached a little _arroyo_, and down it they turned to the creekbed. They crossed the watercourse and turned down it. Presently they entered a cluster of pines and spruce trees, which was close to what Oliver called The Four Pools. In succession, four deep depressions in the bedrock of the creekbed were ranged, and each held clear, cool water, fed by an undiscovered spring, though the creek proper was now entirely dry. In the bedrock about these pools Oliver had previously noted several round holes the size of a half-bushel measure. These were _morteros_, he knew--the mortars in which the California Indians pound acorns in the making of the dish _bellota_. He had often speculated on the probable antiquity of these _morteros_, and had dreamed of early-day scenes enacted there and about them. There was a circular open space in the midst of the tall, whispering trees. Just above this spot, up the steep hillside, he had lain in the prospect hole and watched Digger Foss spying on the cabin down below, while Tommy My-Ma hid under the brush and spied on him. Into the open space in the trees the fearless girl led the way, and there in the centre of it the moonlight streaming through the branches revealed a huge pile of brush and wood, arranged as if for a great fire. She pressed his arm, and they came to a halt. Behind them the Showut Poche-dakas halted. To Oliver's side stepped Chupurosa, and spoke in the tongue of the Paubas to a man at his right hand. This man stepped to the pile of brush and wood and fired it. As the flames leaped up and licked at the sun-dried fuel the Indians closed in, and now the light of the fire showed Oliver that there were women among their number. At the edge of the trees they formed a circle about the fire, then all of them save Chupurosa squatted on the ground. And now the firelight brought something else to view. It was nothing more mysterious than a wooden drygoods box at the foot of one of the pines, and beside it stood a large red earthen _olla_. What these held Oliver could not see. He was puzzling over the fact that these simple arrangements had been made on his land while he sat on his porch two hundred yards away and smoked, for he had passed this spot early that evening and it had been as usual then. The dark-skinned men and women squatted there silently about the fire, their serious black eyes blinking into it. There was something pathetic about it all. They were always so serious, so intent, so devout; and their poor, ragged clothes and bare feet were so evident. "Join the circle," whispered Jessamy. Oliver obeyed. Then Jessamy stepped to Chupurosa, who had been gazing at her silently. "Good-night, my Hummingbird," she said, and smiled at him. An answering smile lighted the withered features, and once more the old man took the girl's slim hand in his. He dropped it. She turned and vaulted into her saddle. The mare leaped away over the moonlit pasture. For a time the thudety-thud of her galloping hoofs floated back, and then came silence. Amid a continuation of this stillness Chupurosa stepped close to the fire, now leaping high, and stretched forth his brown, wrinkled hands. He threw back his head and began speaking softly, directing his voice aloft. Not a word of what he said was known to Oliver. Gradually his voice rose, and his tones were guttural, growling. His body swayed from right to left, but he kept his withered hands outstretched. Presently tears began trickling down his cheeks, but he continued his prayer, or address, or invocation, his tears unheeded. Now one by one his silent listeners began to weep. They wept silently, and, but for their tears, Oliver would not have realized their deep emotion. Sometimes they rocked from side to side, but always they maintained silence and kept their tear-dimmed eyes focused on the speaker. Abruptly Chupurosa came to a full stop, backed from the fire, and squatted on the ground inside the circle. No applause, not a word, no sign of any nature followed the cessation of his harangue. Now two young Indians led forth an old, old man. Each of them held one of his arms. He was stooped and trembly, and his feet dragged pitiably; and as he neared the fire Oliver saw that he was totally blind. Never before in his life had the white man seen age so plainly stamped on human countenance. Oliver had thought Chupurosa old, but he appeared as a man in the prime of life in comparison with this blind patriarch. His long hair was white as snow, and this in itself was a mark of antiquity seldom seen in the race. It was not until long afterward that Oliver found out that this man was a notable among the Pauba Tribes, Maquaquish by name--the oldest man among them, a seer, counsellor, and medicine man whose prophesies and prognostications were forceful in the regulation of a great portion of the Paubas' lives. He was bareheaded, barefooted, and wore only blue overalls, a cloth girdle, and a coarse yellow shirt. When at a comfortable distance from the fire the trio came to a stop. The two conductors of the pathetic blind figure knelt promptly on one knee, one on each side of him. With their bent knees touching behind him, they gently lowered him until he found the seat which their sinewy thighs had made for him. There was a few moments' silence, and then he lifted his trembling hands and began to speak. Oliver carried no watch, and would not have had the discourtesy to consult it if he had; but he believed that Maquaquish spoke for two solid hours without pause. And all this time the two who upheld him on their knees and steadied him with their hands seemed not to move a muscle. And not a sound came from the audience beyond an occasional uncontrollable sob. Maquaquish spoke in hushed tones that blended strangely with the night sounds of the forest. His physical attitude and his delivery were those of a story-teller rather than an orator or preacher; and his listeners hung on every word, their black bead eyes fixed constantly on his face. Oliver Drew was dreaming dreams. He would have given all that he had to be able to interpret what Maquaquish was saying. What strange traditions was he recalling to their minds? What hidden chapters in the bygone history of this ancient race? Never was congregation more wrapped up in a speaker's words. Never were religious zealots more devout. Strange thoughts filled the white man's mind. He was roused from his dreaming with a start. Maquaquish had ceased speaking, and a low chanting sounded about the fire. It grew in volume as the blind man's escort led him back to his place in the circle. It grew louder, weirder still, as the two who had aided the seer stepped to the drygoods box and carried it between them past the fire. As they walked with it beyond the circle every Indian rose to his feet and followed slowly. Oliver did likewise, not knowing what else to do. On the brink of one of the pools the assemblage halted, the firelight playing over them. From the box its custodians removed bolts of cheap new calico cloth of many colours. Two of these they unwound, and laid along the ground, leading away from the edge of the chosen pool. Then the two slipped out of their clothes and stepped naked into the water to their waists, where each laid hold of an end of a strip of calico and stood motionless. To the edge of the moonlit pool stepped Chupurosa. He extended his hands over the water and spoke a few sonorous words. As his hands came down the chanting broke out anew, and now the men in the water began gathering in the strips of calico, washing the cloth in the water as they reeled it to them. At last they finished. The chanting ceased. The two nude men carried the dripping cloth from the water in bundles. The assemblage filed back to the dying fire, all but the two who had washed the cloth. When the Showut Poche-dakas were once more squatting in a circle about the blaze, one of the two, now dressed, entered the circle with the red _olla_ filled with water from the pool. This was passed from hand to hand around the circle, and each one drank from it. When it came to Oliver he solemnly acted his part, and passed the _olla_ to his left-hand neighbour. As the _olla_ finished its round, into the circle danced the two who had washed the cloth. In their arms they held bolts of dry cloth; and amid shouts and laughter they threw them into the air, while the feminine element of the tribe clutched up eagerly at them. When the last bolt of calico had been thrown and had been captured and claimed by some delighted squaw, the assemblage, talking and laughing in an everyday manner, left the Four Pools and started back to their horses. The Mona Fiesta was over. Symbolically the clothes of the dead had been washed. The Showut Poche-dakas had drunk of the water that had cleansed them. And this was about all that Oliver Drew ever learned of the significance of the ceremony. At the cabin Chupurosa waited on his horse until his tribesmen had all ridden through the gate. Then he leaned over and spoke to Oliver. "When a year has passed," he said, "and the same moon which we see tonight again looks down upon us, the Showut Poche-dakas will once more wash the clothes of the dead and drink of the water. I enjoin thee, Watchman of the Dead, to have all in readiness once more, as thou hadst tonight. _Adios_, Watchman of the Dead!" And he rode off slowly through the moonlight. CHAPTER XXIII THE QUESTION The morning following the Feast of the Dead, Oliver Drew rode Poche out of Clinker Creek Cañon, driving Smith ahead of them, on the way to Halfmoon Flat for supplies. Over the hills above the American River he saw a white horse galloping toward him. This was to be a chance meeting with Jessamy. He had an idea she would not be anxious to face him, after her attempted subterfuge of the night before; so he slipped from the saddle, captured Smith, and led the two animals back into the woods. Then he hurried to a tree on the outskirts and hid behind it. On galloped White Ann, with the straight, sturdy figure in the saddle. As they came closer Oliver knew by her face that Jessamy had not seen him; and as they came abreast he stepped out quickly and shouted. Jessamy turned red, reined in, and faced him, her lips twitching. "Good morning, my Star of Destiny!" he said. A flutter of bafflement showed in her black lashes, but the lips continued to twitch mischievously. "_Buenos dias_, Watchman of the Dead!" she shot back at him. Oliver's eyes widened. "Got under your guard with that one, eh, ol'-timer? Just so!--if you'll permit a Seldenism. Tit for tat, as the fella says! Your move again." And then she threw back her head and laughed to the skies above her. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Ridin'." "You weren't headed for the Old Ivison Place." "No, not this morning. I was not seeking you. But since I've met you, and the worst is over, I'll not avoid you." "Help me pack a load of grub down the cañon; then I'll go 'ridin' with you." She nodded assent. "I thought so," she observed, as he led Poche and Smith from hiding. "I thought you'd turn back, or turn off, if you saw me here ahead of you," he made confession. "I might have done that," she told him as they herded Smith into the road and followed him. They said nothing more about what had taken place the night before until the bags had been filled and diamond-hitched, and Smith was rolling his pack from side to side on the homeward trail. Then Oliver asked abruptly: "Who laid that fire, and put the box of cloth and the _olla_ at The Four Pools yesterday?" "Please, sir, I done it," she replied. "When?" "Just before I rode to your cabin last evening." "Uh-huh!" he grunted, and fell silent again. At the cabin she helped him throw off the diamond-hitch and unload the packbags. Then the shaggy Smith was left to his own devices--much to his loudly voiced disapproval--and Jessamy and Oliver rode off into the hills. "Which way?" he asked as they topped the ridge. "Lime Rock," she replied. Tracing cow paths single-file, they wound through and about chaparral patches and rocky cañons till they reached the old trail that led to Lime Rock. Lime Rock upreared itself on the lip of a thousand-foot precipice that overhung the river. It was three hundred feet in height, a gigantic white pencil pointing toward the sky. At its base was a small level space, large enough for a wagon and team to turn, but the remainder of the land about and above it was hillside, too steep for cows to climb. And from the edge of the level land the cañonside dropped straight downward, a mass of craggy rocks and ill-nourished growth. The trail that led to Lime Rock wound its way over a shelf four feet in width, hacked in the hillside. One false step on this trail and details of what must inevitably ensue would be hideous. Oliver led the way when they reached the beginning of the trail. Both Poche and White Ann were mountain bred animals, sure-footed and unconcerned over Nature's threatening eccentricities. For a quarter of a mile the bay and the white threaded the narrow path, their riders silent. Then they came to Lime Rock and the security of the level land about it. Here Oliver and Jessamy sat their horses and gazed down the dizzy precipice at the rushing river, and up the steep, rocky wall on the other side. "Do you know who owns the land on which our horses are standing?" Jessamy finally asked. "I've never given it a thought," said Oliver. "It belongs to Damon Tamroy." "That so? I didn't know he owned anything over this way." "Yes, Damon owns it. But I have an option on it." "You! Have an option on it!" "Yes, a year's option. It was rather an underhanded trick that I played on old Damon, but he's not very angry about it. It's my first business venture. "You see, I learned through a letter from a girl friend in San Francisco that a big cement company was thinking of invading this country. She wrote it merely as a bit of entertaining news, but I looked at it differently. "I knew where they'd begin their invasion. Right here! That magnificent monument there is solid limestone, and the hills back of it are the same, though covered by a thin layer of soil. So I went to the owner of the land, Damon Tamroy, and got a year's option on it for twenty-five dollars--a hundred and sixty acres. "How Damon laughed at me! I told him outright why I wanted to buy the land, if ever I could scrape enough together. He didn't consider it very valuable, and it may become mine any day this year that I can pungle up four hundred and seventy-five bucks more. When he quizzed me, I told him frankly that I was doing it in an effort to preserve Lime Rock for posterity, and he laughed louder than ever. "But he changed his tune when a representative of the cement company approached him with an offer of fifteen dollars an acre. He took his loss good-naturedly enough, but accused me of putting over a slick little business deal on him. I had done so, in a way, and admitted it; and ever since I've been talking myself blue in the face when I meet him, trying to convince him that it's not the money I'm after at all. "Think of an old hog of a cement company coming in here and erecting a rumbling old plant, with the noon whistle deriding the reverential calm of this magnificent cañon, and their old drills and dynamite and things ripping Lime Rock from its throne! Bah! I'm going to San Francisco soon to get a job. I may decide to go this week. It will keep me hustling to put away four hundred and seventy-five dollars between now and the day my option expires." Oliver sat looking gravely at the young idealist, suppressing his disappointment over the possibility of her early departure. "But we have to have cement," he pointed out. "Do we? Maybe so. But there's lots of limestone in the west. Men don't need to search out such spots as this in which to get it. There are less picturesque places, which will yield enough cement material for all our needs. Sometimes I think these big money-grabbers just love to ruin Nature with their old picks and powder. You may agree with me or not--I don't care. I'm not utilitarian, and don't care who knows it. The world's against me in my big fight to keep the money hogs from robbing life of all its poetry; but it's a fight to the last ditch! I'll save Lime Rock, anyway, if I have to beg and borrow." "I don't know that I disagree with you at all," he told her softly. "Money doesn't mean a great deal to me. I've shed no idle tears over my failure to inherit the money that I expected would be mine at Dad's death. I hold no ill will toward Dad. There's too much wampum in the world today. It won't buy much. The more people have the more they want. The so-called 'standard of living' continues to rise, and with it the ills of our civilization steadily increase. Luxuries ruin health. Automobiles make our muscles sluggish. Moving pictures clog our thinking apparatus. Telephones make us lazy. Phonographs and piano-players reduce our appreciation of the technique of music, which can come only by study and practice. What flying machines will do to us remains to be seen, but they'll never carry us to heaven! "No, money means little enough to me. Give me the big outdoors and a regular horse, a keen zest in life, and true appreciation of every creature and rock and tree and blade that God has created, and I'll struggle along." As he talked the colour had been mounting to her face. When he ceased she turned starry eyes upon him, her white teeth showing between slightly parted lips. "Oliver Drew," she said, "you have made me very happy. I--" A rush of blood throbbed suddenly at Oliver's temples, and once again he swung his horse close to hers. "I'll try to make you happy always," he said low-voiced. "Jessamy--" Again he opened his arms for her, but as before she drew herself away from him. "Don't! Not--not now! Wait--Oliver!" "Wait! Always wait! Why?" "I--I must tell you something first. I can tell you now--after--after last night." "Then tell me quickly," he demanded. She rested both hands on her saddle horn and rose in her stirrups. For a long time her black eyes gazed down the precipice below them, while the wind whipped wisps of hair about her forehead. Oliver waited, drunk with the thought of his nearness to her. "Watchman of the Dead!" she murmured at last. Oliver started. "Two years ago," she went on softly, "I met the second Watchman of the Dead. You are the third. The first was murdered in this forest. His name was Bolivio, and he made silver-mounted saddles and hair-tasseled bridles." Oliver scarce dared to breathe for fear of breaking the spell that seemed to have come over her. She did not look at him. She continued to gaze into her beloved cañon and at her beloved hills beyond. "Oh, where shall I begin!" she cried at last. "Where is the beginning? A man would begin at the first, I suppose, but a woman just can't! But I won't be true to the feminine method and begin at the end. I won't be a copy-cat. I'll begin in the middle, anyway." A smile flickered across her red lips; but still she gazed away from him. "Two years ago," she said, "I met the dearest man." Oliver straightened, and lumps shuttled at the hinges of his jaws. "I was riding White Ann on one of my lonely wanderings through the woods. I met him on the ridge above the Old Ivison Place and the river. "After that I met him many times, in the forest and elsewhere; and the more I talked with him the more I liked him. He was my idea of a man." Oliver, too, was now gazing into the cañon, but he saw neither crags nor trees nor rushing green river. "And he grew to like me," her low tones continued. "We talked on many subjects, but mostly of what we've been talking about today. "He was an idealist, this man. He was comparatively wealthy, but there are things in life that he placed above money and its accumulation. By and by he grew to like me more and more, and finally he told me point blank that I was his ideal woman; and then he grew confidential and told me all about himself--his past, present, and what he hoped for in the future. And in my hands he placed a trust. Please God, I have tried to keep the faith!" She threw back her head and followed the flight of an eagle soaring serenely over Lime Rock. And with her eyes thus lifted she softly said: "That man was Peter Drew--your father." Oliver's breast heaved, but he made no sound. Once more her eyes were sweeping the abyss. "That's the middle," she said. "Now I'll go back to the beginning and tell you what Peter Drew entrusted to my keeping. "Thirty years ago Peter Drew, who then called himself Dan Smeed, was the partner of Adam Selden. They mined and hunted and trapped together throughout this country. "There were other activities, too, which I shall not mention. You understand. Your father told me all about it, kept nothing back. Remember that I said he was my idea of a man; and if in his youth he had been wild and--well, seemed criminally inclined--I found that easy to forget. Certainly the manliness and sacrifice of his later years wiped out all this a thousand times. "Well, to proceed: Peter Drew and Adam Selden married Indian girls. Peter Drew won out in the fire dance and became a member of the Showut Poche-dakas. Adam Selden failed, and, according to the custom, took his wife from the tribe and lived with her elsewhere. Six months afterward the wife of Selden died. "Peter Drew, however, having become a recognized member of the tribe, was taken into their full confidence. According to their simple belief, he had conquered all obstacles that stood between him and this affiliation; therefore the gods had ordained that full trust should be placed in him. And with their beautiful faith and simplicity they did not question his honesty. So according to an old, old tradition of the tribe the white man was appointed Watchman of the Dead. "I know little of this story. All of the traditions of the Showut Poche-dakas are clouded, so far as our interpretation of them goes. But it appears, from what your father told me, that ages ago a white-skinned chief had been Watchman of the Dead. Mercy knows where he came from, for, so far as history goes, the whites had not then invaded the country. But after him, whenever a white-skinned man conquered the evil spirits of the fire and became a member, he was appointed Watchman of the Dead. So in the natural order of things the honour came to Peter Drew. "Up to this time the only other Watchman of the Dead remembered by even old Maquaquish and Chupurosa was the man called Bolivio. Holding this simple office, it seems that Bolivio had stumbled upon the secret so jealously guarded by the Showut Poche-dakas. He tried to turn this secret information to his own advantage, and in so doing he broke faith with the tribe that had adopted him as a brother. Found dead in the forest with a knife in his heart, is the abrupt climax of his tale of treachery. And so the tradition of the lost mine of Bolivio had its birth. "Centuries ago, no doubt, the Showut Poche-dakas discovered the spodumene gems which were responsible for the fiction concerning the lost mine of Bolivio. They polished them crudely and worshipped them. Spodumene gems always are found in pockets in the rock, and they are always hidden in wet clay in these pockets. Solid stone will be all about them, with no trace of disintegrated matter, until a pocket is struck. Therein will be found separate stones of varying sizes, always sealed in a natural vacuum, which in some way forever retains moisture in the clay. "This peculiarity appealed to the superstitious natures of the Showut Poche-dakas. It is their age-old custom to bury their dead in pockets hacked in cliffs of solid stones, sealing them with a cement of clay and pulverized granite. One can readily see how the discovery of these beautiful gems, sealed in pockets as they sealed their dead, might affect them. They determined that the glittering stones represented the bodies of their ancestors, and from that time on the lilac-tinted gems became something to be worshipped and guarded faithfully. "Doubtless when Bolivio was appointed Watchman of the Dead he was told this secret, and learned where the stones were to be found. He got some of them, and sent them East to find out whether they were valuable. He polished two, and placed them in bridle _conchas_. Then before word came from New York the Indians stabbed him for his deceit. "His elaborate equestrian outfit remained with the tribe, and your father acquired it when he became Watchman of the Dead. For some reason unknown to him, the stones were allowed to remain in the _conchas_; and he told me that he always imagined them to be a symbol of his office. Anyway, you, Oliver Drew, are the Watchman of the Dead, and your right to own and use that gem-mounted bridle goes unchallenged by the Showut Poche-dakas." She paused reflectively. "All this your father told me," she presently continued. "He told me, too, that the secret place where the gems are to be found is on the Old Ivison Place. It was unclaimed land then, and your father camped there with his Indian wife, as was demanded of the Watchman of the Dead. Before his time, Bolivio had camped there. Later, Old Man Ivison homesteaded the place, knowing nothing of its strange history. He was a kindly old man, liked by everybody; and each year he allowed the Indians to hold their Mona Fiesta at The Four Pools. Though he had no idea why they held it in this exact spot each time--that up the slope above them was a hidden treasure that would have made the struggling homesteader rich for life. "Then your father told me the worst part of it all. He and Selden, it seems, had found out more of the story of Bolivio than is to be unravelled today, with most of the old-timers dead and gone and the Indians always closemouthed. Anyway, they two found out about the secret gems and the significance of the fire dance. So they had planned deliberately to marry Indian girls to further their knowledge of this matter. "It was understood between them that Adam Selden would intentionally fail to win out in the fire dance, and that Peter Drew, who was a Hercules for endurance and strength, would win if he could, and thus become Watchman of the Dead and learn the whereabouts of the brilliants. This scheme they carried out, and Peter Drew took up residence with his brown-skinned bride on what is today the Old Ivison Place. "Then he redeemed himself by falling in love with his wife. In time he found out where the gem pockets were situated. But when Selden came to him to see if he'd stumbled on to the secret, he put him off and said, 'Not yet.' "From the date of the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio until the night of the Mona Fiesta he remained undecided what to do. Somehow or other, he told me, though he had been a highwayman and was then protected from the flimsy law of that day only by his Indian brothers, he could not bring himself to break faith with them. "Then came the night of the first Mona Fiesta since he became Watchman of the Dead; and that night temporarily decided him. "When he squatted in the circle about the fire and saw the rapt, tear-stained, brown faces of these people who had placed absolute faith in him, he fell under the spell of their simplicity, and swore that so long as he lived he would not betray their trust. "And he lived up to it, with his partner, Adam Selden importuning him daily to get the stones and skip the country. And finally to be rid of Selden and the double game he was obliged to play, Peter Drew left with his wife one night and did not return for fifteen years. "And since then there has been no Watchman of the Dead until the night you defeated the evil spirits in the fire dance. "Out in the world of white men Peter Drew settled down to ranching. His Indian wife had died two years after he left this country. With her gone, and the new order of things all about him, he began to wonder if he had not been a fool. "Up here in the lonesome hills was wealth untold, so far as he knew, and he renounced it for an ideal. To secure those gems he had only to show ingratitude to the Showut Poche-dakas, had only to break faith with a handful of ignorant, simple-minded Indians. What did they and their ridiculous beliefs amount to in this great scheme of life as he now saw it? Each day men on every hand were breaking faith to become wealthy, were trampling traditions and ideals underfoot to gain their golden ends. Business was business--money was money! Had he not been a fool? Was he not still a fool--to renounce a fortune that was his for the taking? "He called himself an ignorant man. He told himself--and truly, too--that countless men whom he knew, who had read a thousand books to one merely opened by him--men of education, men of affairs--would laugh at him, and themselves would have wrested the treasure from its hiding place without a qualm of conscience. Civilization was stalking on in its unconquerable march. Should a handful of uncouth Indians, a superstitious, dwindling tribe of near-savages, be permitted to handicap his part in this triumphal march? No--never! "But always, when he made ready to return to the scenes of his young manhood, there came before him the picture of brown, tear-stained faces about a fire, and of an old blind man speaking softly as if telling a story to eager children. Highwayman Peter Drew had been, but never in his life had he broken faith with a friend. Loyalty was the very backbone of my idealist, and he turned away from temptation and doggedly followed his plough. "For thirty years and more the question faced him. Should he get the gems and be wealthy, and break faith with those who had entrusted him with the greatest thing in their lives--these people who had called him brother, whose last remnant of food or shelter was his for the asking? Or should he remain an idealist, a poor man, but loyal to his trust? The answer was No or Yes! "Can't your imagination place you in his shoes? Unlettered, not sure of himself, ashamed of what he doubtless termed his chicken-heartedness. Don't you know that all of us are constantly ashamed of our secret ideals--ashamed of the best that is in us? We fear the ridicule of coarser minds, and hide what is Godlike in our hearts. And on top of this, your father was ignorant, according to present day standards, and knew it. But for thirty years, Oliver Drew, he prospered while his idealism fought the battle against the lust for wealth. Idealism won, but Peter Drew died not knowing whether he had been a wise man or a fool. He died a conqueror. Give us more of such ignorance! "And he educated you, left you penniless, and placed his momentous question in your keeping. "Fifteen years ago he bought the Old Ivison Place, though the Indians do not know it. Adam Selden has searched for the gems without result ever since Peter Drew left the country; and it was because of him that your father kept his purchase a secret. Two years ago, while you were in France, Peter Drew came here, met me and liked me, and told me all that I have told you. "He knew that when you rode into this country with the saddle and bridle of Bolivio that the Showut Poche-dakas would know who you were, and would take you in and make you Watchman of the Dead. Peter Drew wanted you to be penniless, as he had been when he first faced the question. He gave me money with which to help along the cause. So far I've only had to use it for liquid courtplaster, an _olla_, and a few bolts of calico. You were to learn nothing of the story from my lips. You were to face the question blindly, with no other influences about you save those that he had experienced. "I have done my best to carry out his wishes. You are the Watchman of the Dead. You own the land on which the treasure lies. You are brother of the Showut Poche-dakas. The treasure is yours almost for the lifting of a hand. You are almost penniless. "There's your question, Oliver Drew. Say Yes and the gems are yours. Say No, and you have forty acres of almost worthless land, a saddle horse and outfit, and youth and health, and the lifetime office of Watchman of the Dead!" She ceased speaking. There were tears in her great black eyes as she looked at him levelly. "But--but--" Oliver floundered. "I don't know where the gems are. Selden has hunted them for thirty years, and has failed to find them. I've seen many evidences of his search. Will the Showut Poche-dakas tell me where they are?" "Your father thought that perhaps, after what has passed in connection with former Watchmen of the Dead, you might not be told the exact location. So he made provision for that." She reached in her bosom and handed him an envelope sealed with wax. On it he read in his father's hand: "Map showing exact location of what is known as the lost mine of Bolivio." "If you open it," she said, "your answer probably will be No, and you become owner of the gems. If you destroy it unopened, your answer is Yes, and you are a poor man. Yes or No, Oliver Drew? Think over it tonight, and I'll meet you here tomorrow at noon." "What do _you_ want my answer to be?" he asked. "I have no right to express my wishes in the matter," she said. "And your answer is not to be told to me, you must remember, but to your father's lawyers." Then she turned White Ann into the narrow trail that led from Lime Rock. CHAPTER XXIV IN THE DEER PATH The morning following the trip to Lime Rock, Oliver Drew sat at his little home-made desk, his mind not on the work before him. Tilted against the ink bottle stood the long, tough envelope that Jessamy had given him, its black-wax seals still unbroken. He stared at it with unseeing eyes. After they had left Lime Rock, Jessamy had given him a little more information on the subject which now loomed so big in his life. She thought, she had said, that for years the Showut Poche-dakas had suspected Old Man Selden of knowing something of their secret. They could not have missed seeing the gophering that the old man had done on the hillside above The Four Pools. She knew positively that the Indians had kept a watchful eye on him, and it could be for no other reason. The episode concerning Oliver's bayonet wound had come as a complete surprise to her. It seemed now, she said, that Peter Drew had communicated with Chupurosa not long before his death, and after Oliver's return from France, and had told him to be prepared for the coming of his son and how to make sure that he was genuine. She had not known that Peter Drew had been in the Poison Oak Country again, since he left after entrusting her with a hand in guiding Oliver's future. She told of having overheard Adam Selden and Oliver's conversation that night at Poison Oak Ranch, and of the other eavesdropper who had stolen down from the spring. She was almost sure, she told him, that this man was Digger Foss; but whether or not Foss knew of the treasure she could not determine. Apparently, though, he suspected something of the kind, and had been looking out for his own interests that night. Yes, it was the bridle and saddle and the gem-mounted _conchas_ that had changed Selden's attitude toward Oliver. The underlying reason for his wishing Oliver off the Old Ivison Place had been the fear that the search for the gems, which he had carried on intermittently for so long, would be interrupted. But to his gang he had pretended that it was sheer deviltry that caused him to contemplate driving the newcomer out. Then a sight of the gem-mounted _conchas_ of his old partner, and the fact that Oliver was at once taken into brotherhood by the Showut Poche-dakas changed his plans. Oliver knew of the gems and had come to seek them. He either was Dan Smeed's son, or had been taken into Dan Smeed's confidence. Oliver would become Watchman of the Dead. If he did not already know the location of the stones, he soon might learn it from the Indians. His friendship must be cultivated by all means, so that Selden might have the better chance of obtaining what he considered his rightful share of the treasure. Oliver had then told Jessamy of the prospect holes on the hillside, of Digger Foss's spying on the cabin, of Tommy My-Ma's strange actions, and of the lithia he had found. "Yes, lithia is an indication of gems," she had told him. "And it would appear that Digger knows of the treasure, after all. Perhaps sometime Selden confided in him in a careless moment, to enlist his aid in the search. They're pretty confidential. Digger was watching your movements, to see if you had any definite idea of the location of the stones or were searching for them blindly. That's it! He knows! But still he's suspicious of Old Man Selden. All of the Poison Oakers are now. They think he's double-crossing them some way, since he made friends with you. "As for Tommy My-Ma trailing Digger, I'm not surprised. No doubt the Showut Poche-dakas are watching Old Man Selden and his gang as respects their attitude toward the new Watchman of the Dead. If the Poison Oakers had tried actually to molest you, I have an idea they'd have found they'd bitten off a chunk. I think they would have had fifty Showut Poche-dakas on their backs before they had gone very far." All this passed through Oliver's mind again and again this morning, as he sat there with pipe gone out and idle pencil in his fingers. What a romance that old father had woven about the life of his son! How skilfully and craftily he had planned so that Oliver would be thrown on his own resources for an answer when he came face to face with the question! How cleverly Jessamy had carried out the part entrusted to her, despite her aversion to intrigues and plottings! Step by step she had led him on till at last the question confronted him, just as it had confronted his father before him. To gain possession of the gems would be a simple matter. They were on his land somewhere--were his by every right in law. He had but to invoke the protection of the keepers of the peace against the Indians, break the seals of the long envelope, and dig in the place indicated by the map this envelope contained. But there was one thing which doubtless Peter Drew had not foreseen in his careful planning. He could not have known that his son was to fall desperately in love with the guiding star that he had appointed for him. And Oliver Drew knew in his heart that if he robbed the Indians of these gems, which were to them only a symbol and had no meaning connected with worldly wealth, he would lose the girl. The only thing that stood between Jessamy and him, he now believed, was her uncertainty of what his answer to the question would be. In her staunch heart she respected the belief of the Showut Poche-dakas, and to her the gems as a symbol were as worthy of her reverence as the Sacred Book of the Christians. "I have as much reverence for a bareheaded Indian girl on her knees to the Sun God as for a hooded nun counting her beads," she had said. Oliver stared at the inside of the cabin door, scarred and carved and full of bullet holes--at JESSAMY, MY SWEETHEART. Peter Drew could not have foreseen this phase of the situation. In securing the gems Oliver Drew not only would lose his self-respect and make his father's thirty years of sacrifice a mockery, but he would lose the girl he loved. So Oliver took small credit to himself when he rose from his desk at eleven o'clock, his mind made up. He placed the letter unopened in his shirt front, and went out and saddled Poche. Then he rode to the backbone and wormed his way along it toward Lime Rock. Jessamy was there ahead of him, sitting erect on White Ann's back, gazing upon the rugged objects of her daily adoration. "Well," she said, "you've come," and her level eyes searched him through and through. "Yes," he replied, riding to her side, "I've come; and my mind's made up." She raised her dark brows in an attempt to betoken a mild struggle between politeness and indifference; but the hand on her saddle horn trembled, and the red had gone out of her cheeks. "I must get out of here tomorrow," he said, "and go to Los Angeles. I've just about enough money to take me there and back; but I have the unbounded faith of an amateur in several farm articles now in editors' hands." She lowered black lashes over her eyes and nodded slowly up and down. "Exactly," she said. "You must carry out Peter Drew's instructions to the letter." "But I can tell _you_ what my answer to Dad's lawyers is going to be. I--" "Don't!" she cried, raising a protesting hand. "Not a word to me. My responsibility ceased when I placed the envelope in your hands. I'm no longer concerned in the matter. That is--" she hesitated. "Yes, go on." "Until after you have made your report to the attorneys," she added. "Then, of course, I'll--I'll be sort of curious to know what your answer is." "Then I'll come straight back to tell you," he promised. "And--Why, what's the matter!" She had leaned forward suddenly in her saddle, and with wide eyes was looking down the precipice. Then before she could answer there came to Oliver's hearing the sound of a distant shot from the cañon. Now he saw a puff of white smoke above the willows on the river bank, a thousand feet below them. Then a second, and by and by another ringing report reached them, and the echoes of it went loping from wall to wall of the cañon. "Merciful heavens!" cried Jessamy. "It's Old Man Selden! He's shot! Look at him reel in his saddle! Oh, horrors!... There he goes down on the ground!... But he's not killed! There--he's on his feet and shooting!" Oliver, with open mouth, was staring down at the tragedy that had suddenly been staged for them in the river bed. Now several puffs of white smoke hung over the trees, and riders rode hither and thither like pigmies on pigmy horses. Now and then a stream of flame spurted horizontally, and at once another answered it. Then up barked the reports, followed by their mocking echoes. "It's come! It's come!" wailed Jessamy. "Obed Pence, likely as not, has opened fire on Old Man Selden, and the boys are after him. Look--there's Chuck and Bolar and Jay and Winthrop--and, oh, most all of them! It's a general fight. Oh, I knew it would come! I knew it! Obed Pence has been so nasty of late. They were all drunk last night. Poor mother! Oh, what shall we do, Oliver? What can we do? We can't get down to them!" "And could do nothing if we did," he said tensely. Down below six-shooters still popped, and the balls of smoke continued to grow in number over the willows. Horsemen dashed madly about, shouting, firing. The two watchers learned later that Obed Pence, supported by Muenster, Allegan, and Buchanan--all drunk for two days on the fiery monkey rum--had lain in wait for Old Man Selden, and Pence had ridden out and confronted him as he rode down the river trail, supposedly alone. But the Selden boys for days had been hovering in the background, to see that their father got a square deal when he and Obed Pence next met. Pence and Adam Selden had drawn simultaneously; but the hammer of the old man's Colt had caught in the fringe of his chaps, and Obed had shot him through the left lung. Knowing their father to be a master gunman, his sons, who had not been close enough to witness the encounter, had jumped to the conclusion that Pence had fired from ambush. They charged in accordingly, and opened fire on Pence, killing him instantly. Then Pence's supporters had ridden forth in turn, and the general gun fight was on. "I can't sit here and see them murdering one another!" Jessamy sobbed piteously. "They--they all may need killing, but--but I've lived with the old man and the boys, and--and--My mother!" The tears streamed down her cheeks as she made a trumpet of her hands and shouted down the precipice: "Stop it! Stop it at once, I say!" Only the echoes of her piercing cry made answer, and she wrung her hands and beat her breast in anguish. "I'm going for help!" she cried abruptly. "They'll get behind trees pretty soon, and fight from cover. I'll ride to Halfmoon Flat for the constable and a posse to put a stop to this. Can't--can't you ride up the trail and find a way down to them, Oliver? Old Man Selden maybe will listen to you. Oh, maybe you can patch up peace between them!" "I'll try," said Oliver grimly. She wheeled White Ann and entered the narrow trail. Oliver followed. Recklessly she moved her mare at her rolling singlefoot along the dangerous trail, and eventually came out on the hillside. At once White Ann leaped forward and sped over the hills, a streak of silver in the noonday sun. Oliver loped Poche to an obscure deer path that led down to the river, and as swiftly as possible began negotiating it. He had not progressed twenty yards when the chaparral before him suddenly parted, and Digger Foss confronted him, his wicked Colt held waist-high and levelled. "Stick 'em up!" he growled. "Be quick!" Thoroughly surprised, Oliver reined in, and Poche began to dance. Mechanically Oliver raised his hands above his head, then almost regretted that he had not tried to draw. But the picture of Henry Dodd reeling against the legs of Jessamy's mare had been with him since his first day in the Poison Oakers' country. He knew that the halfbreed's aim was sure, and that his heart was a reservoir of venom. The first shock passed, his composure returned in a measure. There stood the halfbreed, spread-legged in the path. The lids of his Mongolic eyes were lowered, and the beads of jet glittered wickedly from under them. He was drunk as a lord, Oliver knew quite well from the augmented insolence of his cruel lips; but Oliver knew that he might be all the more deadly, and that some drunken gunmen can shoot better than when sober. "What is this?--a holdup?" he asked, and bit his lip as he noted the tremble in his tones. "A holdup is right," said Foss. "A holdup, an' a little business matter you and me's got to attend to." "Well, let's get at it!" Oliver snapped. "I'm gonta kill you after our business is settled," Foss told him in a matter-of-fact tone. A cold chill ran along Oliver's spine. Should he make a dive for his gun? Foss had every advantage, but-- Foss was stepping lazily nearer, his eyes intent on the horseman, his six-shooter ready. "Down there by the river they're fightin' it out all because o' you buttin' into this country, where you ain't wanted." Foss had come to a stop, and was leering up at him. "You've made trouble ever since you come here. Old Man won't get rid o' you, but I'm goin' to today. But first, where's them gems?" "I can't tell you," said Oliver. "You're a liar!" "Thank you. You have the advantage of me, you know. Slip your gun in the holster, and then call me a liar. I'll draw with you. My hands are up--you'll still have the advantage of having your hand closer to your gun butt." "D'ye think you could draw with me?" "I know it. And before you. Try it and see!" Foss studied over this. "Maybe--maybe!" he said. "I never did throw down on a man without givin' 'im a chance. But you got no chance with me, kid. They don't make 'em that can get the drop on Digger Foss!" "I'll take a chance," said Oliver quietly. "We'll see about that later. But where's them stones?" "I don't know, I tell you." "What did you come up in this country for?" "On matters that concern me alone." "No doubt o' that--or so you think. But they're interestin' to me, too. What's in that letter Jess'my handed you at Lime Rock yesterday?" "Oh, you were sneaking about and saw that, were you! Through your glasses, I suppose. Well, I haven't opened it, and don't know what's in it. If I did I wouldn't tell you. My arms are growing a little tired. Will you holster your gun and give me a chance before my arms play out?" "I will if you come across with what you know about the gems. You might as well. If I kill you, you won't be worryin' about gems. And if you croak me, why, what if you did tell me?--I'm dead, ain't I?" "There's sound logic in that," said Oliver grimly. "I'll take you up. Put your gun in its holster and drop your hands to your sides. Then we'll draw, with your gun hand three feet nearer your gun than mine will be. Come! I've got business down below." The halfbreed's eyes widened in unbelief. "D'ye really mean it, kid? You saw me shoot Henry Dodd--d'ye really wanta draw with me?" "I do." "But then you'll be dead, and I won't know nothin' about the gems. Unless that letter tells?" "Perhaps. You mustn't expect me to take _all_ the chances, you know." "Does the letter tell?" "I haven't opened it, I say." Foss studied in drunken seriousness. "And if you should happen to get me, why--why, where am I at again?" he puzzled. Oliver laughed outright. "You're an amusing creature," he said. "I don't believe you're half the badman that you imagine you are." He believed nothing of the sort, but his arms were growing desperately weary and he must goad the drunken gunman into immediate action. "There's just one thing that's the matter with you," he gibed on, ready to descend to any speech that would cut the killer and break his deadly calm. "That's my getting your girl away from you! It's not the gems; it's that that hurts you. Why, say, do you think she'd wipe her feet on you!" Into the eyes of the halfbreed came a viperish light that almost stilled Oliver's heartbeats. For an instant he feared that he had gone too far, that Foss was about to shoot him down in cold blood. Foss stood spread-legged in the path, as before, his face twisting with anger, the fingers of his left hand clinching and unclinching themselves. Then Oliver almost ceased to breathe as a silent, dark figure slipped wraithlike from the chaparral and began stealing toward the back of Digger Foss. "That settles it," said Foss. "I'll kill you for that, gems or no gems! Get ready! If you let down a hand while I'm puttin' up my gun I'll kill you like that!" He snapped the fingers of his left hand. "I'll stick by my bargain," Oliver assured him, his glance struggling between Foss and that silent figure slinking in his rear. What should he do? There was murder in the black eyes of the man who stole so stealthily upon the gunman's back. Should he shout to Foss? His sense of fair play cried out that he should. But Foss might misinterpret the meaning of his upraised voice, and fire. Should he-- "Here goes! I'm puttin' up my gun. Get ready, kid! When I--" There was a leap, a flash of steel in the sunlight, a scream of agonizing pain. Oliver's gun was out and levelled; but Foss was staggering from side to side, his arms limp before him, his head lopped forward as if he searched for something on the ground. He collapsed and lay there gasping hideously in the path, in a growing pool of blood. The chaparral opened and closed again; and then only Oliver and the man in his death throes were remaining. Even as Bolivio had died, so died Digger Foss, in a path in the wilderness, with the knife of a Showut Poche-daka in his back. CHAPTER XXV THE ANSWER Two weeks had passed since the battle of the Poison Oakers. That organization was now no more. Jessamy's efforts to mobilize a posse to stop the fight had proved fruitless. Only the constable and Damon Tamroy rode back with her with first aid packages, for Halfmoon Flat had voiced its indifference in a single sentence--"Let 'em fight it out!" Those whom the constable would have deputized promptly made themselves scarce. So the Poison Oakers had fought it out, and in so doing appended "Finis" to the annals of their gang. Old Man Selden died two days after the battle. Winthrop was killed outright, and Moffat was seriously wounded, but might recover. Obed Pence was dead; Digger Foss was dead. Jay Muenster was dead. Thus half of their numbers were wiped out, and among them the controlling genius of the gang, Old Man Selden. And without him those remaining, already split into two factions, were as a ship without a rudder. And all because of Oliver Drew! Oliver stepped from the train at Halfmoon Flat this afternoon, two weeks after the fight. He had helped Jessamy and her mother through the difficulties arising from the tragedy, had appeared as witness at the inquest, and had then hurried to Los Angeles with his sealed envelope. Now, returning, he caught Poche in a pasture close to the village and saddled him. It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had lunched on the diner, so at once he lifted Poche into his mile-devouring lope and headed straight for Poison Oak Ranch. What changes had taken place since first he galloped along that road, barely four months before! Few with whom he had come in contact were still pursuing the even tenor of their ways, as then. He thought of the fight and of the spectacular death of Digger Foss. At the inquest he had been unable to throw any light on the identity of the halfbreed's murderer. He was an Indian--beyond this Oliver could say no more. The coroner had quizzed him sharply. Whereupon Oliver had asked that official if he himself thought it likely that he could have looked into the muzzle of a Colt revolver in the hands of Digger Foss, and at the same time make sure of the identity of a man stealing up behind him. The coroner had scratched his head. "I reckon I'd 'a' been tol'able int'rested in that gun o' Digger's," was his confession. And Oliver had told the truth. To this day he does not know who killed the gunman--but he knows that in all probability his own life was saved when it occurred, and that it was a Showut Poche-daka who struck the blow. At Poison Oak Ranch he found Jessamy awaiting him. He had sent her a wire the day before, telling her he was coming, and the hour he would arrive. They shook hands soberly, and after a short conversation with Mrs. Selden, Oliver saddled White Ann for Jessamy and they rode away into the hills. They were for the most part silent as their horses jogged along manzanita-bordered trails. Instinctively they avoided Lime Rock and its vicinity, and made toward the north, up over the hog-back hills, now sear and yellow, which climbed in interminable ranks to the snowy peaks. They came to a ledge that overlooked the river, and here they halted while the girl gazed down on scenes that never wearied her. They dismounted presently and seated themselves on two great grey stones. Jessamy rested her round chin in her hand, and from under long lashes watched the green river winding about its serpentine curves below. The tragedy of death had left its mark on her face. There was a sober, half-pathetic droop to the red lips. The comradely black eyes were thoughtful. But the self-reliant poise of the sturdy shoulders still was hers, and the sense of strength that she exhaled was not impaired. Her dress today was not rugged, as was ordinarily the case when she rode into the hills. She wore a black divided skirt, and a low-neck yellow-silk waist, trimmed with black, and a black-silk sailor's neckerchief. To further this effect a yellow rose nestled in her night-black hair. She looked like a gorgeous California oriole, so trim was her figure, so like that bird's were the contrast of colours she displayed. And her voice when she spoke, low and clear and throbbing melodiously, reminded him of the notes of this same sweet songster at nesting time. Oliver sat looking at the profile of her face, with the wind-whipped hair about it. More fully than ever now he realized that she was everything in life to him. And today--now!--smilingly, unabashed. "Well, Jessamy," he began, "I have seen Dad's lawyers." She turned her face toward him, but still rested her elbow on her knee, one cheek now cupped by her hand. "Yes," she said softly. "Tell me all about it." "And I gave them my answer to the question." For several moments her level glance searched his face, a little smile on her lips. "And what is your answer?" she asked. He rose and moved to the stone on which she sat, seating himself beside her. "Don't you know what my answer is?" he asked softly. She continued to look at him fearlessly, smilingly, unabashed. "I think I know," she said. "But tell me." "My answer," he said, "is the same that dear old Dad kept repeating for thirty years. I shall not enrich myself by sacrificing the confidence placed in me. I shall remain loyal to my simple trust. I am the Watchman of the Dead." Her lips quivered and her eyes glowed warmly, and two tears trickled down her cheeks. Oliver took from his shirt the envelope and showed her the black seals, still unbroken. Then on a flat rock before them he made a tiny fire of grass and twigs, and placed the envelope on top of it. Then he lighted a match. "The funeral pyre of my worldly fortune!" he apostrophized. "The lost mine of Bolivio will be lost indeed when the map has burned." Together they watched the tiny fire in silence, till the black wax sputtered and dripped down on the stone, and the eager flames crinkled the envelope and its contents and reduced them to ashes. "And now?" said Oliver. "And now!" echoed Jessamy. He slowly placed both arms about her and lifted her, unresisting, to her feet. He drew her close, brushed back her hair, and looked deep into eyes from which tears streamed unrestrained. Then she threw her arms about his shoulders, and, with a glad laugh, half hysterical, she drew his head down and kissed him time and again. His hour had come. Oliver Drew had captured the star that had led him on and on--his Star of Destiny. Warm were her lips and tremulous--glowing were her eyes for love of him. His pulse leaped madly as she gave herself to him in absolute surrender. "There's another matter," he said five minutes later, as she lay silent in his arms, with the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. "Old Danforth, the head of the firm of attorneys that attended to Dad's affairs, looked at me keenly from under shaggy brows when I gave my answer. "'So it's No, is it, young man?' he said. "'No it is,' I told him. "'In that case,' he said, 'you are to come with me.' "He took me to a bank and opened a safe-deposit box in the vaults. He showed me bonds totalling over a hundred thousand dollars, and cash that represented the interest coupons the firm had been clipping since Dad died. "'Here's the key,' he told me. 'If your answer had been yes, these bonds, too, would have gone to the church. For then you would have had the gems. Your father didn't mean to leave you penniless. You would have been fairly well off, I imagine, whether your answer had been Yes or No. Your father wanted his question answered by a man of education, and I think he would be pleased at your decision.'" Jessamy had straightened and twisted in his arms till her face was close to his. "Peter Drew never hinted at that to me!" she cried. "I--I suppose you'd have nothing but the Old Ivison Place if you answered No. Oh, my romantic Old Peter Drew! God rest his soul! I'm so glad." "Glad, eh?" He smiled whimsically at her, and she quickly interpreted his thoughts. "Oh, but, Oliver--you don't understand! It's not that you're wealthy, after all--but now you can give Damon Tamroy just what the cement company would have paid him for Lime Rock!" "Lime Rock shall be your wedding gift," he laughed. "Oh, Oliver! And--and when we're--married, you won't take me away from the Poison Oak Country, will you, dear! I'll go anywhere you say--but these hills, and the river, and Lime Rock, and Old Dad Sloan, and--my Hummingbird--and the perfume of the manzanita blossoms in spring--and--oh, I love my country next to you, dear heart! And in my dreams I loved you even before you came riding to me in the silver-mounted saddle of Bolivio, like a knight out of the past. This is my country--and if we must go, I'll pine for it--and maybe die like the Indian bride. I want to stay here, Oliver dear--with you--down on the dear Old Ivison Place!" Oliver tenderly kissed his Star of Destiny. "I have no other plans," he whispered into her ear. "My place is there.... I am the Watchman of the Dead!" THE END 
43917	----	[Illustration: Straight and true it sped to its mark. The lion had already crouched for a spring when Nat's missile was discharged. --Page 18.] THE MOTOR RANGERS THROUGH THE SIERRAS BY MARVIN WEST AUTHOR OF "THE MOTOR RANGERS' LOST MINE," ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1911, BY HURST & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. INTO THE SIERRAS 5 II. BETWEEN TWO FIRES 17 III. IN A RUNAWAY AUTO 31 IV. MOTOR RANGERS TO THE RESCUE 43 V. AN APPOINTMENT ON THE TRAIL 55 VI. SOME RASCALS GET A SCARE 66 VII. A PHOTOGRAPHER IN TROUBLE 77 VIII. LOST IN A PETRIFIED FOREST 87 IX. THE MIDNIGHT ALARM 99 X. ALONG THE TRAIL 110 XI. TREED! TWO HUNDRED FEET UP 125 XII. NAT'S LUCKY ESCAPE 135 XIII. THE VOLLEY IN THE CANYON 147 XIV. A "LOONITACKER" HORSE 159 XV. THE MOTOR RANGERS' PERIL 170 XVI. THE HORNS OF A DILEMMA 181 XVII. IN COLONEL MORELLO'S FORTRESS 191 XVIII. A RIDE FOR LIFE 201 XIX. OUTWITTING HIS ENEMIES 211 XX. HERR MULLER GETS A CHILLY BATH 220 XXI. THE FIRE IN THE FOREST 232 XXII. A DASH THROUGH THE FLAMES 242 XXIII. THE HUT IN THE MOUNTAINS 258 XXIV. FACING THEIR FOES 272 XXV. THROUGH THE FLUME 285 The Motor Rangers Through the Sierras CHAPTER I. INTO THE SIERRAS. "Say Nat, I thought that this was to be a pleasure trip?" Joe Hartley, the perspiration beading his round, good-natured countenance, pushed back his sombrero and looked up whimsically from the punctured tire over which he was laboring. "Well, isn't half the pleasure of running an auto finding out how many things you don't know about it?" laughingly rejoined Nat Trevor, the eldest and most experienced of the young Motor Rangers, as they had come to be called. "V-v-v-variety is the s-s-spice----" sputtered our old friend William, otherwise Ding-dong Bell. "Oh, whistle it, Ding-dong," interjected Joe impatiently. "_Phwit!_" musically chirruped the stuttering lad. "Variety is the spice of life," he concluded, his hesitating manner of speech leaving him, as usual, following the puckering of his lips and the resultant music. "That's no reason why we should be peppered with troubles," grumbled Joe, giving the "jack" a vicious twist and raising the rear axle still higher. "Here it is, only three days since we left Santa Barbara and I'm certain that I've fixed at least four punctures already." "Well, you'll be a model of punctuality when----" grinned Nat aggravatingly, but Joe had sprung from his crouching posture and made for him threateningly. "Nat Trevor, if you dare to pun, I'll--I'll--bust your spark plug." "Meaning my head, I suppose," taunted Nat from a safe distance, namely, a rock at the side of the dusty road. "'Lay on, Macduff.'" "Oh, I've more important things to go," concluded Joe, with as much dignity as he could muster, turning once more to his tools. While he is struggling with the puncture let us look about a little and see where the Motor Rangers, whom we left in Lower California, are now located. As readers of "The Motor Rangers' Lost Mine" know, the three bright lads with a companion, oddly named Sandrock Smith, had visited the sun-smitten peninsula to investigate some mysterious thefts of lumber from a dye-wood property belonging to Mr. Pomery, "The Lumber King," Nat's employer. While in that country, which they only reached after a series of exciting and sometimes dangerous incidents, they stumbled across a gold mine in which Nat's father had, years before, been heavily interested. Readers of that volume will also recall that Hale Bradford, the Eastern millionaire, and his unscrupulous associates had made a lot of trouble for Nat and his companions after the discovery. The exciting escape of Nat in a motor boat across the waters of the Gulf of California will also be called to mind, as well as the story of how matters were finally adjusted and Nat became, if not a millionaire, at least a very well-to-do young man. The gift of the auto in which they were now touring was likewise explained. The splendid vehicle, with its numerous contrivances for comfortable touring, had been the present of Mr. Pomery to the lads, as a token of his esteem and gratitude for the conclusion to which they had brought the dishonest dealings of Diego Velasco, a Mexican employed by Mr. Pomery. On their return to California proper, the lads had spent a brief time with their parents, and Nat had seen his mother ensconced in a pretty house on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. It had been a great delight to the lady to leave the tiny cottage in which straitened circumstances following the death of Nat's father, had compelled them to live. Joe Hartley, we know, was the son of a department store keeper of Santa Barbara, and Ding-dong Bell was the only child of a well-to-do widow. So much for our introductions. Inactivity had soon palled on the active minds of the Motor Rangers, and they had, with the consent of their parents, planned another trip. This time, however, it was to be for pleasure. As Nat had said, "We had enough adventures in Lower California to last us a lifetime." But of what lay ahead of them not one of the boys dreamed, when, three days before, they had started from Santa Barbara for a tour of the Sierras. Nat was desirous of showing that it was feasible to hunt and fish and tour the mountains in an automobile just as well as on horseback. The car, therefore, carried rifles and shot guns as well as fishing rods and paraphernalia for camping. We shall not give an inventory of it now. Suffice it to say that it was completely outfitted, and as the details of the car itself have been told in the previous volume we shall content ourselves with introducing each as occasion arises. The particular puncture which Joe was repairing when this volume opens, occurred just as the lads were bowling over a rather rough road into Antelope Valley, a narrow, wind-swept canyon between two steep ranges of mountains. The valley is in the heart of the Sierras, and though too insignificant to be noted on any but the largest maps, forms a portion of the range well known to mountaineers. It is a few miles from the Tehachapi Pass, at which, geographers are agreed, the true Sierra Nevadas begin. "Say, fellows," exclaimed Nat suddenly, looking about him at the sky which from being slightly overcast had now become black and threatening, "we're going to have a storm of some sort. If you're ready there, Joe, we'll be jogging along. We ought to be under shelter when it hits." "Yes," agreed Joe, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, "it will go whooping through this narrow valley like the mischief." As he spoke he lowered the "jack," and put the finishing touches on his repair. The auto carried plenty of extra tires, but naturally the boys wished to be sparing of their new ones while the others offered an opportunity for a patch. As the first heavy rain drops fell, sending up little spurts of dust from the dry road and the dusty chaparral bordering it, Nat started the motor, and the car was soon whizzing forward at a good speed. Thanks to its finely-tempered springs and the shock absorbers with which it was equipped, the roughness of the road had little effect on the comfort of the riders. "This is going to be a hummer," shouted Joe suddenly, "we'd better get up the shelter hood." Nat agreed, and soon the contrivance referred to, which was like a low "top" of waterproof khaki, was stretched on its collapsible frames. It fitted all round the auto, enclosing it like a snug waterproof tent. In front was a window of mica through which the driver could see the road. The erection of the shelter took but a few seconds and presently the car was once more chugging forward. But as the storm increased in violence, the wind rose, till it fairly screamed through the narrow funnel of the rocky-walled valley. Through his window Nat could see trees being bent as if they were buggy whips. "If this gets much worse we'll have to find cover," he thought, "or else lose our shelter hood." He glanced apprehensively at the steel supports of the shelter, which were bending and bowing under the stress put upon them. As Nat had remarked to himself, they would not stand much more pressure. "Say, the rain is coming in here," began Joe suddenly, as a tiny trickle began to pour into the tonneau. It came through a crack in the khaki top which had been wrenched apart by the violence of the wind. "It's g-g-g-gone d-d-d-own the bab-b-b-back of my n-n-n-neck," sputtered Ding-dong Bell protestingly. "Never mind, Ding-dong," comforted Joe, "maybe it will wash your parts of speech out straight." "I'm going to head for that cave yonder," exclaimed Nat, after running a few more minutes. He had spied a dark opening in the rocks to his right, while the others had been talking, and had guessed that it was the mouth of a cave of some sort. And so it proved. The auto was turned off the road, or rather track, and after bumping over rocks and brush rolled into the shelter of the cavern. It seemed quite an abrupt change from the warring of the elements outside to the darkness and quiet of the chamber in the rocks, and the Motor Rangers lost no time in lowering the hood and looking about to find out in what sort of a place they had landed. So far as they could see, after they had all climbed out of the car, the cave was a large one. It ran back and its limits were lost in darkness. The mouth, however, was quite a big opening, being more than twenty feet across at the base. It narrowed into a sharp-topped arch at the summit, from which greenery hung down. "Let's see where we are," remarked Nat, taking off his heavy driving gloves and throwing them upon the driver's seat. "You'd have to be a cat to do that," laughed Joe Hartley, gazing back into the dense blackness of the cavern. "That's soon fixed," added Nat, and removing one of the lights of the car from its socket he pressed a little button. A sharp click resulted, and a flood of brilliant white radiance poured from the lamp. It was an improved carbide contrivance, the illuminant which made the gas being carried in its socket. The boy turned its rays backward into the cave, flooding the rough, rocky walls, stained here and there with patches of dampness and moss, with a blaze of light. "Say," cried Joe suddenly, as the rays fell far back into the cave but still did not seem to reach its terminus, "what is that back there?" As he spoke he seized Nat's sleeve in a nervous, alarmed way. "What?" demanded Nat, holding the light high above his head in his effort to pierce the uttermost shadows. "Why that--don't you see it?" cried Joe. "I do now," exclaimed Nat in a startled voice, "it's----" "T-t-t-two g-g-glaring eyes!" fizzed Ding-dong Bell. As he spoke, from behind the boys, came a low, menacing growl. They faced about abruptly to see what this new source of alarm might be. As they all turned in the direction from which the growl had proceeded--namely the mouth of the cave--a cry of dismay was forced from the lips of the three lads. Stealthily approaching them, with cat-like caution, was a low, long-bodied animal of a tawny color. Its black-tipped tail was lashing the ground angrily, and its two immense eyes were glaring with a green light, in the gloom of the cave. "A mountain lion!" cried Nat, recognizing their treacherous foe in an instant. "And its mate's back there in the cave," called Joe, still more alarmedly. "G-g-g-g-get the g-g-g-guns!" sputtered Ding-dong. This was far more easy to recommend than to accomplish, however. The lads, never dreaming that they would want their weapons, had left them in the automobile. The car, as will be recalled, had been left near the mouth of the cave. The mountain lion advancing toward them had already passed the auto and was now between them and the place in which their weapons were reposing. The mountain lion, or cougar, ordinarily not dangerous unless it gets its foe at an absolute disadvantage, becomes, during the mating season, a vindictive, savage brute, if separated from its mate. That this was now the case was evident. There was no room to doubt that the two green eyes glaring from the remote blackness of the cave were the optics of another "lion." The young Motor Rangers were fairly trapped. Without weapons or any means of protecting themselves but their bare hands, they were in imminent peril of a nasty conclusion to their sudden encounter. CHAPTER II. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. Snarling in very much the manner of an angry cat, the lion, which had appeared at the mouth of the cave, began to come forward more rapidly. At the same instant, as if by mutual consent, his mate started to advance from the rear of the cave. It was evident that if they did not wish to be seriously injured, perhaps killed, the Motor Rangers would have to act, and act quickly. But what were they to do? Nat it was who solved the question. The floor of the cave was littered with boulders of various sizes, ranging from stones of a pound or so in weight, up to huge rocks beyond a boy's power to lift. Stooping down swiftly Nat selected a stone a little larger than a baseball, and then throwing himself into a pitching posture, awaited the oncoming cougar, approaching from the cave mouth. The boy had been the best pitcher the Santa Barbara Academy had ever produced, and his companions saw in a flash that he meant to exercise his skill now in a way of which he had little dreamed when on the diamond. His hand described an evolution in the air, far too quick to be followed by the eye. The next instant the stone left his grasp, and swished through the atmosphere. Straight and true it sped to its mark. And it struck home none too quick. The lion had already crouched for a spring on the defenseless lads, who stood between himself and his mate, when Nat's missile was discharged. Crack! The sharp noise of the stone's impact with the skull of the crouching feline sounded like a rifle shot. "Bull's-eye!" yelled Joe excitedly. And bull's-eye it was. The rock had a sharp edge which Nat, in his haste, had not noticed. As it struck the lion's head it did so with the keen surface foremost. Like a knife it drove its way into the skull and the lion, with a howl of pain and fury, turned, stumbled forward a few paces, and then rolled over. Before the others could stop him, Ding-dong Bell, entirely forgetting the other lion, dashed forward to examine the fallen monster. The result of his action was that his career came very near being terminated then and there. The cougar had only been stunned, and as the stuttering boy gave one of its ears a tug, it leaped erect once more and struck a blow at him with its chisel-like claws that would have torn him badly had they struck. But Ding-dong, though deliberate in his speech, was quick in action. He leaped backward like an acrobat, as he saw the mighty muscles tauten for action, and so escaped being felled by the blow. He could feel it "swish" past his nose, however, and entirely too close to be pleasant. In the meantime, Nat, realizing that his best move would be to get to their arms, had made a flying leap for the auto and seized an automatic rifle of heavy calibre. As Ding-dong leaped back he aimed and fired, but in the darkness he missed, and with a mighty bound the wounded cougar leaped out of the cave and dashed off through the storm into the brush on the hillside above. "One!" exclaimed Nat, like Monte Cristo in the play. The others gave a low laugh. They could afford not to worry so much now. True, there was one of the cougars still back in the cave, but with their rifles in their hands the lads had little to fear. "I felt for a minute, though, like I did that time the Mexican devil sprang on me near the gulf village," said Nat, recalling one of his most perilous moments in Lower California. But there was little time for conversation. Nat had hardly uttered his last remark before the cougar at the rear of the cave began to give signs that it too was meditating an attack. There are few animals that will not fight desperately when cornered, even a rat making a formidable foe sometimes under such conditions, and cornered the cougar unquestionably was. "She's coming," warned Joe in a low voice, as a rumbling growl resounded above the roar of the storm outside. "L-l-let her c-c-come," sputtered Ding-dong defiantly. "Better climb into the car, boys," said Nat in a whispered tone, "we can get better aim from an elevation." Accordingly they clambered into the tonneau of the motor vehicle, and kneeling on the seat awaited the onslaught which they knew must come in a few seconds. "I've half a mind to let her go, if we can without putting ourselves in danger," said Nat, "it doesn't seem fair somehow to shoot down a poor brute in cold blood." "But that poor brute would attack you without hesitation if you lay injured on a trail," Joe reminded him; "these cougars, too, kill hundreds of sheep and young calves, just for the sheer love of killing, for half of what they kill they never touch." "That's right," agreed Nat, "still fair play is a jewel, and----" Further words were taken out of his mouth by something that occurred just at that instant, and settled the fate of the cougar then and there. Ding-dong Bell, whose unlucky day it seemed to be, had, in his excitement, been leaning far over the back of the tonneau, peering into the darkness at the rear of the cave. He was trying to detect the shadowy outlines of the cougar. A few seconds before Joe Hartley had said:-- "Look out, Ding-dong, or you'll go overboard." The stuttering youth's reply had been a scornful snicker. But now, however, he craned his neck just a bit too far. His upper quarters over-balanced his stumpy legs and body, and with a howl that rivalled the cougar's, he toppled clean over the edge of the tonneau. The floor of the cave sloped steeply toward the rear, and when Ding-dong struck it he did not stop. Instead, the momentum lent him by his fall appeared to propel him forward down the sloping floor. He yelled for help as he felt himself rapidly and involuntarily being borne toward the hidden cougar. By some mysterious combination of misfortune, too, the carbide in the lamp, which had not been renewed since they left Santa Barbara, gave out with a flicker and a fizz at this moment. The cave was plunged into almost total darkness. Nat's heart came into his throat as he realized that if the cougar was not killed within the next few seconds, Ding-dong's life might pay the forfeit. "Good gracious!" shouted Joe above poor Ding-dong's cries, "how are we going to see to shoot?" "Aim at the eyes," grated out Nat earnestly, "it's our only chance." As he spoke there came an angry snarl and a hissing snort. It mingled with a shout of alarm from Ding-dong, who had now stopped rolling, but was not yet on his feet. The she-cougar had seen his peril and had taken the opportunity to bring down at least one of her enemies. Straight up, as if impelled by a powerful steel spring, she shot. But even as she was in mid-spring two rifles cracked, and with a convulsive struggle the great tawny body fell with a thud to the floor of the cave, clawing and scratching and uttering piercing roars and cries. "Put her out of her misery," said Nat, as Ding-dong, having regained his feet, darted at the top of his speed for the mouth of the cave. Once more the rifles blazed away at the two green points of fire which marked the wounded cougar's eyes. This time dead silence followed the reports, which reverberated deafeningly in the confines of the cave. There was no doubt but that the animal was dead. But where was Ding-dong? His companion Motor Rangers looked anxiously about them, but could see nothing of him. In the excitement they had not noticed him dart by. Presently, however, a slight noise near the cave month attracted their attention. There was Ding-dong out in the rain, and drenched to the skin, peering into the cave. "C-a-can I c-c-c-come in?" he asked hesitatingly. "Yes, and hurry up, too," ordered Nat in as stern a voice as he could command. "Your first duty," he went on, "will be to dig down in the clothes chest and put on dry things. Then you will refill the lamps with carbide, which you ought to have done two days ago, and after that you may patch up the tear the wind made in our shelter hood." "And--phwit--after that?" inquired Ding-dong with so serious an aspect that they had to laugh. "I'll think up something to keep you out of mischief," said Nat finally. While Ding-dong set about his tasks after investing himself in dry clothes, the others skinned the cougar and kindled a fire with some driftwood that lay about the cave. Hot coffee was then brewed, and some of the stores opened. After imbibing several cups of the steaming mixture, and eating numerous slices of bread and butter, the Motor Rangers felt better. By this time, too, the storm had almost passed over, only a slight drizzle remaining to tell of the visit of the mountain tempest. An investigation of the cave failed to show any trace of a regular den in it, and the boys came to the conclusion, which was probably correct, that the cougars had merely taken to it for shelter from the storm. However that was, all three of them felt that they had had a mighty narrow escape. Ding-dong inwardly resolved that from that time on he would take care to have the lamps packed with carbide, for Nat's relation of how nearly the sudden cessation of the light had cost him his life gave the stuttering youth many qualms. "I guess the storm is about over," said Joe, looking out of the cave while holding a tin cup of coffee in his hand. "I see enough blue sky to m-m-m-make a pair of pants for every s-s-s-s-sailor in the navy," remarked Ding-dong, who had joined him. "That's a sure sign of clearer weather," said Nat, "come on, boys, pack up the cups and get the car ready and we'll go ahead." "Where are we going to stop to-night?" asked Joe. "I guess we can't be many miles from Lariat, can we?" "I'll see," rejoined Nat, diving into his breast pocket and pulling out a map stoutly mounted on tough linen to prevent tearing. He pored over it for a moment. "The map puts Lariat about fifteen miles from here," he said. "What sort of a p-p-p-lace is it?" Ding-dong wished to know. "A small post-office station," rejoined Nat. "I don't imagine that there is even a hotel there." Ding-dong, who didn't object to the luxuries of life, sighed. Somehow, he had been looking forward to stopping at a hotel that night. He said nothing, however, well knowing how his complaints would be received. The auto was soon moving out of the cave in which they had had so exciting an encounter. Nat was at the wheel and his two companions in the tonneau. The faces of all were as beaming as the weather had now turned out. These boys dearly loved the sensation of taking to the road and proceeding on into the unknown and adventurous. The rough strip separating the road, as we must in courtesy call it, from the steep rock-face in which the cave lay, was speedily traversed and the auto's nose headed north. For some time they bowled along at a slow speed, the track growing rapidly rougher and rougher, till it seemed that nothing on wheels could get over it. "What's the m-m-m-matter?" asked Ding-dong suddenly of Joe Hartley, who for a bumpy mile or two had sat with his head cocked on one side as if listening intently for something. "I'm listening for a puncture," grinned Joe, resuming his posture of attention. As the road grew rougher the walls of the valley began to close in. They grew more lofty as the pass grew narrower, till only a thin strip of blue sky showed at the summit. The rugged slopes were clothed with a sparse growth of pine timber and chaparral. Immense faces of rock cropped out among these. The whole scene had a wild and savage aspect. Suddenly they reached a spot where the road took an abrupt dip downward. From the summit the descent looked as steep as the wall of a house. Fortunately, they carried an emergency brake, so that the steepness of the declivity did not alarm them. Without hesitating Nat allowed the car to roll over the summit and begin the drop. The exhilaration of the rapid motion made him delay applying his emergency just as soon as he should have, and the car had been running at considerable speed when there came a sudden shout from Joe:-- "Look, Nat! Look!" The boy, who had been adjusting his spark lever, looked up suddenly. They were just rounding a curve, beyond which the road pitched down more steeply than ever. At the bottom of the long hill stood an obstacle. Nat at a glance made it out as a stage coach of the old-fashioned "thorough-brace type." It was stationary, however, and its passengers stood about it in scattered groups, while, so far as Nat could see, no horses were attached to it. "Better go slow. There seems to be something the matter down there at the bottom of the grade," the boy remarked. At the same instant his hand sought the emergency brake lever and he pushed it forward. There was a loud crack as he did so, and an alarmed look flashed across his face as the lever suddenly felt "loose" in his hand. The car seemed to give an abrupt leap forward and plunge on more swiftly than ever. Below him Nat could see the scattered figures pointing upward excitedly. He waved and yelled to warn them that he had no control over the car which was tearing forward with the speed of the wind. The ordinary brake had no effect on it under the speed it had now gathered. Lurching and plunging like a ship at sea, it rushed onward. Directly in its path, immovable as a rock, was the stage coach. All three of the Motor Rangers' bronzed, sunburned faces blanched as they rushed onward to what seemed inevitable disaster. CHAPTER III. IN A RUNAWAY AUTO. "Can't you stop her?" gasped Joe, clutching the forward portion of the tonneau and gripping it so tight that his knuckles went white. Nat shook his head. He felt that he had done what he could to slow down the car. There was nothing left now but to face the end as resolutely as possible. As long as they lived the Motor Rangers never forgot that wild ride down the mountainside in a runaway car. The speed can be described by no other word than terrific. The handkerchiefs all three of the boys wore about their necks to keep off sunstroke and dust streaked out behind as stiff as if cut out of tin. Their hair was blown back flat on their heads by the speed, and every now and then the car would strike a rock, which at the speed it was going would throw it high into the air. At such moments the auto would come back to the trail with a crash that threatened to dislocate every spring in its composition. But Nat, his eyes glued to the path in front of him, clung to the wheel, gripping it till the varnish stuck to his palms. He knew that the slightest mistake on his part might precipitate the seemingly certain disaster. Suddenly, however, his heart gave a glad bound. He saw before him one loophole of escape from a catastrophe. The stage was halted against the rocky wall on the right-hand side of the trail. So far over toward the rocky wall was it, in fact, that its hubs almost scraped it. This left a narrow space between its left-hand wheels and the other wall of the pass. True, it looked so narrow that it hardly seemed possible that the auto could dash through, but it was the only chance that presented itself, and Nat was quick to take advantage of it. As they saw what the boy intended to do the onlookers about the stage broke into a cheer, which was quickly checked as they held their breath in anticipation. It was one chance in a thousand that Nat was taking. Would he win out? Closer thundered the auto while the alarmed stage passengers crowded to the far side of the pass. Nat, his eyes glued on the narrow space between the stage and the wall of rock, bent low over the wheel. His heart underwent a terrible sinking sensation as it grew closer and he saw how narrow the space was. But he didn't give up on that account. On the contrary, the extremely narrow margin of hope acted as a tonic on his nerves. As a naval gunner aims his big projectiles so Nat aimed the thundering runaway automobile for the narrow opening between the stage and the cliff. Almost before he realized it he was there. There was a quick flash of a brightly painted vehicle and white, anxious human faces as he shot by the stage and its dismounted passengers. An ominous scraping sound was audible for an instant as the hubs of the stage and the auto's tonneau came in contact. To the left, Nat felt the scrub growing in the cracks of the rock brush his face, and then, amidst a shout of joy from behind, the auto emerged beyond the stage, unharmed save for a few scratches. As Nat brought it to a standstill on the level, the travellers came running up at top speed. All were anxious to shake the hand of the daring boy who had turned seeming disaster into safety by his grit and cool-headedness. "Pod'ner, you jammed that thar gas brigantine through that lilly hole like you wos makin' a poket at bill-yards," admiringly cried a tall man in a long linen duster and sombrero, about whose throat was a red handkerchief. He grasped Nat's hand and wrung it as if he would have shaken it off. "My name's Cal Gifford. I'm the driver of the Lariat-to-Hombre stage," he announced, "and any of you kids kin ride free with me any time you've a mind to." "Thank you," said Nat, still a bit trembly from his nervous strain, "I really believe that if you only had horses we'd accept your invitation and tow the auto behind." As he spoke he started to scramble out of the car, the others following his example. The Motor Rangers were anxious to see what had gone wrong with their ordinarily trustworthy vehicle. "Oh, he's quite young," simpered an elderly lady in a big veil, who was accompanied by her daughter, a girl of about twenty. An old man with fierce white whiskers stood beside them. They were evidently tourists. So, too, was a short, stout, blonde little man as rotund as a cider keg, who stepped up to the boys as they prepared to examine their car. "Holt, plez!" he said in an authoritative voice. "I vish to take zee phitograft." Nat looked somewhat astonished at so curt an order, but the other two Motor Rangers merely grinned. "Better let him, pod'ner," suggested Cal Gifford. "He took them road agents a while back. Caught 'em in the act of sneaking the express box." "Chess!" sputtered the little German. "I gedt find pigdures of all of dem. Dey vossn't looking andt I--click!" As he spoke he rapidly produced a camera, and before the boys knew what was happening he had pressed a little lever, and behold they were "taken." But, in fact, their minds had been busy with something else. This something was what the stage driver had referred to. "Road agents?" asked Nat. "You've been held up, then?" "Yep, pod'ner, that's what it amounts to," drawled Cal nonchalantly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "The varmints stepped out frum behind that thar rock and we didn't hev time ter say 'Knife' afore we found ourselves lookin' inter the muzzles of as complete a collection of rifles as you ever saw." "Un dey tooked avay der horses by der oudtside," put in the German tourist. "Oh, I schall have me fine tales to tell ven I get me pack by der Faderland." "The Dutchman's right," said Cal. "The onnery skunks unhitched our plugs and scampered 'em off up the trail. I reckon they're in their barn at Lariat by this time." "Oh, dear, and we'll have to walk," cried the young lady, bursting into tears. "And I haf vot you call it, a oatmeal?--py my pig toe," protested the German. "I guess you mean a corn, Dutchy," laughed Cal. "Vell, I knowed it vos some kindt of cereal," was the reply. "Seems a shame to see that purty critter cry, don't it?" said Cal, nodding his head sidewise toward the weeping young lady. "This is an outrage! An outrage, I say!" her white-whiskered father began shouting. "Why were those highwaymen not shot down? Why didn't somebody act?" "Well, pod'ner, you acted up fer sure," grinned Cal. "Am I mistaken or did I hear you say you'd give 'em five thousand dollars for your life?" "Bah!" shouted the white-whiskered man. "It was your duty sure to protect us. You should have fired at them." "I'd hev bin a hull lot uv use to yer then, except fer funeral poposes, wouldn't I?" inquired Cal calmly. "Bah! sir, bah!" sputtered the angry old gentleman. "Good thing ther h'aint no mounting lions 'round," drawled Cal. "They might think we wuz an outfit of sheepmen by all the bah-bahing we be doin'." "But how is my daughter to get to Lariat, sir?" begged the elderly lady. "She hurt her foot in getting off the stage." "Well, ma'am," said Cal, "supposing yer man yonder takes a try at carryin' her instead of wasting wind a-bahing?" "Voss iss diss bah? Maybe I get a picture of him?" asked the German, bustling up excitedly with his camera all ready for business. "Oh, sir, my husband was excited. He didn't know what he was saying," exclaimed the elderly lady clasping her hands. "There, ma'am, don't take on. I was only a-having my bit of fun," said Cal. "Maybe when these boys get their gasoline catamarang fixed up they'll give us a ride." "But they cannot take all of us, sir," cried the lady, beginning to weep afresh. "There, there, ma'am, never mind ther irrigation--I mean 'Weep not them tears,'" comforted Cal. "Anyhow, you and your daughter can get a ride." "But my husband--my poor husband, sir." Cal turned with a grin at a sudden noise behind them. The white-whiskered man had now turned his wrath on the unfortunate German. "Out of my sight, you impudent Teuton," he was shouting. "Don't aggravate me, sir, or I'll have your blood. I'm a peaceable tourist, sir, but I have fought and bled in my time." "Must hev bin bit by a mosquito and chased it," commented Cal to himself as the lady hastened to console her raging better half, and the little Dutchman skipped nimbly out of harm's way. "What yo' bin a-doing to ther ole bell-wether, Dutchy?" inquired Cal. "I ask him if he blease tell me vere I can get a picture of dot Bah, und he get madt right avay quvick," explained the Teuton. While all this had been going on among the tourists and Cal, the other passengers, mainly mountaineers, had stood in a group aside talking among themselves. In the meanwhile, the Motor Rangers had been examining the damage to their car. They found that the connecting rod working the band of the emergency brake had snapped, and that a blacksmith would be needed to weld it. Cal, who had strolled up in time to hear this decision, informed them that there was a blacksmith at Lariat. "And a good 'un, too," he volunteered. The stage driver then made a request for a ride on behalf of the young lady and her parents. "Me and the Dutchman and the rest kin hoof it," he remarked. "It ain't above five mile, and down grade, too." "A steep grade?" asked Nat, with some appearance of interest as Joe finished unbolting the loose ends of the broken rod. "No, jest gentle. It runs on 'bout this way all down into Lariat." "Well, then," said Nat, with a smile, "I'll save you all the trouble of walking." "How's that, pod'ner? We kain't all pile in the hold of that benzine buggy." "No; but I can give you a tow." "What, hitch my stage on ahind your oleomargerinerous gas cart?" "That's it." "By the big peak of Mount Whitney, that's an idee!" exclaimed the delighted stage driver, capering about and snapping his fingers like a big child. "Wait a jiffy, I'll explain it all to Bah-bah and the rest." This was soon done, and the Motor Rangers in the interval attached a rope to the rear axle of the car and in turn made it fast to the front of the stage. The pole of the latter vehicle was then led over the tonneau of the auto and Joe and Ding-dong deputed to steer. From the driver's box of the stage Cal worked the brake. An experimental run of a few yards was made, and on the gentle grade the plan was found to work perfectly, the auto towing the heavy stage without difficulty. "Now, then, all aboard the stagemotebubble!" shouted Cal, and a few minutes later all the passengers, delighted with the novelty of the experience, had piled on board. All delighted, that is, except the white-whiskered man. "All aboard that's a-goin' ter get thar!" bellowed Cal, fixing him with a baleful eye. "Bah! Bah!" sputtered the white-whiskered one indignantly, nevertheless skipping nimbly on beside his wife and daughter. But there came a fresh delay. "Holt on, blease! Vait! I vish a photegrift to take him!" "Ef yer don't hurry up Dutchy," shouted Cal, "you'll hev a picter of yerself a-walking inter Lariat." But the photo was taken without delay, and amid a cheer from her overjoyed passengers, the stage, which moved by such novel means, rumbled onward on its way to Lariat. CHAPTER IV. MOTOR RANGERS TO THE RESCUE. "That came pretty near being like the time we collided with the hay wagon in Lower California," commented Joe, as the auto got under way, with her cumbersome tow rattling along behind. "Yes, only this time we didn't hit," laughed Nat, who had quite recovered from the strain of those terrible moments when it seemed that they must go crashing into the stage. "A m-m-m-miss is as g-g-g-good as a m-m-m-mile any day," said Ding-dong, as his contribution to the conversation. As Cal Gifford had said, the road was a gentle gradient between steep mountain ranges. Consequently, the towing of the coach was an easy matter. The two boys in the tonneau steered it by giving the pole a push or a tug as occasion required--much as they would have handled the tiller of a boat. When the stage showed signs of coming ahead too fast Cal shoved the foot brake forward, at once checking the impetus. Quite a small crowd turned out to witness the strange scene as the two vehicles rolled into Lariat. The place was a typical western mountain station. There was a small post-office, two or three rough houses and a hotel. In the heydey of gold mining, Lariat had been quite a flourishing place, but the hand of decay was upon it at the present time. The hotel, however, was, as Ding-dong noticed, apparently open for business. At least several loungers arose from their chairs on the porch, and came forward with exclamations of surprise, as the two conveyances lumbered into town. Nat shut off power in front of the post-office and at the same time Cal applied and locked the brakes, bringing the stage likewise to a standstill. The postmaster, a long, lanky Westerner, with a much-patched pair of trousers tucked into boot tops, was already out in front of his little domain. "Ther horses be back in ther barn," he volunteered, as Cal looked at him questioningly. "They come galloping in here like a blue streak an hour ago." "Yep, bin held up again," Cal volunteered as the crowd gathered about the stage, "and ef it hadn't been for these bubble boys here we wouldn't hev got inter town yit." "Take everything, Cal?" asked the postmaster. "Yep; stock, lock and barrel, as the feller says. Left us our vallibles, though. I reckon they would have taken them if it hadn't bin for the noise this here gasolene giglet made as it come over ther hill. Thet scared 'em, and they galloped off, takin' ther plugs with 'em." "Consarn 'em! I reckon they're some of Col. Merced Morello's gang. They've bin active hereabouts lately. Jes heard afore you come in thet they'd raided a ranch up north an' tuk two hundred head of stock." "Outrageous! Outrageous!" exclaimed the white-whiskered man, who had been listening with an angry, red countenance, "why does not some one capture them?" "Well, sir," rejoined the postmaster, "if you kin tell us whar ter find 'em we'll furnish ther men to smoke 'em out. But up to date no one ain't bin able ter git a glimpse of 'em. They jes' swoop down and then vanish ag'in." "They've got some hidin' place off in the mountins," opined Cal; "but you can bet that the old colonel's foxy enough ter keep it close, wherever it is." "Betcher life," said one or two in the crowd who had heard. While this had been going on the Motor Rangers had been hard at work unhitching their car from the stage. In this operation they had been considerably bothered by the crowd which, never having seen an auto before, elbowed right up and indulged in comment and investigation. Ding-dong caught one bewhiskered old fellow in the very act of abstracting a spark plug. The boy promptly switched on the current and the investigator, with a wild yell, hopped backward into the crowd, wringing his hand. "The critter bit me," he explained to the crowd. Such was his explanation of the sharp electric shock he had received. The proprietor of the hotel now hastened up, and began urging the passengers on the stage to stay the night in his hotel. Another stage went on from Lariat, and after a run of sixty miles struck the railroad in the valley. This stage was to start in half an hour. After a hasty meal the white-whiskered man and his family, and several of the other passengers, decided to continue their journey. The boys, however, after a consultation, came to the determination to spend the night at Lariat. Their first care had been to hunt up the blacksmith Cal had referred to, and to give into his hands the connecting rod. He promised to have it welded as good as new by morning. This arranged, the boys sauntered back to the hotel just in time to watch the other stage pull out. On a rear seat sat the white-whiskered man. He was still boiling, despite the fact that the robbers had not harmed him or his family in any way. In fact, he occasionally simmered over. The last the boys saw of him he had gotten hold of a fat, good-natured little man, who looked like a drummer, and they could hear frequent exclamations of "Bah!" coming back toward them, like the explosions of a rapid-fire gun. A moment later the stage vanished behind a rocky turn in the road. Soon after the boys were called in to supper. Among the company at the meal was a tall man with a black mustache drooping down each side of his mouth in typical Western fashion. "He looks like the pictures of Alkali Ike," remarked Joe in an undertone as they concluded the meal and arose, leaving the black-mustached man and the others still eating. Outside they found it was a beautiful night. The storm of the afternoon had laid the dust, and the moon was rising brilliantly in the clear and sharp atmosphere peculiar to the high regions of the Sierras. In the silvery radiance every rock and bush was outlined sharply. The road lay between black curtains of mountainside, like a stretch of white ribbon. "Let's go for a stroll," suggested Nat, as they stood about on the veranda wondering what they could do with themselves till bedtime. The other two were nothing loath, and so, without bothering to say a word to any one, the lads sauntered off down the road. The balmy scent of pines and the mountain laurel hung heavily in the air. Nat inhaled it delightedly. "I tell you, fellows, this is living," he exclaimed. "You bet," agreed Joe heartily. "T-t-t-that p-p-pie was f-f-fine," said the unpoetical Ding-dong, smacking his lips at the recollection of the dessert. "There you go," said Nat in mock disgust, "always harping on eating." "T-th-that's b-b-better-phwit--than eating on harpoons, isn't it?" asked Ding-dong, with a look of injured innocence. "I said harping on eating. Not harpoons on eating," retorted Nat. "Oh," said Ding-dong. "Well, don't wail about it." "Say, if you make any more puns I'll chuck you down into that canyon," threatened Joe, pointing downward into a black abyss which, at the portion of the road they had now reached, yawned to one side of the thoroughfare. "You make me chuckle," grunted the incorrigible Ding-dong, avoiding the threatened fate, however, by clambering and hiding behind a madrone tree. "Tell you what I'll do," cried Nat suddenly. "Well, what?" demanded Joe, as Nat stopped short. "I'll run you fellows a race to the bottom of the hill." "You're on," cried Ding-dong from his retreat, and emerging immediately thereafter, "don't bust your emergency brake though, or we'll have more trouble." He peered ahead down the moonlit canyon, and noted that the road was quite steep for a distance of about a quarter of a mile. The boys were all good runners and experts, in fact, at all branches of athletics. Their blood fairly tingled as Nat lined them up and they stood awaiting the word "go." At last it came. Like arrows from so many bows the three boys shot forward, Ding-dong in the lead. How his stubby legs did move! Like pistons in their speed and activity. There was no question about it, Ding-dong could run. Five feet or so behind him came Joe and at his rear was Nat, who, knowing that he was ordinarily a faster runner than either, had handicapped himself a bit. He speedily overhauled the others, however, although Ding-dong gave him a stiff tussle. Reaching the finishing line, Nat looked back up the moonlit road. Ding-dong and Joe were speeding toward him neck and neck. "Go it, Ding-dong!" yelled Nat, "come on, Joe." In a cloud of dust and small rocks the two contestants rushed on. Suddenly one of Ding-dong's feet caught in a rock, and at the impetus he had attained, the sudden shock caused him to soar upward into the air, as if he were about to essay a flight through space. Extending his arms spread-eagle fashion, the fleshy, stuttering youth floundered above the ground for a brief second, and then, as Joe dashed across the line he came down with a resounding crash. Flat on his face he fell in the middle of the dusty road. "Pick him up," exclaimed Nat as he saw the catastrophe. Joe, who had by this time checked his speed, headed about after Nat, and started for the recumbent Ding-dong. As they neared his side, however, the lad jumped up with a grin on his rotund features. "Fooled you, didn't I?" he chuckled. "Goo--d gracious. I thought you had fractured every bone in your body," exclaimed Nat. "Can't hurt me; I'm made of cast-iron," snickered Ding-dong. "I always knew that applied to your head," said Joe, determined to tease the boy a bit in revenge for the fright he had given them, "but I never realized before that the complaint had spread all over you." "I'd have won the race anyhow if I hadn't taken that tumble," retorted Ding-dong, and as this seemed to be no more than the truth the others had nothing to say in rejoinder. "I guess we had better be getting back to the hotel," said Nat, "we want to get an early start to-morrow, so a good night's sleep will be in order." But the words were hardly out of his mouth before he stopped short. The boy had heard voices, apparently coming from the air above them. He soon realized, however, that in reality the speakers were on the mountain-side above them. In fact, he now saw that a trail cut into the road above the point at which they stood. In their dash down the hill they had not noticed it. The other lads, who had also heard the voices, needed no comment to remain quiet. While they stood listening a figure appeared on the trail, walking rapidly down it. As the newcomer drew closer the boys recognized the features and tall, ungainly outline of the man with the black mustache--"Alkali Ike." He came forward as if with a definite purpose in mind. Evidently, he was not, like the boys, out for a moonlight stroll. As he approached he stopped and listened intently. Then he gave a low, peculiar whistle. It was like the call of a night bird. Instantly, from the hill-side above them they heard the signal--for such it seemed--replied to. At the same instant whoever was on the hillside above began to advance downward. The boys, crouching back in a patch of shadow behind a chaparral clump, could hear the slipping and sliding of their horses' hoofs as they came down the rocky pathway. CHAPTER V. AN APPOINTMENT ON THE TRAIL. "Something's up," whispered Joe, as if this fact was not perfectly obvious. "Hush," warned Nat, "that fellow who just came down the trail is the chap we noticed at supper." "Alkali Ike?" "Yes. That's what you called him." "He must have a date here." "Looks that way. If I don't miss my guess he's here to meet whoever is coming on horseback down that trail." "Are you going to stay right here?" "We might as well. I've got an idea somehow that these chaps are up to some mischief. It doesn't look just right for them to be meeting way off here." "That's right," agreed Joe, "but supposing they are desperate characters. They may make trouble for us." "I guess not," rejoined Nat, "we're well hidden in the shadow here. There's not a chance of their seeing us." "Well I hope not." But the arrival of the horsemen on the trail put a stop to further conversation right then. There were two of them, both, so far as the boys could see, big, heavy men, mounted on active little ponies. Their long tapaderos, or leather stirrup coverings, almost touched the ground as they rode. "Hello, Al," exclaimed one of them, as the black mustached man came forward to meet them. "Hello, boys," was the rejoinder in an easy tone as if the speaker had no fear of being overheard, "well, you pulled it off I see." "Yes, and we'd have got more than the express box too if it hadn't been for the allfiredest noise you ever heard at the top of the trail all of a sudden. It came just as we was about ter go through ther pockets of the passengers. Sounded like a boiler factory or suthin'. I tell you we lit out in a hurry." The speaker was one of the pony riders. As he spoke Nat gave Joe a nudge and the other replied with a look of understanding. The men who stood talking not a score of paces from them had taken part in the stage-robbery. The man on foot seemed immensely amused at the mention of the "terrible noise" his companions said they had been alarmed by. "Why, that was an automobubble," he laughed. "A bubble!" exclaimed one of the others, "what in the name of the snow-covered e-tarnal hills is one of them coal oil buckboards doin' in this neck of ther woods?" "Why, three kids are running it on a pleasure trip. The Motor Rangers, or some such fool name, they call theirselves. They hitched the bubble on ter ther stage and towed her inter town as nice as you please." "Did you say they called theirselves the Motor Rangers?" asked the other mounted man who up to this time had not spoken. "That's right, why?" "One of 'em a fat, foolish lookin' kid what can't talk straight?" asked the other instead of replying. Nat nudged Ding-dong and chuckled, in imminent danger of exposing their hiding place. It tickled him immensely to hear that youth described in such an unflattering manner. "Why yep. There is a sort of chumpish kid with 'em. For the matter of that all three of 'em are stuck up, psalm singin' sort of kids. Don't drink nor smoke nor nuthin'." "True for you. We're not so foolish," breathed Nat to Joe. "Why are you so anxious about 'em, Dayton?" asked the other rider who had remained silent while his comrade was making the recorded inquiries. "Cos I know 'em and I've got some old scores to even up with them," was the rejoinder. "Do you remember what I told you about some kids fooling us all down in Lower California?" "Yep. What of it?" "Well, this is the same bunch. I'm sure of it." "The dickens you say. Do they travel with much money about them?" It was the black-mustached man who was interested now. "I don't know about that. But their bubble is worth about $5,000 and one of them has a gold mine in Lower Cal. Then, too, they always carry a fine stock of rifles and other truck." "They'd be worth plucking then?" "I guess so. At any rate I'd like to get even with them even if we didn't get a thing out of it. Ed. Dayton doesn't forgive or forget in a hurry." Small wonder that the boys leaned forward with their ears fairly aching to catch every word. Nat knew now why the outline of one of the riders had seemed familiar to him. The man was evidently none other than Ed. Dayton, the rascal who had acted as the millionaire Hale Bradford's lieutenant in Lower California. Nat, it will be recalled, was captured on the peninsula and an attempt made to force him to give up papers showing his right to the mine, which the gang Hale Bradford had gathered about him was working. I can tell you, Nat was mighty glad that he and his companions happened to be there in the shadow; for, thought he to himself:-- "Forewarned is forearmed, Mr. Ed. Dayton." But the men were resuming their talk. "Tell you what you fellows do," said the black-mustached man. "Just lie off here in the brush for an hour or so and I'll go back to the hotel and look around. Then I'll come back and tell you if the coast's clear. They've got their auto out in some sort of a shed and if we could run it we could swipe the whole thing. Can you run an auto, Ed.? Seems to me I've heard you talk about them." "Can a dog bark?" inquired the other, who if the memory of my readers goes back that far, they will recall had at one time been a chauffeur for Mr. Pomery. "Very well then, that's settled. At all events it might be a good thing to smash up the car if we can't do anything else with it." "That's right Al.," agreed Ed. Dayton's companion, "we don't want any nosy kids around in the mountains. They might discover too much." "That's so, too. Well, you leave it to me, Al. Jeffries, and I'll bet you that after to-night they'll all be glad to go home to their mammies." But right here something happened which might, but for good fortune, have caused a different ending to this story. Ding-dong Bell, among other peculiarities, possessed a pair of very delicate nostrils, and the slightest irritation thereof caused him to sneeze violently. Now at the time of the year of which we are writing the California mountains are covered with a growth, called in some localities tar weed. This plant gives off an irritating dust when it is shaken or otherwise disturbed, and the hoofs of the two riders' ponies had kicked up a lot of this pungent powder. Just as the rascals concluded their plans a vagrant puff of wind carried some of it in Ding-dong's direction. Realizing what serious consequences it might have, the lad struggled with all his might against his immediate inclination to sneeze, but try as he would he could not keep the ultimate explosion back. "A-ch-oo-oo-oo-oo!" It sounded as loud as the report of a cannon, in the silent canyon, and quite as startling. "What in thunder was that?" exclaimed Ed. Dayton wheeling his pony round. He, of course, saw nothing, and regarded his companions in a puzzled way. Al. Jeffries was tugging his black mustache and looking about him likewise for some explanation. But he could not find it. In the meantime, the boys, in an agony of apprehension, scarcely dared to breathe. They crouched like rabbits behind their shelter awaiting what seemed inevitable discovery. "Must have been a bird," grunted Ed. Dayton's companion. "Funny sort of bird," was the rejoinder. "That's right. I am a funny sort of bird," thought Ding-dong with an inward chuckle. "Sounded to me more like somebody sneezin'," commented Ed. Dayton who was still suspicious. "It'll be a bad day for them if there was," supplemented Al. Jeffries grimly. "Tell you what we do, boys," came a sudden suggestion from Ed.'s companion, which sent a chill to the hearts of the boys; "let's scatter about here and look around a bit." "That's a good idea," was the alarming rejoinder. Nat was just revolving in his mind whether it would be the better expedient to run, and trust to hiding in the rocks and chaparral, or to leap up and try to scare the others' ponies, and then escape. But just then Al. Jeffries spoke: "No use wastin' time on that now, boys," he said, "it's gettin' late. You do as I say, and then in a while we'll all take a little spin in that grown up taxi cab of the Motor Rangers." To the intense relief of the boys the others agreed. Soon after this the trio of rascals separated. Ed. Dayton and his companions rode back up the trail while Al. Jeffries started off for the hotel. As soon as their footsteps grew faint Nat galvanized into action. "We've got a lot to do in a very short time," he announced excitedly. "Come on, Joe! Shake a foot! We've got to beat Mr. Al. back to the hotel." "How?" inquired Joe amazedly, but not doubting in his own mind that Nat had already thought the matter out thoroughly. "We'll skirt along the mountain-side above him. If we are careful he won't hear us." "That is, if Ding-dong can muffle that nasal gatling gun of his," grunted Joe. "Say, young fellow, the next time you want to sneeze when we're in such a tight place, just oblige us by rolling over the edge of the canyon, will you?" "I c-c-c-o-o-ouldn't help it," sputtered Ding-dong sorrowfully. "Couldn't," exclaimed the indignant Joe, "you didn't even try." "I did too. But I couldn't remember whether the book said that you could stop sneezing by pulling the lobe of your ear or rubbing the bridge of your nose." "So you did both?" "Y-y-y-yes; why?" "Well, they were both wrong. You should have wiggled your right big toe while you balanced a blade of grass on your chin." CHAPTER VI. SOME RASCALS GET A SCARE. Everybody in the hotel at Lariat had long retired to bed, when three youthful forms stole toward the stable which had been turned into a temporary garage for the Motor Rangers' big car. From their bed-room window, the boys had, a few moments before, watched Al. Jeffries stride off down the trail to meet his cronies for the second time and inform them that the time was ripe to put up their attempted trick on the lads. The doughty Al., on his return to the hotel after the conference at which the lads were eavesdroppers, had found nothing to excite his suspicion. The boys were all seated on the porch and apparently had not moved since he had last seen them. Al. had even sat around with them a while, trying to pump them, but of course, after what they knew of him, they did not give him much information. Nat had formed an idea that the man was a sort of agent for the gang of the famous Morello. That is, he hung about towns and picked up any information he could about shipments of specie from the mines, or of wealthy travellers who might be going through. In this surmise we may say that Nat was correct. But to return to the three lads whom we left at the beginning of the chapter stealthily slipping across the moonlit space between the hotel and the stable. All three had changed their boots for soft moccasins, in which they made next to no noise at all as they moved. Each lad, moreover, carried under his arm a small bundle. Their clothing consisted of trousers and shirts. Their broad-brimmed sombreros had been doffed with their coats. The Motor Rangers were, so to speak, stripped for action. And it was to be action of a lively kind as the event was to show. On their arrival at the stable the boys slipped into an empty stall alongside their car, and undoing their bundles, hastily donned what was in them. Then Nat uncorked a bottle, while a strong odor filled the air. It was a pungent sort of reek, and from the bottle could be seen a faint greenish light glowing. Their preparations completed, the Motor Rangers crouched behind the wooden wall of the stall, awaiting the next move on the program. "And for heaven's sake sit on that sneeze!" Joe admonished Ding-dong. Before very long the boys could hear cautious footsteps approaching the barn, and the sound of low whispering. "The auto's right in here," they caught, in Jeffries' voice. "Say, what a laugh we'll have on those kids in the morning." "They laugh best who laugh last," thought Nat to himself, clutching more tightly a small gleaming thing he had in his hand. "This is pie to me," they could hear Dayton whispering, in a cautious undertone, "I told those kids I'd get even on them for driving me out of Lower California, and here's where I do it." Nat gritted his teeth as he listened. "You're going to get something that you don't expect," he muttered softly to himself. The next instant the barn door framed three figures. Behind them were two ponies. The feet of the little animals were swathed in sacks so that they made no noise at all. "Pretty foxy," whispered Joe, "they've padded the ponies' hoofs." "Hush!" ordered Nat, "don't say a word or make a move till I give the signal." "There's the car," whispered Jeffries, as they drew closer and the shadow of the place enclosed them, blotting out their outlines. "Seems a shame to run it over a cliff, don't it?" put in Dayton's fellow pony rider. "That's the only thing to do with it," said Dayton abruptly, "I want to give those kids a lesson they won't forget." "So, you rascals," thought Nat, "you were going to run the car over a cliff were you? Oh, how I'd like to get my hands on you for just five minutes." "Go on, Dayton. Climb into the thing and start her up," said Jeffries. "Hope them kids don't wake up," put in Dayton's companion. "They're off as sound as tops," Al. assured him, "I listened at their door after I came out, and they were snoring away like so many buck saws." With the ease born of familiarity with motor vehicles, Dayton climbed into the driver's seat and bent over the steering wheel. Presently there came a sharp click! "Now!" whispered Nat. As he gave the word, from behind the wooden partition upreared three terrifying objects. Their faces glared greenly and their white forms seemed to be shrouded in graveyard clothes. In unison they uttered a dismal cry. "Be-ware! Oh be-ware of the car of the Motor Ranger boys!" "Wow!" yelled Dayton's companion. As he gave the alarmed cry he fairly reeled back against the opposite stall and fell with a crash. At the same instant, an old claybank mule tethered in there awoke, and resenting the man's sudden intrusion, let fly with his hind hoofs. This shot the ruffian's form full tilt into that of Al. Jeffries, who was making at top speed for the door, and the two fell, in a rolling, cursing, struggling, clawing heap on the stable floor. "Lemme up!" yelled Al. Jeffries, in mortal terror of the grim sheeted forms behind him. "Lemme go!" shouted Dayton's companion, roaring half in fear and half in pain at the reminiscences of the mule's hoofs he carried. But the startling apparitions, while at their first appearance they had made Dayton recoil, only fooled him for an instant. Springing erect from his first shock of amazement and alarm he gave an angry shout. "Get up there you fools." "Oh the ghosts! The ghosts with the green faces," bawled Al. Jeffries. "Ghosts!" roared Dayton angrily, "they're no ghosts. Get up and knock their heads off." Suiting the action to the word he leaped from the car and charged furiously at Nat. The boy's fist shot out and landed with a crash on the point of his jaw, but although Dayton reeled under the force of the blow he recovered instantly and charged furiously again on the sheeted form. In the meantime, Al. Jeffries and the other man had rolled apart and perceived the state of affairs. The noise of the impact of Nat's fist showed conclusively that it was no ghostly hand that had struck the blow, and the fact rallied their fleeting courage. As furiously as had Dayton, they charged upon the boys. The rip and tear of sheets, and the sound of blows given and received, mingled with the angry exclamations of the men and the quick, panting breath of the boys. Suddenly, Nat levelled the little bright glinting thing he had clutched in his hand as they crouched behind the wooden partition. He pressed a trigger on its underside and a hissing sound followed. "Sfiz-z-z-z-z-z!" At the same instant the air became surcharged with a pungent odor. It seemed to fill the atmosphere and made nostrils and eyes smart. "Ammonia!" shouted Al. Jeffries, staggering backward and dabbing desperately at his face where the full force of Nat's charge had expended itself. As upon the other occasion, when the ammonia pistols had been used, the rout of the enemy was complete. With muffled imprecations and exclamations of pain, the three reeled, half blinded, out of the barn. At the same instant the boys heard windows thrown up and the sharp report of a revolver. "Fire! Thieves! Murder!" came from one window, in the landlord's voice, following the discharge of the pistol. "Get to the ponies," roared Dayton, "we'll have the whole hornets' nest about our ears in a minute." The others needed no urging. Grabbing Al. Jeffries by the arm, Dayton's companion, who was only partially blinded, made for his little steed. But Dayton, who had hardly received any of the aromatic discharge, suddenly whipped about and snatched a revolver from his side. Before the boys could dodge the man fired at them. Nat felt the bullets fan the air by his ear, but fortunately, the man fired so quickly and the excitement and confusion was such, that in the moonlight he missed his aim. "I'll make you smart for this some day!" he yelled, as fearful of lingering any longer he swung himself into his saddle. He drove home the spurs and with a squeal and a bound the little animal carried him out of the region of the hotel. As for Dayton's companion he was already a good distance off with Al. Jeffries clinging behind him on his saddle. Joe had made for the auto and seized a rifle from the rack in the tonneau as Dayton galloped off, but Nat sharply told him to put it down. "We have scared the rascals off, and that's enough," he said. In a few minutes the Motor Rangers were surrounded by everybody in the hotel, including Cal and the postmaster. They were warmly congratulated on their success by all hands, and much laughter greeted their account of the amusing panic into which the rascals had been thrown by the sudden appearance of the glowing-faced ghosts, followed by the discharge of the "mule battery." "How did yer git the green glowing paint?" asked Cal interestedly. "Why, we took the liberty of soaking two or three bundles of California matches in the tooth glass," explained Nat, "and then we had a fine article of phosphorus paint." "Wall if you ain't the beatingest," was the landlord's admiring contribution. In the midst of the explanations, congratulations and angry denunciation of Al. Jeffries and his companions, a sudden piping voice was heard. "Yust von moment blease. Vait! Nod a mofe!--Ah goot, I haf you!" It was the little German, whom, the boys had discovered, was named Hans Von Schiller Muller. He had sprung out of bed in the midst of the excitement and instantly decided it would make a good subject for his camera. He presented a queer figure as he stood there, in pajamas several sizes too small for him and striped with vivid pink and green. The shrinkage had been the work of a Chinese laundryman in the San Joaquin Valley. "Say," exclaimed Joe, "you don't expect to get a picture out of that do you?" "Chess. Sure. Vy nodt?" "Well, because in the first place you had no light," said Joe. "Ach! Donnerblitzen, miserable vot I am. I shouldn't have got id a flash-light, aind't it. Hold on! Vait a minute. I get him." "Better defer it till to-morrow," said Nat, who like the rest, was beginning to shiver in the keen air of the mountains, "it's too cold to wait for all your preparations." And so, when Herr Muller returned to the fatherland there was one picture he did not have, and that was a portrait of the Motor Rangers as they appeared immediately after routing three notorious members of Col. Morello's band of outlaws. CHAPTER VII. A PHOTOGRAPHER IN TROUBLE. The boys were not up as early the next morning as they had anticipated. In the first place, it was somewhat dull and overcast, and in the second they were naturally tired after their exciting adventures of the preceding day and night. The first person to hail them as they left the dining room where they had partaken of a hearty breakfast was Cal Gifford. The stage driver drew them aside and informed them in an irate voice that on account of the stage having been held up the day before, he had been notified by telegraph early that morning that his services would be no longer required by the Lariat Stage Company. "What are you going to do?" asked Nat, after he had extended his sympathies to the indignant Cal. "Wall, I've got a little mine up north of here that I think I'll go and take a look at," said Cal. "How far north?" asked Nat interestedly. "Oh, 'bout two hundred miles. I'm all packed ready ter go, but I cain't git a horse." He indicated a battered roll of blankets and a canteen lying on the porch. Surmounting this pile of his possessions was an old rifle--that is, in pattern and design, but its woodwork gleamed, its barrel was scrupulously polished, and its mechanism well oiled. Like most good woodsmen and mountaineers, Cal kept good care of his weapons, knowing that sometimes a man's life may depend on his rifle or revolver. "Can't get a horse?" echoed Nat. "Why, I should think there would be no trouble about that." "Wall, thar wouldn't hev bin, but thet little Dutchman bought a nag this mornin' and started off ter take picters on his lonesome." "I guess you mean he hired one, don't you?" asked Joe. "No siree. That Teutonic sport paid hard cash fer ther plug. He tole the landlord that he means ter make a trip all through the Sierras hereabout, making a fine collection of pictures." "He must be crazy, starting off alone in an unknown country," exclaimed Nat. "Thet's jes' what they all tole him, but there ain't no use arguin' with er mule or a Dutchman when their mind's set. He started off about an hour ago with a roll of blankets, a frying pan and his picture box." "He stands a chance of getting captured by Col. Morello's band," exclaimed Joe. "It's likely," agreed Cal, "but what I was a goin' ter tell yer wuz that ther plug he bought was ther last one they had here. An' so now I'm stuck I guess, till they git some more up from ther valley." "Tell you what you do," said Nat after a brief consultation with his chums, "why not take a ride with us as far as your way lies, and then proceed any way you like?" "What, ride with you kids in thet gasolene tug boat?" "Yes, we'd be glad to have you. You know the roads and the people up through here, and could help us a whole lot." "Say, that's mighty white of yer," said Cal, a broad smile spreading over his face, "if I wouldn't be in ther way now----" "We'll be very glad to have you," Nat assured him, while Joe and Ding-dong nodded their heads in affirmation, "are you ready to start?" Cal nodded sidewise at his pile of baggage. "Thar's my outfit," he said. "All right. Then I'll pay our bill and we'll start right away." And so it was arranged. Ten minutes later the Motor Rangers in their big touring car rolled majestically out of the town of Lariat, while Cal in the tonneau waved his sombrero to admiring friends. "This is ther first time I ever rode a benzine broncho," he declared as the car gathered way and was soon lost to the view of the citizens of Lariat in a cloud of dust. The road lay through the same canyon in which they had so fortunately overheard the conversation of Al. Jeffries and his cronies the night before. It was a sparkling morning, with every object standing out clear and intense in the brilliant light of the high Sierras. A crisp chill lay in the air which made the blood tingle and the eyes shine. As they rolled on with the engine singing its cheering song Cal, too, burst into music: "Riding along on my gasolene bronc; Instead of a whinny it goes 'Honk! Honk!' If we don't bust up we'll be in luck, You'd be blowed sky-high by a benzine buck!" About noon they emerged from the narrow canyon into a wide valley, the broad, level floor of which was covered with green bunch grass. Through its centre flowed a clear stream, fed by the snow summits they could see in the distance. Cattle could be seen feeding at the far end of it and it was evidently used as a pasture by some mountain rancher. As they drew closer to a clump of large redwood trees at one end of the valley Nat gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and stood up in the tonneau. Joe, who was at the wheel, sighted the scene which had attracted the others' attention at the same instant. A group of cattlemen could be seen under one of the larger trees, with a figure in their midst. They were clustered about the central object, and appeared to be handling him pretty roughly. Nat snatched up the glasses from their pocket in the tonneau and levelled them on the scene. He put them down again with an exclamation of excitement. "They're going to lynch that fellow," he announced. "What!" roared Cal, "lend me them peep glass things, young chap." Joe stopped the car, while Cal took a long look. He confirmed Nat's opinion. "They've got the rope over a limb of that tree already," he said. "How are we to help him?" cried Nat, whose first and natural thought had been to go to the unfortunate's assistance. "What do you want ter help him fer," grunted Cal, "like as not he's some sort of a horse thief or suthin'. You bet those fellers wouldn't be going ter string him up onless he had bin doin' suthin' he hadn't orter." Nat was not so sure about this. From what he knew of the West its impulsive citizens occasionally executed a man first and inquired into the justice of it afterward. "Steer for those trees, Joe," he ordered sharply. Joe, without a word, obeyed, while Cal shrugged his shoulders. "May be runnin' inter trouble," he grunted. "If you're scared you can get out," said Nat more sharply than was his wont. Cal looked angry for a moment, but then his expression changed. "Yer all right, boy," he said heartily, "and if ther's trouble I'm with you every time." "Thanks," rejoined Nat simply, "that's the opinion I'd formed of you, Cal." The car had now left the road and was rolling over the pasture which was by no means as smooth as it had appeared from the mountain road. However, they made good progress and as their shouts and cries had attracted the attention of the group of punchers under the trees, they at least had achieved the delay of the execution. They could now see every detail of the scene, without the aid of the field glasses. But the visage of the intended victim was hidden from them by the circle of wild-looking figures about him. As the Motor Rangers drew closer a big, raw-boned cattle puncher, with a pair of hairy "chaps" on his legs and an immense revolver in his hand, rode toward them. As his figure separated itself from the group Cal gave a low growl. "Here comes trouble," he grumbled, closing his hand over the well-worn butt of his pistol. "Howdy, strangers," drawled the newcomer, as he drew within earshot. "Howdy," nodded the boys, not however, checking the auto. "Hold on thar," cried the cowpuncher raising a big, gauntleted hand, "don't come no further, strangers. Thar's ther road back yonder." He backed up his hint by exhibiting his revolver rather ostentatiously. But Nat's eyelids never quivered as he looked the other full in the face and asked in a tone that sounded like one of mild, tenderfoot inquiry:-- "What are you doing there, mister--branding calves?" "No we ain't, young feller," rejoined the cowpuncher, "Now if you're wise you'll take that fer an answer and get out of here pronto--quick--savee!" "I don't see any reason why we can't drive through here," said Nat, cunningly stringing out the talk so that the car could creep quite close to the group of would-be lynchers. "You don't see no reason?" "No." "Wall, stranger--thar's six reasons here and they all come out at once." As he spoke the cowpuncher tapped the shiny barrel of his revolver with a meaning gesture. Nat saw that he could not go much further with safety. "Now you git!" snarled the cowboy. "You've had fair warning. Vamoose!" As he spoke the group about the tree parted for a minute as the cowpunchers composing it gazed curiously at the auto, which was nearing them. As they separated, the figure of the victim became visible. The boys greeted the sight with a shout of amazement which was echoed by Cal. "Boys, it's Herr Muller!" shouted Nat. "Wall ther blamed Dutchman!" gasped Cal, "has he bin stealin' horses?" "Yep," rejoined the puncher briefly, "he hev. An' we're goin' ter string him up. Now you git out." "All right," spoke Nat suddenly, with a flashing light of excitement blazing in his eyes. "We'll get, but it will be--THIS WAY!" As he spoke he leaped into the driver's seat, pushing Joe to one side. The next instant the car was leaping forward with a roar and a bound, headed full at the band of amazed and thunderstruck cowpunchers. CHAPTER VIII. LOST IN A PETRIFIED FOREST. Before the lynching party regained its senses Nat had rushed the car up alongside Herr Muller. Before that blonde pompadoured son of the fatherland knew what had occurred, Joe's strong arms, aided by Cal's biceps, jerked him off his feet and into the tonneau. But the long lariat which was already about his neck trailed behind, and the first of the punchers that realized what was happening darted forward and seized it as the car sped forward. "P-ouf-o-o-o-f!" choked the unfortunate German, as the noose tightened. The cowpuncher who had hold of the other end of the rope dug his heels into the ground and braced himself. Herr Muller would have been jerked clean out of the tonneau by his unlucky neck had it not been for Ding-dong Bell, who, with a swift sweep downward of his knife blade severed the rope. As the strain was abruptly relieved the cowpuncher who had hold of the other end went toppling backward in a heap. But at the same instant the rest came to their senses, and headed by the man who had threatened Nat, they clambered on their ponies and swept forward, uttering wild yells. If this had been all, the occupants of the auto could have afforded to disregard them, but, apparently realizing the hopelessness of attempting to overtake the fleeing car they unlimbered their revolvers and began a fusillade. Bullets whistled all about the Motor Rangers and their companions, but luckily nobody was hit. Nat's chief fear though, and his apprehension was shared by the rest, was that one of the bullets might puncture a tire. "If it ever does--good night!" thought Nat as the angry, vengeful yells of the cheated punchers came to his ears. But to his joy they now sounded more faintly. The pursuit was dropping behind. Right ahead was the feeding herd. In a few minutes the car would be safe from further attack,--when suddenly there came an ominous sound. "Pop!" At the same moment the car gave a lurch. "Just what I thought," commented Nat, in a despairing voice, "they've winged a tire." "Shall we have to stop?" asked Cal rather apprehensively, although a grim look about the corners of his mouth betokened the fact that he was ready to fight. "Den maype I gedt idt a pigdure, aind idt?" asked Herr Muller, with what was almost the first free breath he had drawn since Master Bell slashed the rope. "Good Lord!" groaned Cal in comical despair, "my little man, if those fellows ever get us you'll be able to take a picture of your own funeral." "How would dot be bossible?" inquired Herr Muller innocently, "if I voss a deader I couldn't take my own pigdure, aind't idt?" But before any of them could make a reply, indignant or otherwise, a sudden occurrence ahead of them caused their attention to be diverted into a fresh channel. The cattle, terrified at the oncoming auto, had stopped grazing and were regarding it curiously. Suddenly, one of them gave an alarmed bellow. It appeared to be a signal for flight, for like one animal, the herd turned, and with terrified bellowings, rushed madly off into the pine forests on the eastern side of the valley. This was a fortunate happening for the boys, for the cowpunchers were now compelled finally to give up their chase of the automobile and head off after the stampeded cattle. "I reckon we'd better not come this way again; it wouldn't be healthy-like," grinned Cal, hearing their shouts and yells grow faint in the distance as they charged off among the trees. "There's one thing," said Nat as he brought the crippled auto to a halt a short distance off, "they won't worry us for some time." "No. Among them pine stumps it'll take 'em a week to round up their stock." And now all hands turned to Herr Muller and eagerly demanded his story. It was soon told. He had arrived in the valley a short time before they had, and, charmed by its picturesque wildness, had begun enthusiastically taking pictures. In doing so, he had dismounted, and wandered some distance from his horse. When he turned his attention to it again, it had disappeared. However, although at first he thought he had lost the animal he soon found it grazing off among a clump of willows by the creek. He had mounted it and was riding off when suddenly the cowpunchers appeared, and as soon as their eyes fell on the horse accused the German of stealing it. "I dell dem dot dey is mistakes making, but der use voss iss?" he went on. "Dey say dot dey pinch me anyhow." "Lynch you, you mean, don't you?" inquired Nat. "Vell dey pinch me too, dond dey?" asked Herr Muller indignantly. "Howefer, I egsplain by dem dot dey make misdage and den a leedle bull boy----" "Cowboy," corrected Cal with a grin. "Ach, how I can tell idt you my story if you are interrupt all der time," protested the German. "Well as I voss saying, der bull-boy tells me, 'loafer vot you iss you dake idt my bony vile I voss go hunting John rabbits. Yust for dot vee hang you py der neck.'" "What did you say?" asked Nat, who began to think that the absent-minded German might actually have taken a wrong horse by accident. "I say, 'Dot is my horse. I know him lige I know it mein brudder.' But dey say dot I iss horse bustler----" "Rustler," muttered Cal. "And dot I most be strunged oop. So I dake idt der picdures und gif dem my address in Chermany und den I prepare for der endt." "Weren't you scared?" demanded Cal incredulously, for the German had related this startling narrative without turning a hair; in fact, he spoke about it as he might have talked about a tea party he had attended. "Ach himmel, ches I voss scaredt all right. Pudt der voss no use in saying noddings, voss dere?" "No I guess if you put it that way there wasn't," laughed Nat, "but you saved your camera I see." He looked at the black box hanging round the German's neck by a strap. "Yah," grinned Herr Muller, "I say I von't pee hanged if dey don'dt led itdt be mit der camera my neck py." "No wonder they say, 'Heaven help the Irish, the Dutch can look after themselves,'" muttered Cal to himself as the entire party got out of the machine and a new tire was unbuckled from the spare tire rack. The operation of replacing it was a troublesome one, and occupied some time. So long did it take, in fact, that it was almost sundown by the time the shoe had been finally bolted above the inner tube, and they were ready to start once more. Just as they were about to be off Cal gave an exclamation and pointed ahead. Looking up in the direction he indicated the others saw coming toward them a saddled horse. But no rider bestrode it, and the reins were entangled in its forefeet. It whinnied as it saw them and came up close to the auto. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Cal, as he saw it, "those cowpunchers had you right after all, Mr. Dutchman; this here is the plug you bought." "Yah! yah! I know him now!" exclaimed Herr Muller enthusiastically. "See dere is my plankets diedt on py der saddle." "So they are," exclaimed Nat, "at least I suppose they're yours. Then you actually were a horse thief and didn't know it. I suppose that when your horse wandered off that cowpuncher came along on his pony and left it while he went hunting jack rabbits. Then you, all absorbed in your picture taking, mistook his horse for yours." "I guess dots der vay idt voss, chust a mistage," agreed Herr Muller with great equanimity. "Say, pod'ner," said Cal, who had just led up the beast and restored it to its rightful owner, "you're glad you're livin', ain't you?" The German's blue eyes opened widely as he stared at his questioner. "Sure I iss gladt I'm lifing. Vot for--vy you ask me?" "Wall, don't make any more mistakes like that," admonished Cal with grave emphasis, "folks out here is touchy about them." As Herr Muller was going in the same direction as themselves he accepted a seat in the tonneau and his angular steed was hitched on behind as over the rough ground the car could not go any faster than a horse could trot. For some time they bumped along the floor of the valley and at last emerged at its upper end into a rocky-walled canyon, not unlike the one through which they had gained the depression in the hills. But to their uneasiness they could discover no road, or even a trail. However, the bottom of the canyon was fairly smooth and so Nat decided, after a consultation with Cal, to keep going north. A glance at the compass had shown them that the canyon ultimately cut through the range in that direction. "We'll strike a trail or a hut or suthin' afore long," Cal assured them. "I hope we strike some place to make camp," grumbled Joe, "I'm hungry." This speech made them remember that in their excitement they had neglected to eat any lunch. "Never mind, Joe," said Nat, "we'll soon come across a spring or a place that isn't all strewn with rocks, and we'll camp there even if there isn't a road." "No, there's no use going ahead in the dark," agreed Cal, looking about him. It was now quite dark, and the depth of the canyon they were traversing made the blackness appear doubly dense. But Nat, by gazing upward at the sky, managed to keep the auto on a fairly straight course, although every now and then a terrific bump announced that they had struck a big boulder. "Wish that moon would hurry up and rise; then we could see something," remarked Cal, as they crept along. The others agreed with him, but they would not have the welcome illumination till some time later. They were still in the canyon, however, when a dim, silvery lustre began to creep over the eastern sky. Gradually the light fell upon the western wall of the gorge and soon the surroundings were flooded with radiance. But it was a weird and startling scene that the light fell upon. Each occupant of the car uttered an involuntary cry of amazement as he gazed about him. On every side were towering trunks of what, at first glance, seemed trees, but which, presently, were seen to be as barren of vegetation as marble columns. Stumps of these naked, leafless forms littered the ground in every direction. In the darkness seemingly, they had penetrated quite a distance into this labyrinth, for all about them now were the bare, black trunks. Some of them reached to an immense height, and others were short and stumpy. All shared the peculiarity of possessing no branches or leaves, however. "Where on earth are we?" asked Joe, gazing about him at the desolate scene. "I can't make out," rejoined Nat in a troubled tone, "it's sort of uncanny isn't it?" The others agreed. "Ugh; it remindts me of a grafeyardt," shivered the German, as he looked about him at the bare stumps rising black and ghostlike in the pale moonlight. Suddenly Cal, who had been gazing about him, shouted an explanation of the mystery. "Boys, we're in a petrified forest!" he exclaimed. CHAPTER IX. THE MIDNIGHT ALARM. The boys would have been glad to explore the petrified forest that night had it been practicable. They had read of the mysterious stone relics of ancient woods, which exist in the remote Sierras, but they had never dreamed they would stumble upon one so opportunely. However, even had they been less tired, it would have been out of the question to examine the strange place more thoroughly that night. As there did not seem to be any limit to the place so far as they could see, the boys decided to camp where they were for the night. The auto was stopped and the horse unhitched and turned loose at the end of a lariat to graze, his rope being made fast round one of the more slender stone trunks. "Feels like hitching him to the pillar of the City Hall at home," laughed Joe, as he formed a double half hitch and left the horse to his own devices, first, however, having watered the animal at a small spring which flowed from the foot of a large rock at one side of the mysterious stone valley. In the meantime, Cal had built a fire of sage brush roots, for there was no wood about, every bit of it having turned to stone long ages before. The pile, on being ignited, blazed up cheerfully, illuminating the sterile, lonely spot with a merry red blaze. The spider was taken out of the utensil locker, and soon bacon was hissing in it and canned tomatoes and corn bubbling in adjacent saucepans. A big pot of coffee also sent up a savory aroma. Altogether, with canned fruit for dessert, the Motor Rangers and their friends made a meal which quite atoned for the loss of their lunch. Even Ding-dong admitted that he was satisfied by the time Cal drew out a short and exceedingly black pipe. The former stage driver rammed this full of tobacco and then leisurely proceeded to light it. After a few puffs he looked up at the group around him. They were lolling about on waterproof blankets spread out on the rock-strewn ground, a portion of which they had cleared. In the background stood the dark outlines of the auto, and beyond, the mysterious shadows of the petrified forest, the bequest to the present of the long departed stone age. "I've bin a thinkin'," began Cal, as if he were delivering his mind of something he had been inwardly cogitating for some time, "I've bin a thinkin' that while we are in this part of the country we ought to keep a good look out at night." "You think that Morello's band may give us more trouble?" asked Nat. "I don't jes' think so," rejoined Cal earnestly, "I'm purty jes' nat'ly sure of it. They ain't the sort of fellers ter fergit or furgive." "I guess you're right," agreed Nat, "that man Dayton alone is capable of making lots of trouble for us. We'll do as you say and set a watch to-night." "I vind und set my votch every night," declared Herr Muller, proudly drawing out of his pocket an immense timepiece resembling a bulbous silver vegetable. "This is a different kind of watch that we're talking about," laughed Nat. It was ultimately arranged, after some more discussion, that Joe and Nat should watch for the first part of the night and Ding-dong and Cal Gifford should come on duty at one o'clock in the morning. It seemed to young Bell that he hadn't been asleep more than five minutes when he was roughly shaken by Nat and told to tumble out of the tonneau as it was time to go on watch. Already Cal, who like an old mountaineer preferred to sleep by the fire, was up and stirring. It took a long time, though, to rout Ding-dong out of his snug bed. The air at that altitude is keen and sharp, and being turned out of his warm nest was anything but pleasant to the lad. "L-l-l-let the D-d-d-d-dutchman do it," he begged, snuggling down in his blankets. "No," said Nat firmly, "it's your turn on duty. Come on now, roll out or we'll pull you out." Finally, with grumbling protestations, the stuttering youth was hauled forth, and, while Nat and Joe turned in, he and Cal went on duty, or "sentry go," as they say in the army. "Now then," said Cal crisply, as the shivering Ding-dong lingered by the fire with his rifle in his chilled hands, "you go off there to the right and patrol a hundred feet or more. I'll do the same to the left. We'll meet at the fire every few minutes and get warm." "A-a-all r-r-r-right," agreed Ding-dong, who stood in some awe of the stage driver. Consequently, without further demur, he strode off on his post. Having reached the end of it he marched back to the fire and warmed himself a second. Then he paced off again. This kept up for about an hour when suddenly Cal, who was at the turning point of his beat, heard a startling sound off to the right among the tomb-like forms of the stone trees. Bang! It was followed by two other shots. Bang! Bang! The reports rang sharply, amid the silence of the desolate place, and sent an alarmed chill even to Cal's stout heart. He bounded back toward the fire just in time to meet Ding-dong, who came rushing in with a scared white face, from the opposite direction. At the same time Nat and Joe awakened, and hastily slipping on some clothes, seized their rifles and prepared for trouble. "What's the matter?" demanded Cal, in sharp, crisp tones, of the frightened sentinel. "Indians!" was the gasped-out reply, "the p-p-p-place is f-f-f-full of them." "Indians!" exclaimed Cal, hastily kicking out the bright fire and leaving it a dull heap of scattered embers, "are you sure?" "S-s-s-sure. I s-s-s-saw their f-f-f-fif-feathers." "That's queer," exclaimed Cal, "I never heard of any Indians being in this section before. But come on, boys, it's clear the lad here has seen something and we'd better get ready for trouble." An improvised fort was instantly formed, by the boys crouching in various points of vantage in the automobile with their rifles menacingly pointed outward. Herr Muller snored on serenely, and they allowed him to slumber. They must have remained in tense poses without moving a muscle for half an hour or more before any one dared to speak. Then Nat whispered, "Queer we don't see or hear anything." "They may be creeping up stealthily," rejoined Cal, "don't take your eye off your surroundings a minute." For some time more the lads watched with increasing vigilance. At length even Cal grew impatient. "There's something funny about this," he declared, and then turning on Ding-dong he demanded: "Are you sure you saw something?" "D-d-d-didn't I s-s-s-s-shoot at it?" indignantly responded the boy. "I know, but you actually saw something move?" persisted Nat. "Of c-c-c-course I did. You didn't think I was go-go-going to s-s-s-shoot at a put-put-petrified tree, did you?" "We'll wait a while longer and then if nothing shows up I'm going to investigate," declared Cal. "I'm with you," agreed Nat. As nothing occurred for a long time the Motor Rangers finally climbed out of the car, and with their rifles held ready for instant action, crept off in the direction from which Ding-dong's fusillade had proceeded. Every now and then they paused to listen, hardly breathing for fear of interrupting the silence. But not a sound could they hear. However, Ding-dong stuck stoutly to his story that he had seen something move and had fired at it, whereupon it had vanished. "Maybe it was Morello's gang trying to give us a scare," suggested Nat. "Ef they'd ever got as close to us as this they'd hev given us worse than a scare," confidently declared Cal. By this time they had proceeded quite some distance, and Cal stopped Ding-dong with a question. "Whereabouts were you when you fired?" "I-I do-do-do-do-don't know," stuttered the lad. "You don't know?" indignantly echoed Nat, "you're a fine woodsman." "Y-y-y-y-yes I do t-t-t-too," Ding-dong hastened to amend, "I was here--right here." He ascended a small knoll covered with grass, at the foot of one of the stone trees. "Which direction did you fire in?" was Nat's next question. "Off t-t-t-that w-w-w-w-w-way," spoke Ding-dong. "Wow, there he is now!" The boy gave a yell and started to run, and the others were considerably startled. From the little eminence on which they stood they could see, projecting from behind one of the pillars, something that certainly did look like two feathers sticking in an Indian's head dress. As they gazed the feathers moved. "Shoot quick!" cried Joe, jerking his rifle up to his shoulder, but Cal yanked it down with a quick pull. "Hold on, youngster. Not so fast," he exclaimed, "let's look into this thing first." Holding his rifle all ready to fire at the least alarm, the former stage driver crept cautiously forward. Close at his elbow came Nat, with his weapon held in similar readiness. "There is something there--see!" exclaimed Nat in an awed tone. "Yes," almost shouted the guide, "and it's that Dutchman's old plug!" The next instant his words were verified. The midnight marauder at whom Ding-dong had fired was nothing more dangerous than the horse of Herr Muller. It had broken loose in the night and was browsing about when the amateur sentry had come upon it. In the moonlight, and when seen projecting from behind a pillar, its ears, which were unusually long, did look something like the head dress of an Indian. "Wow!" yelled Nat, "this is one on you, Ding-dong!" "Yes, here's your Indian!" shouted Joe, doubling up with laughter. "Whoa, Indian," soothed Cal, walking up to the peaceful animal, "let's see if he hit you." But the merriment of the lads was increased when an examination of the horse failed to show a scratch or mark upon it. "That's another on you, Ding-dong," laughed Nat, "you're a fine sentinel. Why, you can't even hit a horse." "Well, let the Dutchman try and see if he can do any better," rejoined Ding-dong with wounded dignity. CHAPTER X. ALONG THE TRAIL. "Voss iss dot aboudt mein horse?" The group examining that noble animal turned abruptly, to find the quadruped's owner in their midst. Herr Muller still wore his famous abbreviated pajama suit, over which he had thrown a big khaki overcoat of military cut belonging to Nat. Below this his bare legs stuck out like the drum sticks of a newly plucked chicken. His yellow hair was rumpled and stood up as if it had been electrified. Not one of the boys could help laughing at the odd apparition. "Well, pod'ner," rejoined Cal, taking up the horse's broken hitching rope and leading it back to its original resting place, "you're purty lucky ter hev a horse left at all. This yar Ding-dong Bell almost 'put him in the well' fer fair. He drilled about ten bullets more or less around the critter's noble carcass." "But couldn't hit him with one of them," laughed Nat, to Ding-dong's intense disgust. The stuttering lad strode majestically off to the auto, and turned in, nor could they induce him to go on watch again that night. The morning dawned as fair and bright and crisp as mornings in the Sierras generally do. The sky was cloudless and appeared to be borne aloft like a blue canopy, by the steep walls of the canyon enclosing the petrified forest. The boys, on awakening, found Cal already up and about, and the fragrance of his sage brush fire scenting the clear air. "'Mornin' boys," sang out the ex-stage driver as the tousled heads projected from the auto and gazed sleepily about, "I tell yer this is ther kind of er day that makes life worth livin'." "You bet," agreed Nat, heading a procession to the little spring at the foot of one of the giant petrified trees. "It's c-c-c-c-cold," protested Ding-dong, but before he could utter further expostulations his legs were suddenly tripped from under him and he sprawled head first into the chilly, clear water. Joe Hartley was feeling good, and of course poor Ding-dong had to suffer. By the time the latter had recovered his feet and wiped some of the water out of his eyes, the others had washed and were off for the camp fire. With an inward resolve to avenge himself at some future time, Ding-dong soon joined them. If the petrified forest had been a queer-looking place by night, viewed by daylight it was nothing short of astonishing. "It's a vegetable cemetery," said Cal, looking about him. "Each of these stone trees is a monument, to my way of thinking." "Ach, you are a fullosopher," applauded Herr Muller, who had just risen and was gingerly climbing out of the tonneau. "And you're full o' prunes," grunted Cal to himself, vigorously slicing bacon, while Nat fixed the oatmeal, and Joe Hartley got some canned fruit ready. Presently breakfast was announced, and a merry, laughing party gathered about the camp fire to despatch it. "I'll bet we're the first boys that ever ate breakfast in a petrified forest," commented Joe. "I reckin' you're right," agreed Cal, "it makes me feel like an ossified man." "Dot's a feller whose headt is turned to bone?" asked Herr Muller. "Must be Ding-dong," grinned Joe, which promptly brought on a renewal of hostilities. "I've read that the petrification is caused by particles of iron pyrites, or lime, taking the place of the water in the wood," put in Nat. "Maybe so," agreed Cal, "but I've seen a feller petrified by too much forty rod liquor." "I wonder what shook so many of the stony stumps down," inquired Joe, gazing about him with interest. "Airthquakes, I guess," suggested Cal, "they get 'em through here once in a while and when they come they're terrors." "We have them in Santa Barbara, too," said Nat, "they're nasty things all right." "Come f-f-f-f-from the e-e-e-earth getting a t-t-t-t-tummy ache," sagely announced Ding-dong Bell. While the boys got the car ready and filled the circulating water tank with fresh water from the spring, Herr Muller and Cal washed the tin dishes, and presently all was ready for a start. Herr Muller decided that he would ride his horse this morning and so the move was made, with that noble steed loping along behind the auto at the best pace his bony frame was capable of producing. Luckily for him, the going was very hard among the fallen stumps of the petrified trees, and the tall, column-like, standing trunks, and the car could not do much more than crawl. All were in jubilant spirits. The bracing air and the joyous sensation of taking the road in the early dawn invigorated them. "I tell you," said Cal, "there's nothing like an early start in the open air. I've done it a thousand times or more I guess, but it always makes me feel good." "Dot iss righd," put in Herr Muller, "vunce at Heidelberg I gets me oop by sunrise to fighd idt a doodle. I felt goot but bresently I gedt poked it py der nose mit mein friendt's sword. Den I nodt feel so goodt." While the others were still laughing at the whimsical German's experience he suddenly broke into yodling: "Hi lee! Hi lo! Hi lee! Hi lay! Riding along by der fine summer's day; Hi lee! Hi lo! Hi lee! Hi lay! Riding along on my----" "Ear!" burst out Joe, as the German's horse caught its foot in a gopher hole, and stumbled so violently that it almost pitched the caroler over its head. "That's ther first song I ever heard about a Chink," commented Cal, when Herr Muller had recovered his equilibrium. "Voss is dot Chink?" asked Herr Muller, showing his usual keen interest in any new word. "Gee whiz, but you Germans are benighted folks. Why, a Chink's a Chinaman, of course." "Budt," protested the German spurring his horse alongside the auto and speaking in a puzzled tone, "budt I voss not singing aboudt a Chinaman." "Wall, I'll leave it to anyone if Hi Lee and Hi Lo ain't Chink names," exclaimed Cal. Whatever reply Herr Muller might have found to this indisputable assertion is lost forever to the world. For at that moment Nat, who was at the wheel, looked up to see a strange figure coming toward them, making its way rapidly in and out among the column-like, petrified trunks. His exclamation called the attention of the others to it and they regarded the oncoming figure with as much astonishment as did he. It was the form of a very tall and lanky man on a very short and fat donkey, that was approaching them. The rider's legs projected till they touched the ground on each side like long piston rods and moved almost as rapidly as he advanced. What with the burro's galloping and the man's rapid footwork, they raised quite a cloud of dust. "Say, is that fellow moving the burro, or is the burro moving him?" inquired Joe, with perfectly natural curiosity. Faster and faster moved the man's legs over the ground, as he came nearer to the auto. "I should think he'd walk and let the burro ride," laughed Nat. As he spoke the boy checked the auto and it came to a standstill. The tall rider could now be seen to be an aged man with a long, white beard, and a brown, sunburned face, framed oddly by his snowy whiskers. He glanced at the boys with a pair of keen eyes as he drew alongside, and stopped his long-eared steed with a loud: "Whoa!" "Howdy," said Cal. "Howdy," rejoined the stranger, "whar you from?" "South," said Cal. "Whar yer goin'?" "North," was the rejoinder. "Say, stranger, you ain't much on the conversation, be yer?" "Never am when I don't know who I be talking to," retorted Cal. The boys expected to see the other get angry, but instead he broke into a laugh. "You're a Westerner all right," he said. "I thought everybody knew me. I'm Jeb Scantling, the sheep herder from Alamos. I'm looking fer some grass country." "Bin havin' trouble with the cattlemen?" inquired Cal. "Some," was the non-committal rejoinder. "Wall, then you'd better not go through that way," enjoined Cal, "there's a bunch of cattle right through the forest thar." "Thar is?" was the somewhat alarmed rejoinder, "then I reckon it's no place fer me." "No, you'd better try back in the mountains some place," advised Cal. "I will. So long." The old man abruptly wheeled his burro, and working his legs in the same eccentric manner as before soon vanished the way he had come. "That's a queer character," commented Nat, as the old man disappeared and the party, which had watched his curious actions in spellbound astonishment, started on once more. "Yes," agreed Cal, "and he's had enough to make him queer, too. A sheepman has a tough time of it. The cattlemen don't want 'em around the hills 'cos they say the sheep eat off the feed so close thar ain't none left fer the cattle. And sometimes the sheepmen start fires to burn off the brush, and mebbe burn out a whole county. Then every once in a while a bunch of cattlemen will raid a sheep outfit and clean it out." "Kill the sheep?" asked Joe. "Yep, and the sheepmen, too, if they so much as open their mouths to holler. I tell you a sheepman has his troubles." "Was this fellow just a herder, or did he own a flock?" inquired Nat. "I've heard that he owns his bunch," rejoined Cal. "He's had lots of trouble with cattlemen. No wonder he scuttled off when I tole him thar was a bunch of punchers behind." "I'm sorry he went so quickly," said Nat, "I wanted to ask him some questions about the petrified forest." "Well, we're about out of it now," said Cal, looking around. Only a few solitary specimens of the strange, gaunt stone trees now remained dotting the floor of the canyon like lonely monuments. Presently they left the last even of these behind them, and before long emerged on a rough road which climbed the mountain side at a steep elevation. "No chance of your brake bustin' agin, is ther?" inquired Cal, rather apprehensively. "No, it's as strong as it well can be now," Nat assured him. "Glad of that. If it gave out on this grade we'd go backward to our funerals." "Guess that's right," agreed Joe, gazing back out of the tonneau at the steep pitch behind them. Despite the steepness of the grade and the rough character of the road, or rather trail, the powerful auto climbed steadily upward, the rattle of her exhausts sounding like a gatling gun in action. Before long they reached the summit and the boys burst into a shout of admiration at the scene spread out below them. From the elevation they had attained they could see, rising and falling beneath them, like billows at sea, the slopes and summits of miles of Sierra country. Here and there were forests of dense greenery, alternated with bare, scarred mountain sides dotted with bare trunks, among which disastrous forest fires had swept. It was a grand scene, impressive in its magnitude and sense of solitary isolation. Far beyond the peaks below them could be seen snow-capped summits, marking the loftiest points of the range. Here and there deep dark wooded canyons cut among the hills reaching down to unknown depths. "Looks like a good country for grizzlies or deer," commented Cal. "Grizzlies!" exclaimed Joe, "are there many of them back here?" "Looks like there might be," rejoined Cal, "this is the land of big bears, big deer, little matches, and big trees, and by the same token there's a clump of the last right ahead of us." Sure enough not a hundred yards from where they had halted, there stood a little group of the biggest trees the lads had ever set eyes on. The loftiest towered fully two hundred feet above the ground, while a roadway could have been cut through its trunk--as is actually the case with another famous specimen of the Sequoia Gigantea. The foliage was dark green and had a tufted appearance, while the trunks were a rich, reddish brown. The group of vegetable mammoths was as impressive a sight as the lads had ever gazed upon. "Them is about the oldest livin' things in ther world," said Cal gazing upward, "when Noah was building his ark them trees was 'most as big as they are now." "I tole you vot I do," suddenly announced Herr Muller, "I take it a photogrift from der top of one of dem trees aindt it?" "How can you climb them?" asked Nat. "Dot iss easiness," rejoined the German, "here, hold Bismark--dot iss vot I call der horse--und I gedt out mein climbing irons." Diving into his blanket-roll he produced a pair of iron contrivances, shaped somewhat like the climbing appliances which linemen on telegraph systems use to scale the smooth poles. These were heavier, and with longer and sharper steel points on them, however. Rapidly Herr Muller, by means of stout straps, buckled them on, explaining that he had used them to take pictures from treetops within the Black Forest. A few seconds later he selected the tallest of the trees and began rapidly to ascend it. The climbing irons and the facility they lent him in ascending the bare trunk delighted the boys, who determined to have some made for themselves at the first opportunity. "He kin climb like a Dutch squirrel," exclaimed Cal admiringly, as with a wave of his hand the figure of the little German grew smaller, and finally vanished in the mass of dark, sombre green which clothed the summit of the great red-wood. "He ought to get a dandy picture from way up there," said Joe. "Yes," agreed Nat, "he----" The boy stopped suddenly short. From the summit of the lofty tree there had come a sharp, piercing cry of terror. "Help! help! Quvick or I fall down!" CHAPTER XI. TREED!--TWO HUNDRED FEET UP. Mingling with the alarming yells of the German came a strange spitting, snarling sound. Filled with apprehensions, the boys and Cal rushed for the foot of the immense tree and gazed upward into the lofty gloom of its leafy summit. They uttered a cry of alarm as they did so. In fact the spectacle their eyes encountered was calculated to cause the heart of the most hardened woodsman to beat faster. Astride of a branch, with his shoe soles dangling two hundred feet above the ground, was Herr Muller, while between him and the trunk of the tree was crouched a snarling, spitting wild cat of unusual size. It seemed about to spring at the human enemy who had unwittingly surprised it in its aerial retreat. The boys were stricken speechless with alarm as they gazed, but Cal shouted encouragingly upward. "Hold on there, Dutchy. We'll help you out." "I know. Dot iss all right," came back the reply in a tremulous tone, "but I dink me dis branch is rodden und ef der tom cat drives me much furder out I down come." "Don't dare think of such a thing," called up Cal, "just you grip tight and don't move." "All right, I try," quavered the photographer, about whose neck still dangled the tool of his craft. Cal's long legs covered the space between the tree and the auto in about two leaps, or so it seemed to the boys. In a flash he was back with his well worn rifle and was aiming it upward into the tree. But as he brought the weapon to his shoulder and his finger pressed the trigger the formidable creature crouching along the limb, sprang full at the luckless Herr Muller. With a yell that stopped the breath of every one of the alarmed party below, the German was seen to lose his hold and drop, crashing through the foliage like a rock. As he fell a shower of small branches and twigs were snapped off and floated downward into space. But Herr Muller was not doomed, as the boys feared was inevitable, to be dashed to pieces on the ground. Instead, just as it appeared impossible that he could save himself from a terrible death, the German succeeded in seizing a projecting limb and hanging on. The branch bent ominously, but it held, and there he hung suspended helplessly with nothing under him but barren space. Truly his position now did not appear to be materially bettered from its critical condition of a few minutes before. But the boys did not know, nor Cal either, that the Germans are great fellows for athletics and gymnastics, and almost every German student has at one time or another belonged to a Turn Verein. This was the case with Herr Muller and his training stood him in good stead now. With a desperate summoning of his strength, he slowly drew himself up upon the bending limb, and began tortuously to make his way in toward the trunk. As he did so, the wild cat perceiving that it was once more at close quarters with its enemy, advanced down the trunk, but it was not destined this time to reach the German. Cal took careful aim and fired. Before the echo of the sharp report had died away a tawny body came clawing and yowling downward, out of the tree, tumbling over and over as it shot downward. The boys could not repress a shudder as they thought how close Herr Muller had come to sharing the same fate. The creature was, of course, instantly killed as it struck the ground, and was found to be an unusually large specimen of its kind. Its fur was a fine piece of peltry and Cal's skillful knife soon had it off the brute's carcass. A preparation of arsenic which the boys carried for such purposes, was then rubbed on it to preserve it till it could be properly cured and mounted. This done, it was placed away with the mountain lion skin in a big tin case in the tonneau. While all this was going on, Herr Muller recovered the possession of his faculties, which had almost deserted him in the terrible moment when he hung between life and death. Presently he began to descend the tree. Near the bottom of the trunk, however, his irons slipped and he came down with a run and a rush that scraped all the skin off the palms of his hands, and coated his clothes with the red stain of the bark. He was much too glad to be back on earth, however, to mind any such little inconveniences as that. "Boys, I tole you ven I hung dere I dink by myselfs if ever I drop, I drop like Lucifer----" "L-l-lucy who?" inquired Ding-dong curiously. "Lucifer--der devil you know, nefer to rise no more yet already." "I see you have studied Milton," laughed Nat, "but I can tell you, all joking aside, you gave us a terrible scare. I want you to promise to do all your photographing from safe places hereafter." "I vould suffer more dan dot for mein art," declared Herr Muller proudly, "Ach, vot a terrible fright dot Robert cat give me." "Yep, those bob cats,--as we call them for short,--are ugly customers at close quarters," put in Cal, with a grin. "Say," said Nat, suddenly pointing below them, "that little stream down there looks as if it ought to have some trout in it. What do you say if we try and get some for dinner?" "All right," agreed Cal, "you fellers go fishin' and the perfusser here and I will stand by the camp." "Chess. I dinks me I dondt feel much like valking aroundt," remarked Herr Muller, whose face was still pale from the alarming ordeal he had undergone. So the boys selected each a rod and set out at a rapid pace for the little brook Nat had indicated. The watercourse boiled brownly along over a rough bed of rocks, forming here and there little waterfalls and cascades, and then racing on again under flowering shrubs and beneath high, rocky ramparts. It was ideal trout water, and the boys, who were enthusiastic fishermen, welcomed the prospect of "wetting a line" in it. The brook was about a quarter of a mile from the camp under the big trees, and the approach to it was across a park-like grassy slope. Beyond it, however, another range shot up forbiddingly, rearing its rough, rugged face to the sky like an impassable rampart. Gaunt pines clothed its rocky slope, intermingled with clumps of chaparral and the glossy-leaved madrone bushes. They grew almost down to the edge of the stream in which the boys intended to fish. The sport, as Nat had anticipated, was excellent. So absorbed in it did he become in fact, that he wandered down the streamlet's course farther than he had intended. Killing trout, however, is fascinating sport, and the time passed without the boy really noticing at all how far he had become separated from his companions. At last, with a dozen fine speckled beauties, not one of which would weigh less than three-quarters of a pound, the boy found time to look about him. There was not a sign of Joe or Ding-dong Bell and he concluded that they must be farther up the stream. With the intention of locating them he started to retrace his footsteps. "Odd how far a fellow can come without knowing it, when he's fishing," mused Nat. I wonder how many other boys have thought the same thing! As he went along he looked about him. On his right hand towered the rocky slopes of the range, with the dark shadows lying under the gaunt pine trees. On his other hand, separated from him, however, by some clumps of madrone and manzinita, was the grove of big trees under which the auto was parked, and where Cal and Herr Muller were doubtlessly impatiently awaiting his arrival and that of his companions. "Got to hurry," thought Nat, mending his pace once more, but to his dismay, as he stepped forward, his foot slipped on a sharp-edged rock, and with a wrench of sharp pain he realized that he had twisted his ankle. The sprain, judging by the pain it gave him, seemed to be a severe one, too. "Wow!" thought Nat, sinking back upon another rock and nursing his foot, "that was a twister and no mistake. Wonder if I can get back on foot. Guess I'll rest a minute and see if it gets any better." The boy had sat thus for perhaps five minutes when there came a sudden rustling in the brush before him. At first he did not pay much attention to it, thinking that a rabbit, or even a deer might be going through. Suddenly the noise ceased abruptly. Then it came again. This time it was louder and it sounded as if some heavy body was approaching. "Great Scott!" was the sudden thought that flashed across the boy's mind, "what if it's a bear!" He had good cause for alarm in such a case, for he had nothing more formidable with which to face it but his fishing rod. But the next moment the boy was destined to receive even a greater shock than the sudden appearance of a grizzly would have given him. The shrubs before him suddenly parted and the figure of a man in sombrero, rough shirt and trousers, with big boots reaching to his knees, stepped out. "Ed. Dayton!" gasped Nat looking up at the apparition. "Yep, Ed. Dayton," was the reply, "and this time, Master Nat, I've got you where I want you. Boys!" He raised his voice as he uttered the last word. In response, from the brush-wood there stepped two others whom Nat had no difficulty in recognizing as the redoubtable Al. Jeffries and the man with whom he had struggled on the stable floor the memorable night of the attempted raid on the auto. CHAPTER XII. NAT'S LUCKY ESCAPE. If a round black bomb had come rolling down the mountain side and exploded at Nat's feet he could not have been more thunderstruck than he was at the sudden appearance of his old enemy. True, he should have had such a possibility in mind, but so intent had he been on his trout fishing, and the pain of his injury on the top of that, that he had not given a thought to the possibility of any of their foes being about. "Don't make a racket," warned Al. Jeffries ominously, as he flourished a revolver about, "I'm dreadful nervous, and if you make a noise I might pull the trigger by accident." Nat saw at once that this was one way of saying that he would be shot if he made any outcry, and he decided that there was nothing for him to do but to refrain from giving any shout of alarm. Had his ankle not been wrenched and giving him so much pain the boy would have tried to run for it. But as it was, he was powerless to do anything but wait. "Ain't quite so gabby now as you was in Lower California," snarled Dayton vindictively, as the boy sat staring at his captors. "If you mean by that that I am not doing any talking, you're right," rejoined Nat. "That's a purty nice watch you've got there," remarked Al., gazing at Nat's gold timepiece which had been jerked out of his breast pocket when he fell over the rock. "Yes," agreed Nat, determined not to show them that he was alarmed by his predicament, "my dead father gave me that." "Well, just hand it over." "What?" Nat's face flushed angrily. His temper began to rise too. "Come on, hand it over and don't be all night about it," ordered Al. Nat jumped to his feet. His fists were clenched ready for action. It seemed clear that if they were going to take the watch from him while he had strength to protect himself that they had a tough job in front of them. But an unexpected interruption occurred. It came from Ed. Dayton. "See here, Al.," he growled, "don't get too previous. I reckon the colonel can dispose of the watch as he sees fit. All such goes to him first you know, so as to avoid disputes." "Don't see where you come in to run this thing," muttered Al., but nevertheless he subsided into silence. All this time Nat's mind had been working feverishly. But cast about as he would he could not hit on a plan of escape. "I guess the only thing to do is to let them make the first move, and then lie low and watch for a chance to get away," he thought to himself. "Wonder what they mean to do with me anyhow?" He was not left long in doubt. "Get the horses," Dayton ordered, turning to Al. Jeffries. The other, still grumbling, turned obediently away however. There seemed to be no doubt that Ed. Dayton was a man of some power in the band. Nat saw this with a sinking heart. He knew the vengeful character of the man too well for it not to cause him the gravest apprehension of what his fate might be. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, however, did he let the ruffians see that he was alarmed. He would not for worlds have given them the satisfaction of seeing him weaken. Pretty soon Al. returned with three ponies. The animals must have been hidden in the brush on the opposite, or mountain side of the stream, for this was the direction in which Al. had gone to get them. They were a trio of wiry little steeds. On the back of each was a high-horned and cantled Mexican saddle, with a rifle holster and a canteen slung from it. The bridle of Dayton's pony was decorated with silver ornaments in the Western fashion. "Come on. Get up kid," said Dayton gruffly, seizing Nat by the shoulder, "we've got a long way to go with you." A long way to go! The words sounded ominous, and Nat, hurt as he was, decided on taking a desperate chance. Springing suddenly to his feet he lowered his head and ran full tilt at Dayton, driving his head into the pit of the ruffian's stomach with the force of a battering ram. "Wo-o-o-f!" With the above exclamation the rascal doubled up and pitched over. Before the others could recover their presence of mind Nat, despite the pain in his ankle, had managed to dash in among the brush where it was impossible to aim at him with any hope of bringing him down. Nevertheless, Dayton's companions started firing into the close-growing vegetation. "Fire away," thought Nat, painfully struggling through the thick growth, "the more bullets you waste the fewer you'll have for your rascally work." But Dayton had, by this time, scrambled to his feet, and the boy could hear him shouting angry commands. At the same instant came shouts from another direction. With a quick flash of joy, Nat recognized the new voices. The shouts were in the welcome and familiar tones of Cal Gifford and the Motor Rangers. "Mount, boys, and get out of here quick!" The warning shout came from behind the fleeing boy, and was in the voice of Dayton. The rascal evidently had heard, and interpreted aright, the exclamations and shouts from the meadow side of the brook. The next instant a clattering of hoofs announced the fact that the members of Col. Morello's band of outlaws were putting all the distance between themselves and the Motor Rangers' camp that they could. "Good riddance," muttered Nat, thinking how nearly he had come to being borne off with them. But the tension of the excitement over, the pain in his ankle almost overcame him. He sank limply down on a rock and sent out a cry for aid. "Cal! Cal! this way!" "Yip yee!" he heard the welcome answering shout, and before many seconds had passed Herr Muller's horse, with the Westerner astride of its bony back, came plunging into the brush. Behind came Joe and Ding-dong, wide-eyed with excitement. They had missed their comrade and had been searching for him when the sound of the shots came. Cal, who had also become anxious, and had ridden down from the camp to the stream side, was with them at the moment. Together the rescue party had hastened forward, too late however, to find Dayton and his companions. They naturally heard Nat's story with deep interest and attention. "Good thing them varmints didn't know that you two weren't armed," said Cal, turning to Joe and Ding-dong, "or they might hev stayed. In which case the whole bunch of us might have been cleaned out." "I think it will be a pretty good rule never to leave camp in future without a revolver or a rifle," said Nat, painfully rising to his feet and steadying himself by gripping Bismark's mane. "Right you are, my boy. We ought to have done thet in the first place. Howsomever, the thing to do now is to get you back ter camp. Come on, I'll give you a leg up." As he spoke, Cal slid off Bismark's back, and presently Nat was in his place. Escorted by Joe and Ding-dong, the cavalcade lost no time in getting back to where the auto had been left in charge of Herr Muller. "Get any pictures while we was gone?" asked Cal as they came within hailing distance. "Nein," rejoined the German sorrowfully. "Nine," exclaimed Cal looking about him, "where in thunder did you get nine subjects about here?" "He means no," said Nat, who had to laugh despite his pain, at this confusion of tongues. "Wall, why can't he say so?" grunted Cal, plainly despising the ignorance of the foreigner. Nat's ankle was found to be quite badly twisted, but Cal's knowledge of woodcraft stood them in good stead. After examining it and making sure that nothing was broken, the former stage driver searched about the grassy meadow for a while and finally plucked several broad leaves from a low-growing bush. These had a silvery tint underneath and were dark on the upper surface. "Silver weed," said Cal briefly, as he came back to the camp. Selecting a small pot, he rapidly heated some water on the fire which Herr Muller had kindled in his absence. This done, he placed the leaves to steep in it and after a while poured off the water and made a poultice with the leaves. This he bound upon Nat's ankle and in a wonderfully short time the pain was much reduced, and the boy could use his foot. In the meantime, a spiderful of beans and bacon had been cooked to go with the fried trout, and the inevitable coffee prepared. For dessert they had canned peaches, topping off the spread with crackers and cheese. "Tell you," remarked Cal, as he drew out his black pipe and prepared to enjoy his after dinner smoke, "this thing of travelling round in an auto is real, solid comfort. We couldn't hev had a spread like that if we'd bin on the trail with a packing outfit." Dinner over and Nat feeling his ankle almost as well as ever, it was decided to start on at once. For one thing, the outlaws might have marked the camping place and it was not a good enough strategic position to withstand an attack if one should be made. "We want to be in a snugger place than this if that outfit starts in on us," said Cal decisively. "Do you think they'll make us more trouble then?" inquired Joe. "I think that what they did to-day shows that they are keeping pretty close watch on us, my boy. It's up to us to keep our eyes open by day and sleep with one optic unclosed at night." Herr Muller and Ding-dong Bell, who had undertaken the dishwashing, soon concluded the task and the Motor Rangers once more set out. They felt some regret at leaving the beautiful camping spot behind them, but still, as Cal had pointed out, it was a bad location from which to repulse an enemy, supposing they should be attacked. "Vell, I'm gladt I didndt drop from dot tree," remarked Herr Muller, gazing back at the lofty summit of the imposing Big Tree, in which he had had such a narrow escape. "You take your pictures on terra firma after this," advised Joe. "Or if you do any more such stunts leave the camera with us," suggested Cal, who was leading the Teuton's steed. "Then we could get a g-g-g-g-good pup-p-p-picture of what England d-d-dreads," stuttered Ding-dong. "What's that?" inquired Nat. "The G-g-g-g-g-german p-p-p-peril," chuckled the stuttering youth. Soon after leaving the pleasant plateau of the big trees the scenery became rough and wild in the extreme. The Sierras are noted for their deep, narrow valleys, and after about an hour's progress over very rough trails the Motor Rangers found themselves entering one of these gloomy defiles. After the bright sunlight of the open country its dim grandeur struck a feeling of apprehension into their minds. It seemed chilly and oppressive somehow. "Say, perfusser," suggested Cal presently, "just sing us that Chinese song to cheer us up, will you?" "Hi lee! Hi lo! Hi lee! Hi lay!----" The "perfusser," as Cal insisted on calling him, had obligingly begun when from ahead of them and high up, as it seemed, came a peculiar sound. It was a crackling of brush and small bushes apparently. Instinctively Nat stopped the car and it was well that he did so, for the next instant a giant boulder came crashing down the steep mountainside above them. [Illustration: Instinctively Nat stopped the car, and it was well that he did so, for the next instant a giant boulder came crashing down.] CHAPTER XIII. THE VOLLEY IN THE CANYON. Nat had stopped in the nick of time. As the auto came to an abrupt halt, almost jolting those in the tonneau out of their seats, there was a roar like the voice of an avalanche. From far up the hillside a cloud of dust grew closer, and thundered past like an express train. In the midst of the cloud was the huge, dislodged rock, weighing perhaps half a ton or more. So close did it whiz by, in fact, just ahead of the car, that Nat could almost have sworn that it grazed the engine bonnet. The ground shook and trembled as if an earthquake was in progress, during the passage of the huge rock. "Whew! Well, what do you think of that!" gasped Joe. "I thought the whole mountainside was coming away," exclaimed Ding-dong, startled into plain speech by his alarm. Of course the first thing to be done was to clamber out of the car and examine the monster rock, which had come to rest some distance up the side of the opposite cliff to that from which it had fallen, such had been its velocity. Nat could not help shuddering as he realized that if the great stone had ever struck the auto it would have been, in the language of Cal, "Good-night" for the occupants of that vehicle. "Ach, vee vould haf been more flat as a pretzel alretty yet," exclaimed Herr Muller, unslinging his ever ready camera, and preparing to take a photo of the peril which had so narrowly missed them. "This must be our lucky day," put in Joe, "three narrow escapes, one after the other. I wonder if there'll be a fourth." "Better not talk about it, Joe," urged Cal, "the next time we might not be so fortunate." "Guess that's right," said Nat, who was examining the boulder with some care. Apparently it had been one of those monster rocks which glacial action in the bygone ages has left stranded, delicately balanced on a mountainside. Some rocks of this character it takes but a light shove to dislodge. So perfectly are other great masses poised that it takes powerful leverage to overcome their inertia--to use a term in physics. But the scientific aspect of the rock was not what interested Nat. What he wanted to find out was just how such a big stone could have become unseated from the mountainside and at a time when its downfall would, but for their alertness, have meant disaster and perhaps death, to the Motor Rangers. Nat had an idea, but he did not wish to announce it till he was sure. Suddenly he straightened up with a flushed face. His countenance bore an angry look. "Come here, fellows," he said, "and tell me what you make of this mark at the side of the rock." He indicated a queer abrasion on one side of the stone. The living stone showed whitely where the lichen and moss had been scraped aside. "Looks like some cuss had put a lever under it," pronounced Cal, after a careful inspection. "That's what. Fellows, this rock was deliberately tilted so that it would come down on us and crush us. Now there's only one bunch of men that we know of mean enough to do such a thing and that's----" _Phut-t-t!_ Something whistled past Nat's ear with a noise somewhat like the humming of a drowsy bee, only the sound lasted but for a fraction of a second. Nat knew it instantly for what it was. A bullet! It struck the rock behind him, and not half an inch from a direct line with his head, with a dull spatter. The boy could not help turning a trifle pale as he realized what an exceedingly narrow escape he had had. Cal's countenance blazed with fury. "The--the dern--skunks!" he burst out, unlimbering his well polished old revolver. "Reckon two kin play at that game." But Nat pulled the other's arm down. "No good, Cal," he said, "the best thing we can do is to get out of here as quickly as possible. One man up there behind those rocks could wipe out an army down in here." Cal nodded grimly, as he recognized the truth of the lad's words. Truly they were in no position to do anything but, as Nat had suggested, get out as quickly as possible. As they reached this determination another bullet whizzed by and struck a rock behind them, doubly convincing them of the wisdom of this course. Fortunately, as has been said, the boulder had rolled clear across the floor of the narrow canyon, such had been its velocity. This was lucky for the lads, for if it had obstructed the way they would have been in a nasty trap. With no room to turn round and no chance of going ahead their invisible enemies would have had them at their mercy. But if they could not see the shooters on the hillside, those marksmen appeared to have their range pretty accurately. Bullets came pattering about them now in pretty lively fashion. Suddenly Herr Muller gave an exclamation and a cry of mingled pain and alarm. A red streak appeared at the same instant on the back of his hand where the bullet had nicked him. But this was not the cause of his outcry. The missile had ended its career in the case in which he carried his photographic plates. Nat heard the exclamation and turned about as the car began to move forward. "Where are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, fearing some severe injury might have been inflicted on their Teutonic comrade. "In der plate box," was the astonishing reply. "Good heavens, you are shot in the stomach?" cried Joe. "No, but seferal of my plates have been smashed, Ach Himmel voss misfordune." "I suppose you thought that plate box meant about the same thing as bread basket," grinned Nat, turning to Joe, as they sped forward. A ragged fire followed them, but no further damage to car or occupants resulted. Herr Muller's horse, in the emergency, behaved like a veteran. It trotted obediently behind the car without flinching. "Bismark, I am proudt off you," smiled his owner, after the damage to the plate box had been investigated and found to be not so serious as its owner had feared. "We must have drawn out of range," said Cal, as after a few more desultory reports the firing ceased altogether. "I hope so, I'm sure," responded Nat, "I tell you it's a pretty mean feeling, this thing of being shot at by a chap you can't see at all." "Yep, he jes' naturally has a drop on you," agreed Cal. "Wonder how them fellers trailed us?" "Simple enough," rejoined Nat, "at least, it is so to my way of thinking. They didn't _trail_ us at all. They just got ahead of us." "How do you mean?" asked Cal, even his keen wits rather puzzled. "Why they figured out, I guess, that we weren't going to be such cowards as to let their attempts to scare us turn us back. That being the case, the only way for us to proceed forward from the Big Trees was to drive through this canyon. I reckon therefore that they just vamoosed ahead a bit and were ready with that big rock when we came along." "The blamed varmints," ground out the ex-stage driver, "I wonder if they meant to crush us?" "Quite likely," rejoined Nat, "and if this car hadn't been able to stop in double-quick jig-time, they'd have done it, too. Of course they may have only intended to block the road so that they could go through us at their leisure. But in that case I should think that they would have had the rock already there before we came along." "Just my idea, lad," agreed the Westerner heartily, "them pestiferous coyotes wouldn't stop at a little thing like wiping us out, if it was in their minds ter do it. But I've got an idea that we must be getting near their den. I've heard it is back this way somewhere." "If that is so," commented Nat, "it would account for their anxiety to turn us back. But," and here the boy set his lips grimly, "that's one reason why I'm determined to go on." "And you can bet that I'm with you every step of the way," was Cal's hearty assurance. He laid a brown paw on Nat's hands as they gripped the steering wheel. I can tell you, that in the midst of the perils into which Nat could not help feeling they were now approaching, it felt good to have a stalwart, resourceful chap like Cal along. "Thanks, Cal. I know you'll stick," rejoined Nat simply, and that was all. The canyon--or more properly, pass--which they had been traversing soon came to an end, the spurs of the mountains which formed it sloping down, and "melting" off into adjoining ranges. This formed a pleasant little valley between their slopes. The depression, which was perhaps four miles in circumference, was carpeted with vivid green bunch grass. Clumps of flowering shrubs stood in the centre where a small lake, crystal clear, was formed by the conjunction of two little streams. The water was the clear, cold liquid of the mountains, sharp with the chill of the high altitudes. After the boys had selected a camping place on a little knoll commanding all parts of the valley, their first task was to bring up buckets of water and clean off the auto which, by this time, as you may imagine, was pretty grimy and dusty. Several marks on the tonneau, too, showed where bullets had struck during the brush in the canyon. Altogether, the car looked "like business," that is to say, as if it had gone through other ups and downs than those of the mountains themselves. An inspection of the big gasolene tank showed that the emergency container was almost exhausted, and before they proceeded to anything else, Nat ordered the tanks filled from the stock they carried in the big "store-room," suspended under the floor of the car. "We might have to get out of here in a hurry, when there would be no time to fill up the tanks," he said. "It's best to have everything ready in case of accidents." "That's right," agreed Cal, "nothing like havin' things ready. I recollect one time when I was back home in Iowy that they----" But whatever had occurred--and it was doubtless interesting--back at Cal's home in Iowa, the boys were destined never to know; for at that moment their attention was attracted to the horse of Herr Muller, which had been tethered near a clump of madrone shrubs not far from the lake. "He's gone crazy!" shouted Joe. "M-m-m-mad as a h-h-h-atter in Mum-m-march," sputtered Ding-dong. No wonder the boys came to such a conclusion. For a respectable equine, such as Herr Muller's steed had always shown himself to be, Bismark certainly was acting in an extraordinary manner. At one moment he flung his heels high into the air, and almost at the same instant up would come his forelegs. Then, casting himself on the ground, he would roll over and over, sending up little showers of turf and stones with his furiously beating hoofs. All the time he kept up a shrill whinnying and neighing that greatly added to the oddity of his performance. "Ach Himmel! Bismark is a loonitacker!" yelled Herr Muller, rushing toward his quadruped, of which he had become very fond. But alas! for the confidence of the Teuton. As he neared Bismark, the "loonitacker" horse up with his hind legs and smiting Herr Muller in the chest, propelled him with speed and violence backward toward the lake. In vain Herr Muller tried to stop his backward impetus by clutching at the brush. It gave way in his hands like so much flax. Another second and he was soused head over heels in the icy mountain water. "What in the name of Ben Butler has got inter the critter?" gasped Cal amazedly. The others opened their eyes wide in wonder. All of them had had something to do with horses at different stages of their careers, but never in their united experiences had a horse been seen to act like Bismark, the "loonitacker." CHAPTER XIV. A "LOONITACKER" HORSE. "I have it!" cried Nat suddenly. "What, the same thing as Bismark?" shouted Joe, "here somebody, hold him down." "No, I know what's the matter with him--loco weed!" He stooped down and picked up a small, bright green trefoil leaf. Cal slapped his leg with an exclamation as he looked at it. "That's right, boy. That's loco weed, sure. It's growing all around here, and we was too busy to notice it. That old plug has filled his ornery carcass up on it." By this time the German had crawled out of the water, and was poking a dripping face, with a comical expression of dismay on it, through the bushes about the lake. Not seeing Bismark near, he ventured out a few paces, but the horse suddenly spying him made a mad dash for him. Herr Muller beat a hasty retreat. Even Bismark could not penetrate into the thick brush after him. "Vos is los mit Bismark?" yelled the German from his retreat at the boys and Cal, who were almost convulsed with laughter at the creature's comical antics. "I guess his brains is loose," hailed back Cal, whose knowledge of the German language was limited. "He's mad!" shouted Joe by way of imparting some useful information. "Mad? Voss iss he madt about?" "Oh, what's the use?" sighed Joe. Then placing his hands funnelwise to his mouth he bawled out:-- "He's locoed!" "Low toed?" exclaimed the amazed German. "Then I take him mit der blacksmith." "Say, you simian-faced subject of Hoch the Kaiser, can't you understand English?" howled Cal, in a voice that might have dislodged a mountain. "Bismark is crazy, locoed, mad, off his trolley, got rats in his garret, bats in his belfry, bug-house, screw-loose, daft, looney--now do you understand?" "Yah!" came the response, "now I know. Bismark is aufergerspeil." "All right, call it that if you want to," muttered Cal. Then, as Bismark, with a final flourish of his heels and a loud shrill whinny, galloped off, the Westerner turned to the boys. "Well, we've seen the last of him for a while." "Aren't you going to try to catch him?" asked Nat, as he watched the horse dash across the meadow-like hollow, and then vanish in the belt of dark wood on the hillside beyond. "No good," said Cal decisively, "wouldn't be able to do a thing with him for days. That loco weed is bad stuff. If I'd ever noticed it growing around here you can bet that Bismuth, or whatever that Dutchman calls him, wouldn't have left the camp." Herr Muller, rubbing a grievous bump he had received when the ungrateful equine turned upon the hand that fed him, now came up and joined the party. He made such a grievous moan over the loss of his horse that Nat's heart was melted. He promised finally that they would stay in the vicinity the next day, and if Bismark had not appeared that they would make a short search in the mountains for him. This was strongly against Cal's advice, but he, too, finally gave in. The Westerner knew better even than the boys with what a desperate gang they were at odds, and he did not favor anything that delayed their getting out of that part of the country as quick as possible. "My mine is only a day or so's run from here," he said to Nat, "and if once we reached there we could stand these fellows off till help might be summoned from some place below, and we could have Morello's gang all arrested." "That would be a great idea," agreed Nat, "do you think it could be done?" "Don't see why not," rejoined Cal, "but you'll see better when you get a look at the place. It's a regular natural fortress, that's what it is. My plan would be to hold 'em there while one of us rides off to Laredo or Big Oak Flat for the sheriff and his men." "We'll talk some more about that," agreed Nat, to whom the idea appealed immensely. In fact, he felt that there was little chance of their really enjoying their trip till they were sure that Col. Morello's gang was disposed of. Somehow Nat had a feeling that they were not through with the rascals yet. In which surmise, as we shall see, he was right. Supper that night was a merry meal, and after it had been disposed of, the waterproof tent which the boys had brought along was set up for the first time. With its sod cloth and spotless greenish-gray coloring, it made an inviting looking little habitation, more especially when the folding cots were erected within. But Herr Muller was in a despondent mood. He ate his supper in silence and sat melancholy and moody afterward about the roaring camp fire. "Ach dot poor horse. Maypee der wolves get der poor crazy loonitacker," he moaned. "Wall," commented Cal judicially, "ef he kin handle wolves as well as he kin Dutchmen he's no more reason to be scared of 'em than he is of jack-rabbits." Of course watches were posted that night, and extra careful vigilance exercised. The events of the day had not added to the boys' confidence in their safety, by any means. There was every danger, in fact, of a night attack being attempted by their enemies. But the night passed without any alarming interruption. And the morning dawned as bright and clear as the day that had preceded it. Breakfast was quickly disposed of, and then plans were laid for the pursuit of the errant Bismark. Cal was of the opinion, that if the effect of the loco weed had worn off, that the horse might be found not far from the camp. There was a chance, of course, that he might have trotted back home. But Cal's experience had shown him that in the lonely hills, horses generally prefer the company of human kind to the solitudes and that if the influence of the crazy-weed was not still upon him the quadruped would be found not very far off. This was cheering news to the photographing Teuton, who could hardly eat any breakfast so impatient was he to be off. Cal was to stay and guard the camp with Ding-dong for a companion. The searching party was to consist of Nat, in command, with Joe and Herr Muller as assistants. All, of course, carried weapons, and it was agreed that the signal in case of accident or attack, would be two shots in quick succession, followed by a third. Two shots alone would announce that the horse was found; while one would signify failure and an order to turn homeward. These details being arranged, and Herr Muller thoroughly drilled in them, the searchers set forth. The little meadow was soon traversed, and at the edge of the woods, which clothed the slope at this side of the valley, they separated. Nat took the centre, striking straight ahead on Bismark's trail, while the other two converged at different radii. The hill-side was not steep, and walking under the piñons and madrones not difficult. Occasionally a clump of dense chaparral intervened, so thick that it had to be walked around. It would have been waste of time to attempt to penetrate it. All three of the searchers, as may be imagined, kept a sharp look-out, not only for trace of Bismark but also for any sign of danger. But they tramped on, while the sun rose higher, without anything alarming making itself manifest. But of Bismark not a trace was to be found. He had, apparently, vanished completely. The ground was dry and rocky, too, which was bad, so far as trailing was concerned. Nat, although he now and then tumbled on a hoof mark or found a spot where Bismark had stopped to graze, saw nothing further of the horse. At last he looked at his watch. He gave an exclamation of astonishment as he did so. It was almost noon. "Got to be starting back," he thought, and drawing his revolver, he fired one shot, the signal agreed upon for the return. This done, he set off walking at a brisk pace toward what he believed was the valley. But Nat, like many a more experienced mountaineer, had become hopelessly turned around during his wanderings. While it seemed to him he was striking in an easterly direction, he was, as a matter of fact, proceeding almost the opposite way. After tramping for an hour or more the boy began to look about him. "That's odd," he thought as he took in the surroundings, "I don't remember seeing anything like this around the valley." It was, in fact, a very different scene from that surrounding the camp that now lay about him. Instead of a soft, grass-covered valley, all that could be seen from the bare eminence on which he had now climbed, was a rift in some bare, rocky hills. The surroundings were inexpressibly wild and desolate looking. Tall rocks, like the minarets of Eastern castles, shot upward, and the cliffs were split and riven as if by some immense convulsion of nature. High above the wild scene there circled a big eagle. From time to time it gave a harsh scream, adding a dismal note to the dreary environment. For a flash Nat felt like giving way to the wild, unreasoning panic that sometimes overwhelms those who suddenly discover they are hopelessly lost. His impulse was to dash into the wood and set off running in what he thought must be the right direction. But he checked himself by an effort of will, and forced his mind to accept the situation as calmly as possible. "How foolish I was not to mark the trees as I came along!" he thought. If only he had done that it would have been a simple matter to find his way back. A sudden idea flashed into his mind, and drawing out his watch the boy pointed the hour hand at the sun, which was, luckily, in full sight. He knew that a point between the hour hand thus directed, and noon, would indicate the north and south line. As Nat had begun to think, this test showed him that he had been almost completely turned about, and had probably come miles in the wrong direction. The east lay off to his right. Nat faced about, and was starting pluckily off in that direction when a sudden commotion in a clump of chaparral below attracted his attention. A flock of blue jays flew up, screaming and scolding hoarsely in their harsh notes. Nat was woodsman enough to know that the blue jay is the watch-dog of the forests. Their harsh cries betoken the coming of anything for half a mile or more. Sometimes, however, they do not scream out their warning till whatever alarms them is quite close. As the birds, uttering their grating notes, flew upward from the clump in the chaparral, Nat paused. So still did he keep that he could distinctly hear the pounding of his heart in the silence. But presently another sound became audible. The trampling of horses coming in his direction! CHAPTER XV. THE MOTOR RANGER'S PERIL. "Reckon Nat must have forgotten to fire the signal," thought Joe, sinking down on a rock, some little time before the former had halted to listen intently to the approaching noise. Suddenly, however, the distant report came, borne clearly to his ears. "There it goes," thought Joe. "One shot. I guess that means good-bye to the Dutchman's horse." Knowing that it would be no use looking about for Nat, for evidently from the faint noise of the shot it had been fired at some distance, Joe faced about and started back for the camp. When he reached it, he found to his surprise, that Herr Muller had returned some time before. As a matter of fact, Joe formed a shrewd suspicion from the rapid time he must have made on his return, that Herr Muller had sought a snug spot and dozed away the interval before Nat's shot was heard. As it so happened he was not very far from the truth. The German, having tramped quite a distance into the woods, had argued to himself that he stood about as good a chance of recovering his horse by remaining still as by proceeding. So he had seated himself with a big china-bowled pipe, to await the recall signal. He had started on the hunt with much enthusiasm, but tramping over rough, stony ground, under a hot sun, is one of the greatest solvents of enthusiasm known. And so it had proved in the German's case. He had, however, a fine tale to tell of his tramp, and to listen to him one would have thought that he was the most industrious of the searchers. "Guess we'd better start dinner without Nat," said Cal, after they had hung around, doing nothing but watching the pots simmer over the camp fire, for an hour or two. "That's a gug-g-g-good idea," agreed Ding-dong. Joe demurred a bit at the idea of not waiting for their young leader, but finally he, too, agreed to proceed with the meal. As will be seen by this, not much anxiety was yet felt in the camp over Nat's absence. He was stronger and much more wiry than the other two searchers, and it was altogether probable that he had proceeded much farther than had they. But, as the afternoon wore on and no Nat put in an appearance, conversation seemed to languish. Anxious eyes now sought the rim of the woods on the opposite side of the clearing. Nobody dared to voice the fears that lay at their hearts, however. Cal, perhaps, alone among them, realized the extent of the peril in which Nat stood, if he were lost in the mountains. It was for this reason that he did not speak until it became impossible to hold out hope any longer. This was when the shadows began to lengthen and the western sky burned dull-red, as the sun sank behind the pine-fringed mountain tops. Then, and not till then, Cal spoke what was on his mind. His comrades received the news of Cal's conviction that Nat was lost without the dismay and outward excitement that might have been expected. As a matter of fact, the dread that something had happened to the lad had been in the minds of all of them for some hours, although each tried to appear chipper and cheerful. There was no evading the facts as they stood, any longer, however. Very soon night would fall, with its customary suddenness in these regions. Unless Nat returned before that time--which was so improbable as to hardly be worth considering--there remained only one conclusion to be drawn. "Whatever can we do?" demanded Joe, in a rather shaky voice, as he thought of his comrade out on the desolate mountain side, hungry and perhaps thirsty, looking in vain for a trace of a trail back to camp. "Not much of anything," was Cal's disquieting reply, "except to stay put." "You mean stay right where we are?" "That's right, boy. There's a chance that Nat may be back before long. Only a chance, mind you, but in that case we want ter be right here." "Suppose he is h-h-h-h-hurt?" quavered out Ding-dong, voicing a fear they had all felt, but had not, so far, dared to speak of. Cal waved his hand in an inclusive way at the range opposite. "That will mean a search for him," he said, "and he may be any place in those hills within a ten-mile radius. Talk about lookin' fer a needle in a haystack. It 'ud be child's play, to finding him in time to do anything." They could not but feel the truth of his words. "Besides," went on Cal, "there's another thing. We know that that ornery bunch of skunks and coyotes of Morello's is sky-hootin' round here some place. If we leave the camp they might swoop down on it and clean it out, and then we'd be in a worse fix than ever." "That's right," admitted Joe, "but it seems dreadfully tough to have to sit here with folded hands and doing nothing; while Nat----" His voice broke, and he looked off toward the mountains, now dim and dun-colored in the fast gathering night. "No use giving way," said Cal briskly, "and as fer sitting with folded hands, it's the worst thing you could do. Here you," to Herr Muller, "hustle around and git all ther wood you can. A big pile of it. We'll keep up a monstrous fire all night in case the lad might happen to see it." "It will give us something to think about anyhow," said Joe, catching the infection of Cal's brisk manner; "come on, Herr Muller, I'll help you." They started off to collect wood, while Ding-dong Bell and Cal busied themselves with the supper dishes and then cleaned up a variety of small jobs around the camp. "Jes' stick this bit of advice in your craw, son," advised Cal as he went briskly about his tasks, "work's the thing that trouble's most scart of, so if ever you want to shake your woes pitch in an' tackle something." While Nat's comrades are thus employed, let us see for ourselves what has become of the lad. We left him listening intently to some approaching horsemen. He remained in this attentive attitude only long enough to assure himself that they were indeed coming toward him, and then, like a flash, his mind was made up. It was clear to the boy that travellers in such a remote part of the Sierras were not common. It also came into his mind that Col. Morello's band was reputed to have their hiding place somewhere in the vicinity. The brief glance about him that Nat had obtained had shown him that it was just the sort of place that men anxious to hide themselves from the law would select. In the first place, it was so rugged and wild as to be inaccessible to any but men on foot or horseback, and even then it would have been a rough trip. The valley, or rather "cut," in the hills, up which the sound of hoofs was coming, was, as has been said, narrow and deep in the extreme. From the summits of its cliffs a defence of the trail that lay beneath would be easy. Stationed on those pinnacled, natural turrets, two might, if well supplied with ammunition, have withstood an army. All these thoughts had occurred to Nat before he made his resolution--and turning, started to run. But as he sped along a fresh difficulty presented itself. The hillside at this point seemed to be alive with blue-jays. They flew screaming up, as he made his way along, and Nat knew that if they had acted as a warning to him of approaching danger the vociferous birds would be equally probable to arouse the suspicions of whoever was coming his way. He paused to listen for a second, and was glad he had done so. The horsemen, to judge from their voices, had already reached the spot upon which he had been standing when he first heard them. What wind there was blew toward him and he could hear their words distinctly. "Those jays are acting strangely, Manuello. I wonder if there is anybody here." "I do not know, colonel," was the reply from the other unseen speaker, "if there is it will be to our advantage to find him. We don't want spies near the Wolf's Mouth." "Wolf's Mouth," thought Nat, "If that's the name of that abyss it's well called." "You are right, Manuello," went on the first speaker, "after what Dayton told us about those boys I don't feel easy in my mind as long as they are in our neighborhood. If Dayton and the others had not miscalculated yesterday we shouldn't have been bothered with them any longer." "No," was the rejoinder, "it's a pity that boulder didn't hit them and pound them into oblivion. Just because they happen to be boys doesn't make them any the less dangerous to us." At this unlucky moment, while Nat was straining his ears to catch every word of the conversation a stone against which he had braced one of his feet gave way. Ordinarily he would have hardly noticed the sound it made as it went bounding and rolling down the hillside, but situated as he was, the noise seemed to be as startling and loud as the discharge of a big gun. "What was that?" asked the man who had been addressed as "colonel." "A dislodged stone," was the reply, "someone is in there; the blue-jays didn't fly up for nothing." "So it would seem. We had better investigate before going farther." "Still, it is important that we find where those boys are camped." "That is true, but it is more important that we find out who is in that brush." Without any more delay, the two horses were turned into the hillside growth. Nat could hear their feet slipping and sliding among the loose rocks on the mountain as they came toward him. He did not dare to run for fear of revealing his whereabouts. Close at hand was a piñon tree, which spread out low-growing branches all about. Nat, as he spied it, decided that if he could get within its leafy screen unobserved he would, if luck favored him, escape the observation of the two men--one of whom he was certain now, must be the famous, or infamous, Col. Morello himself. Without any repetition of the unlucky accident of the minute before, he crept to the trunk of the tree and hoisted himself noiselessly up. As he had surmised, the upper branches made a comfortable resting place impervious to the view from below. Hardly had he made himself secure, before the horses of the two outlaws approached the tree and, rather to Nat's consternation, halted almost immediately beneath it. Could the keen-eyed leader of the outlaw band have discovered his hiding place? It was the most anxious moment of the boy's life. CHAPTER XVI. THE HORNS OF A DILEMMA. Few men, and still fewer boys, have ever been called upon to face the agonizing suspense which Nat underwent in the next few seconds. So close were the men to his hiding place that his nostrils could scent the sharp, acrid odor of their cigarettes. He was still enough as he crouched breathless upon the limb to have been carved out of wood, like the branch upon which he rested. He did not even dare to wink his eyes for fear of alarming the already aroused suspicions of the two men below him. "Guess those jays got scared at a lion or something," presently decided the man who had been addressed as "colonel." Nat, peering through his leafy screen, could see him as he sat upright on his heavy saddle of carved leather and looked about him with a pair of hawk-like eyes. Colonel Morello, for Nat had guessed correctly when he concluded that the man was the famous leader, was a man of about fifty years, with a weather-beaten face, seamed and lined by years of exposure and hard living. But his eye, as has been said, was as keen and restless as an eagle's. A big scar made a livid mark across his cheek indicating the course of a bullet, fired years before when Morello had been at the head of a band of Mexican revolutionists. In that capacity, indeed, he had earned his brevet rank of "colonel." A broad-brim gray sombrero, with a silver embossed band of leather about it, crowned the outlaw chief's head of glossy black hair, worn rather long and streaked with gray. Across his saddle horn rested a long-barrelled automatic rifle, of latest make and pattern. For the rest his clothes were those of an everyday mountaineer with the exception of a wide red sash. His horse was a fine buckskin animal, and was almost as famous in Sierran legend as its redoubtable master. His companion was a squat, evil-visaged Mexican, with none of the latent nobility visible under the cruelty and rapaciousness which marred what might have once been the prepossessing countenance of Morello. His black hair hung in dank, streaky locks down to the greasy shoulders of his well-worn buckskin coat, and framed a wrinkled face as dark as a bit of smoked mahogany, in which glittered, like two live coals, a pair of shifty black eyes. He was evidently an inferior to the other in every way--except possibly in viciousness. Such were the two men who had paused below the tree in which was concealed, none too securely, the leader of the young Motor Rangers. As to what his fate might be if he fell into their hands Nat could hazard a guess. All at once the lad noticed that the branch of the tree upon which he was lying was in motion. His first thought was that one of the men might be shaking it in some way. But no--neither of them had moved. They were seemingly following the remark of the colonel regarding the blue-jays, and taking a last look about before leaving. In another moment Nat would have been safe, but as he moved his eyes to try and see what had shaken the bough he suddenly became aware of an alarming thing. From the branch of another tree which intertwined with the one in which he was hidden, there was creeping toward him a large animal. The boy gave a horrified gasp as he saw its greenish eyes fixed steadily on him with a purposeful glare. Step by step, and not making as much noise as a stalking cat, the creature drew closer. To Nat's terrified imagination it almost seemed as if it had already given a death spring, and that he was in its clutches. Truly his predicament was a terrible one. If he remained as he was the brute was almost certain to spring upon him. On the other hand to make a move to escape would be to draw the attention of the outlaws to his hiding place. "Phew," thought Nat, "talk about being between two fires!" Instinctively he drew his revolver. He felt that at least he stood more of a chance with his human foes than he did with this tawny-coated monster of the Sierran slopes. If the worst came to the worst he would fire at the creature and trust to luck to escaping from the opposite horn of his dilemma. But in this Nat had reckoned without his host--or rather, his four-footed enemy--for without the slightest warning the big creature launched its lithe body through the air. With a cry of alarm Nat dropped, and it landed right on the spot where a second before he had been. At the same instant the colonel and his companion wheeled their horses with a startled exclamation. The horses themselves, no less alarmed, were pawing the ground and leaping about excitedly. The boy's fall, and the howl of rage from the disappointed animal, combined to make a sufficiently jarring interruption to the calm and quiet of the mountain side. "Caramba! what was that?" the colonel's voice rang out sharply. "It's a boy!" cried his companion, pointing to Nat's recumbent form. To the lad's dismay, in his fall his revolver had flown out of its holster and rolled some distance down the hillside. He lay there powerless, and too stunned and bruised by the shock of his fall to move. But the great cat above him was not inactive. Foiled in its first spring it gathered itself for a second pounce but the colonel's sharp eye spied the tawny outline among the green boughs. Raising his rifle he fired twice. At the first shot there came a howl of pain and rage. At the second a crashing and clawing as the monster rolled out of the tree and fell in a still, motionless heap not far from Nat. "Even the mountain lions seem to work for us," exclaimed the colonel triumphantly, as he dismounted and walked to Nat's side. "Yes, señor, and if I make no mistake this lad here is one of the very boys we are in search of." "You are right. These Americans are devils. I make no doubt but this one was on his way to spy into our manner of living at our fort. Eh boy, isn't that true?" "No," replied Nat, whose face was pale but resolute. He scrambled painfully to his feet. Covered with dust, scratched in a dozen places by his fall through the branches, and streaming with perspiration, he was not an imposing looking youth right then; but whatever his appearance might have been, his spirit was dauntless. "No," he repeated, "I came up here to look for a horse that one of us had lost." "That's a very likely story," was the colonel's brief comment, in a dry, harsh tone. His eyes grew hard as he spoke. Evidently he had made up his mind that Nat was a spy. "It is true," declared Nat, "I had no idea of spying into your affairs." "Oh no," sneered the colonel vindictively, "I suppose you will tell us next that you did not know where our fort is; that you were not aware that it is up that gorge there?" "This is the first I've heard of it," declared Nat truthfully. "I hold a different opinion," was the rejoinder, "if you had not been up here on some mischievous errand you would not have concealed yourself in that tree. Eh, what have you to say to that?" "Simply that from all I had heard of you and your band. I was afraid to encounter you on uneven terms, and when I heard you coming, I hid," replied Nat. "That is it, is it? Well, I have the honor to inform you that I don't believe a word of your story. Do you know what we did with spies when I was fighting on the border?" Nat shook his head. The colonel's eyelids narrowed into two little slits through which his dark orbs glinted flintily. "We shot them," he whipped out. For a moment Nat thought he was about to share the same fate. The colonel raised his rifle menacingly and glanced along the sights. But he lowered it the next minute and spoke again. "Since you are so anxious to see our fort I shall gratify your wishes," he said. "Manuello, just take a turn or two about that boy and we'll take him home with us; he'll be better game than that lion yonder." Manuello nimbly tumbled off his horse, and in a trice had Nat bound with his rawhide lariat. The boy was so securely bundled in it that only his legs could move. "Good!" approvingly said the colonel as he gazed at the tightly tied captive, "it would be folly to take chances with these slippery Americanos." Manuello now remounted, and taking a half-hitch with the loose end of his lariat about the saddle horn, he dug his spurs into his pony. The little animal leaped forward, almost jerking Nat from his feet. He only remained upright with an effort. "Be careful, Manuello," warned the colonel, "he is too valuable a prize to damage." Every step was painful to Nat, bruised as he was, and weak from hunger and thirst as well, but he pluckily gave no sign. He had deduced from the fresh condition of his captors' ponies that they could not have been ridden far. This argued that it would not be long before they reached the outlaws' fortress. In this surmise he was correct. The trail, after winding among chaparral and madrone, plunged abruptly down and entered the gloomy defile he had noticed when he first made up his mind that he was lost. Viewed closely the place was even more sinister than it had seemed at a distance. Hardly a tree grew on its rugged sides, which were of a reddish brown rock. It seemed as if they had been, at some remote period, seared with tremendous fires. The trail itself presently evolved into a sort of gallery, hewn out of the sheer cliff face. The precipice overhung it above, while below was a dark rift that yawned upon unknown depths. So narrow was the pass that a step even an inch or two out of the way would have plunged the one making it over into the profundities of the chasm. A sort of twilight reigned in the narrow gorge, making the surroundings appear even more wild and gloomy. A chill came over Nat as he gazed about him. Do what he would to keep up his spirits they sank to the lowest ebb as he realized that he was being conducted into a place from which escape seemed impossible. Without wings, no living creature could have escaped from that gorge against the will of its lawless inhabitants. Suddenly, the trail took an abrupt turn, and Nat saw before him the outlaws' fort itself. CHAPTER XVII. IN COLONEL MORELLO'S FORTRESS. Directly ahead of them the gorge terminated abruptly in a blank wall of rock, in precisely the same manner that a blind alley in a city comes to a full stop. But "blank" in this case is a misnomer. The rocky rampart, which towered fully a hundred feet above the trail, was pierced with several small openings, which appeared to be windows. A larger opening was approached by a flight of steps, hewn out of the rock. Although Nat did not know it, the spot had once been a habitation of the mysterious aborigines of the Sierras. The colonel, stumbling upon it some years before, had at once recognized its possibilities as a fortress and a gathering place for his band, and had hastened to "move in." Stabling for the horses was found in a rocky chamber opening directly off the trail. But Nat's wonderment was excited by another circumstance besides the sudden appearance of the rock fort. This was the strange manner in which the abyss terminated at the pierced cliff. As they came along, the boy had heard the sound of roaring waters at the bottom of the rift, and coupling this with the fact that the gorge emerged into the cliff at this point, he concluded that a subterranean river must wind its way beneath the colonel's unique dwelling place. Small time, however, did he have for looking about him. About a hundred yards along the trail from the pierced cliff there was a strange contrivance extending outward from the face of the precipice along which the trail was cut. This was a sort of platform of pine trunks of great weight and thickness, on the top of which were piled several large boulders to add to the weight. This affair was suspended by chains and was an additional safeguard to the outlaws' hiding place. In the event of a sudden attack the chains were so arranged that they could be instantly cast loose. This allowed the platform to crash down, crushing whatever happened to be beneath it, as well as blocking the trail. The colonel paused before they reached this, and whistled three times. "Who is it?" came a voice, apparently issuing from a hole pierced in the rock at their left hand. "Two Eagles of the Pass," came the reply from the colonel as he gave utterance to what was evidently a password. "Go ahead, two Eagles of the Pass," came from the invisible rock aperture, and the party proceeded. A few paces brought them from under the shadow of the weighted platform and to the foot of the flight of stone steps. A shaggy-headed man emerged from the stable door as they rode up, and took the horses of the new arrivals. He gazed curiously at Nat, but said nothing. Evidently, thought the lad, the colonel is a strict disciplinarian. This was indeed the case. Col. Morello exacted implicit obedience from his band, which at this time numbered some twenty men of various nationalities. On more than one occasion prompt death had been the result of even a suspicion of a mutinous spirit. With Manuello still leading him along, as if he were a calf or a sheep, Nat was conducted up the stone staircase and into the rock dwelling itself. The contrast inside the place with the heated air outside was extraordinary. It was like entering a cool cellar on a hot summer's day. The passage which opened from the door in the cliff was in much the same condition as it had been when the vanished race occupied the place. In the floor were numerous holes where spears had been sharpened or corn ground. Rude carvings of men on horseback, or warring with strange beasts covered the walls. Light filtered in from a hole in the rock ceiling, fully twenty feet above the floor of the place. Several small doors opened off the main passage, and into one of these the colonel, who was in the lead, presently turned, followed by Manuello leading the captive lad. Nat found himself in a chamber which, if it had not been for the rough walls of the same flame-tinted rock as the abyss, might have been the living room of any well-to-do rancher. Skins and heads of various wild beasts ornamented the walls. On the floor bright rugs of sharply contrasting hues were laid. In a polished oak gun-case in one corner were several firearms of the very latest pattern and design. A rough bookshelf held some volumes which showed evidences of having been well thumbed. From the ceiling hung a shaded silver lamp, of course unlighted, as plenty of light streamed into the place from the window in the cliff face. The three chairs and the massive table which occupied the centre of the place were of rough-hewn wood, showing the marks of the axe, but of skilled and substantial workmanship, nevertheless. The upholstery was of deerskin, carefully affixed with brass-headed nails. The colonel threw himself into one of the chairs and rolled a fresh cigarette, before he spoke a word. When he did, Nat was astonished, but not so much as to be startled out of his composure. "I've heard about you from Hale Bradford," said the outlaw, "and I have always been curious to see you." "Hale Bradford! Could it be possible," thought Nat, "that the rascally millionaire who had appropriated his father's mine was also associated with Col. Morello, the Mexican outlaw?" Nat suddenly recalled, however, that it was entirely likely that Bradford, in his early days on the peninsula, had met Morello, who, at that time, was a border marauder in that part of the country. Perhaps they had met since Bradford's abrupt departure from Lower California. Or perhaps, as was more probable, it was Dayton who had told the colonel all about the Motor Rangers, and this reference to Bradford was simply a bluff. "Yes, I knew Hale Bradford," was all that Nat felt called upon to say. "Hum," observed the colonel, carefully regarding his yellow paper roll, "and he had good reason to know you, too." "I hope so," replied Nat, "if you mean by that, that we drove the unprincipled rascal out of Lower California." "That does not interest me," retorted Morello, "what directly concerns you is this: one of my men, an old acquaintance of mine, who has recently joined me, was done a great injury by you down there. He wants revenge." "And this is the way he takes it," said Nat bitterly, gazing about him. "I don't know how he means to take it," was the quiet reply. "That must be left to him. Where is Dayton?" he asked, turning to Manuello. "Off hunting. The camp is out of meat," was the reply. "Well, I expect Mr. Trevor will stay here till he returns," remarked the colonel with grim irony, "take him to the west cell, Manuello. See that he has food and water, and when Dayton gets back we will see what shall be done with him." He turned away and picked up a book, with a gesture signifying that he had finished. Nat's lips moved. He was about to speak, but in the extremity of his peril his tongue fairly clove to the roof of his mouth. To be left to the tender mercies of Dayton! That was indeed a fate that might have made a more experienced adventurer than Nat tremble. The boy quickly overcame his passing alarm, however, and the next moment Manuello was conducting him down the passage toward what Nat supposed must be the west cell. Before a stout oaken door, studded with iron bolts, the evil-visaged Mexican paused, and diving into his pocket produced a key. Inserting this in a well-oiled lock, he swung back the portal and disclosed a rock-walled room about twelve feet square. This, then, was the west cell. Any hope that Nat might have cherished of escaping, vanished as he saw the place. It was, apparently, cut out of solid rock. It would have taken a gang of men armed with dynamite and tools many years to have worked their way out. The door, too, now that it was open, was seen to be a massive affair, formed of several layers of oak bolted together till it was a foot thick. Great steel hinges, driven firmly into the wall, held it in place and on the outside, as an additional security to the lock, was a heavy sliding bolt of steel. Manuello gave Nat a shove and the boy half stumbled forward into the place. The next minute the door closed with a harsh clamor, and he was alone. So utterly stunned was he by his fate that for some minutes Nat simply stood still in the centre of the place, not moving an inch. But presently he collected his faculties, and his first care was to cast himself loose from the rawhide rope the Mexican had enveloped him in. This done, he felt easier, and was about to begin an inspection of the place when a small wicket, not more than six inches square, in the upper part of the door opened, and a hand holding a tin jug of water was poked through. Nat seized the receptacle eagerly, and while he was draining it the same hand once more appeared, this time with a loaf of bread and a hunk of dried deer meat. Nat's hunger was as keen as his thirst, and wisely deciding that better thinking can be done on a full stomach than on an empty one, he speedily demolished the provender. So utterly hopeless did the outlook seem that many a boy in Nat's position would have thrown himself on the cell floor and awaited the coming of his fate. Not so with Nat. He had taken for his motto, "While there is life there is hope," although it must be confessed that even he felt a sinking of the heart as he thought over his position. Guided by the light that came into the cell through the small wicket, the boy began groping about him and beating on the wall. For an hour or more he kept this up, till his hands were raw and bleeding from his exertions. It appeared to him that he had pounded every foot of rock in the place, in the hope of finding some hollow spot, but to no avail. The place was as solid as a safety vault. Giving way to real despair at last, even the gritty boy owned himself beaten. Sinking his face in his hands he collapsed upon the cell floor. As he did so voices sounded in the corridor. One of them Nat recognized with a thrill of apprehension, as Dayton's. CHAPTER XVIII. A RIDE FOR LIFE. The next moment the door was flung open, but not before Nat had jumped to his feet. He did not want his enemies, least of all Dayton, to find him crouching in a despondent attitude. To have brought despair to Nat's heart was the one thing above all others, the lad realized, which would delight Ed. Dayton highly. Dayton was accompanied by Manuello and Al. Jeffries. The latter seemed highly amused at the turn things had taken. "Well! well! well! What have we here!" he cried ironically, tugging his long black mustaches as the light from the passage streamed in upon Nat, "a young automobiling rooster who's about to get a lesson in manners and minding his own business. Oh say, Ed., this is luck. Here is where you get even for the other day." "Oh, dry up," admonished Dayton sullenly, "I know my own business best." He advanced toward Nat with a sinister smile on his pale face. Dayton had, as Manuello had informed Colonel Morello, been off hunting. His clothes were dust covered, from the tip of his riding boots--high heeled and jingle spurred in the Mexican fashion--to the rim of his broad sombrero. He had evidently lost no time in proceeding to the cell as soon as he learned that Nat was a captive. "Looks as if we had you bottled up at last, my elusive young friend," he grated out, "this is the time that you stay where we want you." "What are you going to do, Dayton?" asked Nat, his face pale but resolute, though his heart was beating wildly. Knowing the man before him as he did, he had no reason to expect any compassion, nor did he get any. "You'll see directly," rejoined Dayton, "come with me. I'm going to let the colonel boss this thing." Nat didn't say a word. In fact, there was not anything to be said. Dayton, as well as Manuello and Al. Jeffries, was armed, and all had their weapons ready for instant action. It would have been worse than madness to attempt any resistance right then. With Dayton ahead of him and Manuello and Jeffries behind, Nat stepped out of the cell and into the dimly lit passage. Never had daylight looked sweeter or more desirable to him than it did now, showing in a bright, oblong patch at the end of the passage. But Nat, much as he longed to make a dash for it then and there, saw no opportunity to do so and in silence the little procession passed along the passageway and entered the colonel's room. Colonel Morello looked up as they entered, but did not seem much surprised. Doubtless he had had a chat with Dayton on the latter's return from hunting and was aware that Nat would be ushered before him. "Here he is, colonel," began Dayton advancing to the table, while Manuello, ever on the outlook for a cigarette, also stepped a pace to the front, to help himself from a package of tobacco and some rice papers that lay upon the table. This left only Al. Jeffries standing in the door-way. Swift as the snap of an instantaneous camera shutter Nat's mind was made up. Crouching low, as he was used to do in football tactics, he made a rush at Al. Jeffries, striking him between the legs like a miniature thunderbolt. As he made his dash he uttered an ear-splitting screech:-- "Yee-ow!" He shrewdly calculated that the sudden cry would further demoralize the astonished outlaws. Jeffries was literally carried off his feet by the unexpected rush. He was forcibly lifted as Nat dashed beneath him and then he fell in a heap, his head striking a rock as he did so, knocking him senseless. Like an arrow from a bow Nat sped straight for the end of the passage through which he had spied, a minute before, two horses standing still saddled and bridled. They were the steeds upon which Dayton and Jeffries had just ridden in. Such had been Dayton's haste to taunt Nat, however, that he and his companion deferred putting up their ponies till later. Nat, on his journey down the passage, had spied the animals and his alert mind had instantly worked out a plan of escape; as desperate a one, as we shall see, as could well be imagined. As Al. toppled over in a heap, another outlaw, who was just entering the passage, opposed himself to Nat. He shared the black-mustached one's fate, only he came down a little harder. Neither he nor Al. moved for some time in fact. In the meantime, Morello, Dayton and Manuello, dashing pellmell after the fleeing lad, stumbled unawares over the prostrate Al., and all came down in a swearing, fighting heap. This gave Nat the few seconds he needed. In two flying leaps he was down the steps and had flung himself into the saddle of one of the horses, before the stableman knew what was happening. When the latter finally woke up and heard the bandits' yells and shouts coming from the passage-way, it was too late. With a rattle of hoofs, and in a cloud of dust, Nat was off. Off along the trail to freedom! "Yee-ow!" The boy yelled as he banged his heels into the pony's sides and the spirited little animal leaped forward. Bang! Nat's sombrero was lifted from his head and he could feel the bullets fairly fan his hair as he rode on. "Stop him! Stop him!" came cries from behind. And then a sudden order:-- "Let go the man-trap!" If Nat had realized what this meant he would have been tempted to give up his dash for freedom then and there. But he had hardly given a thought to the big suspended platform of pine trunks and rocks while on his way to the outlaws' fort, nor even if he had noticed it more minutely, would he have guessed its purpose. But as the order to release the crushing weight and send it crashing down upon the trail was roared out by the colonel, a clatter of hoofs came close behind. It was Dayton, who had hastily thrown himself upon the other horse and was now close upon Nat. Drawing a revolver he fired, but the bullet whistled harmlessly by Nat's head. At the terrific pace they were making an accurate shot was, fortunately for our hero, impossible. And now Nat was in the very shadow of the great platform. At that instant he heard a sudden creaking overhead, and looked up just in time to realize that the ponderous mass was sagging. In one flash of insight he realized the meaning of this. The great mass had been released and was about to descend. Crack! "Ye-oo-ow!" The heavy quirt, which Nat had found fastened to the saddle horn, was laid over the startled pony's flanks. It gave an enraged squeal and flung itself forward like a jack-rabbit. At the same instant came a shout from behind. "Stop, Dayton. Stop!--The man-trap!" [Illustration: Nat, as the pony leaped forward, instinctively bent low in the saddle.] Nat, as the pony leaped forward, instinctively bent low in the saddle. As they flashed forward a mighty roar sounded in his ears. Behind him, with a sound like the sudden release of an avalanche, the man-trap had fallen. It had been sprung by the colonel's own hand. So close to Nat did the immense weight crash down that it grazed his pony's flanks, but--Nat was safe. Behind him, he heard a shrill scream of pain and realized that Dayton had not been so fortunate. "Has he been killed?" thought Nat as his pony, terrified beyond all control by the uproar behind it, tore up the trail in a series of long bounds. "Safe!" thought the lad as he dashed onward. But in this he was wrong. Nat was far from being safe yet. Even as he murmured the word to himself there came a chorus of shouts from behind. Turning in his saddle, the boy could see pursuing him six or seven men, mounted on wiry ponies, racing toward the wreckage of the ponderous man-trap. With quirt and spur they urged their frightened animals over the obstruction. From the midst of the débris Nat could see Dayton crawling. The man was evidently hurt, but the others paid no attention to him. "A thousand dollars to the one who brings that boy down!" The cry came in the voice of Col. Morello. Nat laid his quirt on furiously. But the pony he bestrode had been used for hunting over the rugged mountains most of that day and soon it began to flag. "They're gaining on me," gasped Nat, glancing behind. At the same instant half a dozen bullets rattled on the rocks about him, or went singing by his ears. As the fusillade pelted around him, Nat saw, not more than a hundred yards ahead, the end of the trail. The point, that is, where it lost itself in the wilderness of chaparral and piñon trees, among which he had met the adventure which ended in his capture. If he could only gain that shelter, he would be safe. But on his tired, fagged pony, already almost collapsing beneath him, could he do it? CHAPTER XIX. OUTWITTING HIS ENEMIES. There was a feeling of pity in Nat's heart for the unfortunate pony he bestrode. The lad was fond of all animals, and it galled him to be compelled to drive the exhausted beast so unmercifully, but it had to be done if his life were to be saved. Crack! crack! came the cruel quirt once more, and the cayuse gamely struggled onward. Its nostrils were distended and its eyes starting out of its head with exhaustion. Its sunken flanks heaved convulsively. Nat recognized the symptoms. A few paces more and the pony would be done for. "Come on, old bronco!" he urged, "just a little way farther." With a heart-breaking gasp the little animal responded, and in a couple of jumps it was within the friendly shelter of the leafy cover. A yell of rage and baffled fury came from his pursuers as Nat vanished. The boy chuckled to himself. "I guess I take the first trick," he thought, but his self-gratulation was a little premature. As he plunged on amid the friendly shelter he could still hear behind him the shouts of pursuit. The men were scattering and moving forward through the wood. There seemed but little chance in view of these maneuvers, that Nat, with only his exhausted pony under him, could get clear away. As the shouts resounded closer his former fear rushed back with redoubled force. Suddenly his heart almost stopped beating. In the wood in front of him he could hear the hoof-tramplings of another horse. They were coming in his direction. Who could it be? Nat realized that it was not likely to prove anybody who was friendly to him. He was desperately casting about for some way out of this new and utterly unexpected situation, when, with a snort, the approaching animal plunged through the brush separating it from Nat. As it came into view the boy gave a sharp exclamation of surprise. The new arrival was Herr Muller's locoed horse, now, seemingly, quite recovered from its "late indisposition." It whinnied in a low tone as it spied Nat's pony, and coming alongside, nuzzled up against it. To Nat's joy, Bismark showed no signs of being scared of him, and allowed the boy to handle him. But in the few, brief seconds that had elapsed while this was taking place, Col. Morello's gang had drawn perilously near. The trampling and crashing as they rode through the woods was quite distinct now. "After him, boys," Nat could hear the colonel saying, "that boy knows our hiding place. We've got to get him or get out of the country." "We'll get him all right, colonel," Nat heard Manuello answer confidently. "Yep. He won't go far on that foundered pony," came another voice. In those few, tense moments of breathing space Nat rapidly thought out a plan of escape. Deftly he slipped the saddle and bridle off the outlaw's pony, and transferred them to Bismark's back. Then, as the chase drew closer, he gave the trembling pony a final whack on the rump with the quirt. The little animal sprang forward, its hoofs making a tremendous noise among the loose rocks on the hillside. Half frantic with fear, its alarm overcame its spent vitality, and it clattered off. "Wow! There he goes!" "Yip-ee-ee! After him, boys!" "Now we've got him!" These and a score of other triumphant cries came from the outlaws' throats as they heard the pony making off as fast as it could among the trees, and naturally assumed that Nat was on its back. With yells and shrieks of satisfaction they gave chase, firing volleys of bullets after it. The fusillade and the shouts, of course, only added to the pony's fear, and made it proceed with more expedition. As the cries of the chase grew faint in the distance, Nat listened intently, and then, satisfied that the outlaws had swept far from his vicinity, urged Bismark cautiously forward. This time he travelled in the right direction, profiting by his experiment with his watch. But urge Bismark on as he would, darkness fell before he was out of the wilderness. But still he pressed on. In his position he knew that it was important that he reach the camp as soon as possible. Not only on his own account, but in order that he might give warning of the attack that Col. Morello would almost certainly make as soon as he realized that his prisoner had got clear away. If they had been interested in the Motor Rangers' capture before, the outlaws must by now be doubly anxious to secure them, Nat argued. The reason for this had been voiced by Col. Morello himself while he was conducting the chase in the wood: "That boy knows our hiding place." "You bet I do," thought Nat to himself, "and if I don't see to it that the whole bunch is smoked out of there before long it won't be my fault." Tethering Bismark to a tree the boy clambered up the trunk. His object in so doing was to get some idea of his whereabouts. But it was dark, I hear some reader remark. True, but even in the darkness there is one unfailing guide to the woodsman, providing the skies be clear, as they were on this night. The north star was what Nat was after. By it he would gauge his direction. Getting a line on it from the outer star of "the dipper" bowl, Nat soon made certain that he had not, as he had for a time feared, wandered from his course. Descending the tree once more, he looked at his watch. It was almost midnight, yet in the excitement of his flight he felt no exhaustion or even hunger. He was terribly thirsty though, and would have given a lot for a drink of water. However, the young Motor Ranger had faced hardships enough not to waste time wishing for the unattainable. So, remounting Bismark, he pressed on toward the east, knowing that if he rode long enough he must strike the valley which would bring him to his friends. All at once, a short distance ahead, he heard a tiny tinkle coming through the darkness. It was like the murmuring of a little bell. Nat knew, though, that it was the voice of a little stream, and a more welcome sound, except the voices of his comrades, he could not have heard at that moment. "Here's where we get a drink, Bismark, you old prodigal son," he said in a low tone. A few paces more brought them into a little dip in the hillside down which the tiny watercourse ran. Tumbling off his horse Nat stretched himself out flat and fairly wallowed in the water. When he had refreshed his thirst, Bismark drinking just below him, the boy laved his face and neck, and this done felt immensely better. He was just rising from this al-fresco bath when, from almost in front of his face as it seemed, came a sound somewhat like the dry rattle of peas in a bladder. It was harsh and unmusical, and to Nat, most startling, for it meant that he had poked his countenance almost into the evil wedge-shaped head of a big mountain rattler. "Wow!" yelled the boy tumbling backward like an acrobat. At the same instant a dark, lithe thing that glittered dully in the starlight, was launched by his cheek. So close did it come that it almost touched him. But Nat was not destined to be bitten that night at least. As the long body encountered the ground after striking, and Bismark jumped back snorting alarmedly, Nat picked up a big rock and terminated Mr. Rattler's existence on the spot. Sure of his direction now, the boy remounted, and crossing the stream, arrived in due course near to the camp. The first thing he almost stumbled across was the prostrate form of Herr Muller, sound asleep just outside the flickering circle of light cast by the fire. "Now for some fun," thought Nat, and slipping off his horse he crouched behind the sleeping Teuton, and with a long blade of grass, began tickling his ear. At first Herr Muller simply stirred uneasily, and kicked about a bit. Then finally he sat up erect and wide awake. The first thing he saw was a tall, dark form bent over him. With a wild succession of whoops and frantic yells he set off for the camp in an astonishing series of leaps and bounds, causing Nat to exclaim as he watched the performance:-- "That Dutchman could certainly carry off a medal for broad jumping." A few of the leaps brought Herr Muller fairly into the camp-fire, scattering the embers right and left and thoroughly alarming the awakened adventurers. As they started up and seized their arms, Nat caused an abrupt cessation of the threatened hostilities by a loud hail:-- "Hullo, fellows!" "It's Nat--whoop hurroo!" came in a joyous chorus, and as description is lamentably inadequate to set forth some scenes, I will leave each of my readers to imagine for himself how many times Nat's hand was wrung pump-handle fashion, and how many times he was asked:-- "How did it happen?" CHAPTER XX. HERR MULLER GETS A CHILLY BATH. "Shake a le-e-eg!" Rather later than usual the following morning the lengthy form of Cal reared itself upright in its blankets and uttered the waking cry. From the boys there came only a sleepy response in rejoinder. They were all pretty well tired out with the adventures and strains of the day before and had no inclination to arise from their slumbers. Even Nat, usually the first to "tumble up," didn't seem in any hurry to crawl out of his warm nest. Winking to himself, Cal picked up two buckets and started for the little lake. He soon filled them with the clear, cold snow-water, and started back with long strides across the little meadow. "Here's where it rains for forty days and forty nights," he grinned, as poising a bucket for a moment he let fly its contents. S-l-o-u-s-h! What a torrent of icy fluid dashed over the recumbent form of Herr Von Schiller Muller! The Teuton leaped up as if a tarantula had been concealed in his bed clothes, but before he could utter the yell that his fat face was framing Cal was on him in one flying leap and had clapped a big brown hand over his mouth. "Shut up," he warned, "if you want to have some fun with the others." He pointed to the pail which was still half full. Herr Muller instantly comprehended. Dashing the water out of his eyes he prepared to watch the others get their dose, on the principle, I suppose, that misery loves company. S-l-o-u-s-h! This time Ding-dong and Joe got the icy shower bath, and sputtering and protesting hugely, they leaped erect. But the water in their eyes blinded them and although they struck out savagely, their blows only punctured the surrounding atmosphere. "Here, hold this bucket!" ordered Cal, handing the empty pail to the convulsed Dutchman. "Oh-ho-ho-ho dees iss too much!" gasped Herr Muller, doubling himself up with merriment, "I must mage me a picdgure of him." In the meantime Cal had dashed the contents of the other bucket over Nat, who also sprang up full of wrath at the unexpected immersion. "Take this, too," ordered Cal, handing the other empty bucket to Herr Muller. Tears were rolling down the German's fat cheeks. He was bent double with vociferous mirth as he shook. "Dees iss der best choke I haf seen since I hadt der measles!" he chuckled. Shouts of anger rang from the boys' throats as they rushed about, shaking off water like so many dogs after a swim. Suddenly their eyes fell on Herr Muller doubled with laughter and holding the two buckets. From time to time, in the excess of his merriment he flourished them about. "Oh-ho-ho-ho, I dink me I die ef I dodn't laughing stop it." "Hey, fellows!" hailed Nat, taking in the scene, "there's the chap that did it." "That Dutchman?--Wow!" With a whoop the three descended on the laughter-stricken Teuton, and before he could utter a word of expostulation, they had seized him up and were off to the little lake at lightning speed, bearing his struggling form. "Help! Murder! Poys, I don't do idt. It voss dot Cal vot vatered you!" The cries came from the German's lips in an agonizing stream of entreaty and expostulation. But the boys, wet and irritated, were in no mood for mercy. To use an expressive term, though a slangy one, they had caught Herr Muller "with the goods on." Through the alders they dashed, and then---- Splash! Head over heels Herr Muller floundered in the icy water, choking and sputtering, as he came to the surface, like a grampus--or, at least in the manner, we are led to believe, grampuses or grampi conduct themselves. As his pudgy form struck out for the shore the boys' anger gave way to yells of merriment at the comical sight he presented, his scanty pajamas clinging tightly about his rotund form. "Say, fellows, here comes Venus from the bath!" shouted Nat. "First time I heard of a Dutch Venus!" chortled Joe. "Poys, you haf made it a misdake," expostulated Herr Muller, standing, with what dignity he could command, on the brink of the little lake. His teeth were chattering as if they were executing a clog dance. "D-dod-d-dot C-c-c-c-al he do-done idt. If you don'd pelieve me,--Loog!" He pointed back to the camp and there was Cal rolling about on the grass and indulging in other antics of amusement. "Wow!" yelled Nat, "we'll duck him, too." At full speed they set off for the camp once more, Cal rising to his feet as they grew near. He looked unusually large and muscular somehow. "W-w-w-w-w-where w-w-w-w-will we t-t-t-t-tackle him?" inquired Ding-dong, who seemed quite willing to yield his foremost place in the parade of punishment. "I guess," said Nat slowly and judiciously, "I guess we'll--leave Cal's punishment to some other time." Breakfast that morning was a merry meal, and old Bismark, who had naturally been tethered in a post perfectly free from loco weed, came in for several lumps of sugar as reward for his signal service of the day before. All were agreed that if the old horse had not wandered along so opportunely that Nat might have been in a bad fix. "I wonder if they'd have dared to kill me?" said Nat, drawing Cal aside while the others were busy striking camp and washing dishes. "Wall," drawled Cal, "I may be wrong, but I don't think somehow that you'd hev had much appetite fer breakfast this mornin'." "I'm inclined to agree with you," said Nat, repressing a shudder as he recalled the tones of the colonel's voice. "And that reminds me," said Cal, "that our best plan is to get on ter my mine as quick as we can. It ain't much of a place. You know there's mighty little mining down here nowadays but what is done by the big companies with stamp mills and hundreds of thousands invested. But I reckon we kin be safe there while we think up some plan to get these fellows in a prison where they belong." "That's my idea exactly," said Nat, "I'm pretty sure that now they are aware that we know the location of their fort that they'll try to get after us in every way they can." "Right you are, boy. Their very existence in these mountains depends on their checkmating us some way. I think the sooner we get out of here the better." "How soon can we get to the mine?" asked Nat. "Got your map?" "Yes." "Let's see it." Nat dipped down into his pocket and drew out his folder map of the Sierra region. It was necessarily imperfect, but Cal, after much cogitation, darted down his thumb on a point some distance to the northwest of where they were camped. "It's about thar," he declared, "right in that thar canyon." "How soon can we get there?" "With luck, in two days, I should say. We can camp there while one of us rides off and gets the sheriff and a posse. I tell you it'll be a big feather in our caps to land those fellows where they belong. The scallywags have made themselves the terror of this region for a long time." "Well, don't let's holler till we're out of the wood," advised Nat. By this time the auto was ready and the others awaited their coming with some impatience. "Are we all right?" asked Nat looking back at the tonneau and then casting a comprehensive eye about. Bismark, hitched behind as usual, was snorting impatiently and pawing the ground in quite a fiery manner. "Let 'er go," cried Cal. Chug-chu-g-chug! Nat threw on the power and off moved the auto, soon leaving behind the camp on the knoll which had been the scene of so many anxieties and amusing incidents. As they rode along Nat explained to the others the plan of campaign. It was hailed with much joy and Joe and Ding-dong immediately began asking questions. Cal explained that his mine was located in a canyon which had once been the scene of much mining activity, but like many camps in the Sierras, those who once worked it--the argonauts--had long since departed. Only a little graveyard with wooden head-boards on the hill above the camp remained to tell of them. Cal had taken up a claim there in the heyday of the gold workings and from time to time used to visit it and work about the claim a little. He had never gotten much gold out of it, but it yielded him a living, he said. "Anybody else up there?" asked Nat. "Only a few Chinks," rejoined Cal. "I don't like 'em," said Joe briefly, "yellow-skinned, mysterious cusses." "M-m-m-my mother had a C-c-c-c-chinese c-c-c-c-cook--phwit!--once," put in Ding-dong, "but we had to fire him." "Why?" inquired Cal with some show of interest. "We could never tell whether he was sus-s-s-singing over his work or moaning in agony," rejoined Ding-dong. "Say, is that meant for a joke?" asked Nat amid a deadly silence. "N-n-no, it's a f-f-fact," solemnly rejoined Ding-dong. "That feller must hev bin a cousin to the short-haired Chinaman who couldn't be an actor," grinned Cal. "What is this, a catch?" asked Joe suspiciously. "No," Cal assured him. "Oh, all right, I'll bite," said Nat with a laugh, "why couldn't the short-haired Chinaman be an actor?" "Pecoss he voss a voshman, I subbose," suggested Herr Muller. "Oh, no," said Cal, "because he'd always miss his queue." "Reminds me of the fellow who thought he was of royal blood every time he watered his wife's rubber plant which grew in a porcelain pot," grinned Nat. "I'll bite this time," volunteered Joe, "How was that, Mister Bones?" "Well, he said that when he irrigated it, he rained over china," grinned Nat, speeding the car up a little grade. "If this rare and refined vein of humor is about exhausted," said Joe with some dignity after the laugh this caused had subsided, "I would like to draw the attention of the company to that smoke right ahead of us." "Is that smoke? I thought it was dust," said Nat, squinting along the track ahead of them. The column of bluish, brownish vapor to which Joe had drawn attention could now be seen quite distinctly, pouring steadily upward above the crest of a ridge of mountains beyond them. Although they were travelling at a considerable height they could not make out what was causing it, but Cal's face grew grave. He said nothing, however, but if the others had noticed him they would have seen that his keen eyes never left the column which, as they neared it, appeared to grow larger in size until it towered above its surroundings like a vaporous giant or the funnel of a whirlwind. CHAPTER XXI. THE FIRE IN THE FOREST. "Why, that smoke's coming up from those trees!" declared Nat as they topped the rise, and saw below them the familiar panorama of undulating mountain tops, spreading to the sky line in seeming unending billows. Sure enough, as he said, the smoke was coming from some great timber-clad slopes directly in front of them. "May be some more campers," suggested Joe. "Not likely," said Cal gravely, "no campers would light a fire big enough to make all that smoke." Nat did not reply, being too busy applying the brakes as the road took a sudden steep pitch downward. At the bottom of the dip was a bridge, made after the fashion of most mountain bridges in those remote regions. That is to say, two long logs had been felled to span the abyss the bridge crossed. Then across these string pieces, had been laid other logs close together. The contrivance seemed hardly wide enough to allow the auto to cross. Grinding down his brakes Nat brought the machine to a halt. "I guess we'd better have a look at that bridge before we try to cross it," he said, turning to Cal. "Right you are, boy," assented the ex-stage driver, getting out, "this gasolene gig is a sight heavier than anything that bridge was ever built for. Come on, Joe, we'll take a look at it." Accompanied by the young Motor Ranger the Westerner set off at his swinging stride down the few paces between the auto and the bridge. Lying on his stomach at the edge of the brink, he gazed over and carefully examined the supports of the bridge and the manner in which they were embedded in the earth on either side. Then he and Joe jumped up and down on the contrivance and gave it every test they could. "I guess it will be all right," said Cal, as he rejoined the party. "You guess?" said Nat, "say, Cal, if your guess is wrong we're in for a nasty tumble." "Wall, then I'm sure," amended the former stage driver, "I've driv' stage enough to know what a bridge 'ull hold I guess, and that span yonder will carry this car over in good shape. How about it, Joe?" "It'll be all right, Nat," Joe assured his chum, "in any case we are justified in taking a chance, for after what you told us about the colonel's gang it would be dangerous to go back again." "That's so," agreed Nat, "now then, all hold tight, for I'm going to go ahead at a good clip. Hang on to Bismark, Herr Muller." "I holdt on py him like he voss my long lost brudder," the German assured him. Forward plunged the auto, Bismark almost jerking Herr Muller out of the tonneau as his head rope tightened. The next instant the car was thundering upon the doubtful bridge. A thrill went through every one of the party as the instant the entire weight of the heavy vehicle was placed upon it the flimsy structure gave a distinct sag. "Let her have it, Nat!" yelled Cal, "or we're gone coons!" There was a rending, cracking sound, as Nat responded, and the car leaped forward like a live thing. But as the auto bounded forward to safety Bismark hung back, shaking his head stubbornly. Herr Muller, caught by surprise, was jerked half out of the tonneau and was in imminent peril of being carried over and toppling into the chasm. But Joe grasped his legs firmly while Cal struck the rope--to which the Teuton obstinately held--out of his hands. "Bismark! Come back!" wailed the German as the released horse turned swiftly on the rickety bridge and galloped madly back in the direction from which they had come. But the horse, which was without saddle or bridle, both having been placed in the car when they started out, paid no attention to his owner's impassioned cry. Flinging up his heels he soon vanished in a cloud of dust over the hilltop. "Turn round der auto. Vee go pack after him," yelled the German. "Not much we won't," retorted Cal indignantly, "that plug of yours is headed for his old home. You wouldn't get him across that bridge if you built a fire under him." "And I certainly wouldn't try to recross it with this car," said Nat. "I should say not," put in Joe, "why we could feel the thing give way as our weight came on it." "Goodt pye, Bismark, mein faithful lager--charger I mean," wailed Herr Muller, "I nefer see you again." "Oh yes, you will," comforted Cal, seeing the German's real distress, "he'll go right home to the hotel stable that he come frum. You'll see. The man that owns it is honest as daylight and ef you don't come back fer the horse he'll send you yer money." "Put poor Bismark will starfe!" wailed the Teuton. "Not he," chuckled Cal, "between here and Lariat is all fine grazing country, and there's lots of water. He'll get back fatter than he came out." "Dot is more than I'll do," wailed Herr Muller resignedly as Nat set the auto in motion once more and they left behind them the weakened bridge. "No auto 'ull ever go over that agin," commented Cal, looking back. "Not unless it has an aeroplane attachment," added Joe. But their attention now was all centred on the smoke that rose in front of them. The bridge had lain in a small depression so that they had not been able to see far beyond it, but as they rolled over the brow of the hill beyond, the cause of the uprising of the vapor soon became alarmingly apparent. A pungent smell was in the air. "Smells like the punks on Fourth of July," said Joe, as he sniffed. But joking was far from Cal's mind as he gazed through narrowed eyes. The smoke which had at first not been much more than a pillar, was now a vast volume of dark vapor rolling up crowdedly from the forests ahead of them. Worse still, the wind was sweeping the fire down toward the track they had to traverse. "The woods are on fire!" cried Nat as he gazed, and voicing the fear that now held them all. As he spoke, from out of the midst of the dark, rolling clouds of smoke, there shot up a bright, wavering flame. It instantly died down again, but presently another fiery sword flashed up, in a different direction, and hung above the dark woods. They could now hear quite distinctly, too, the sound of heavy, booming falls as big trees succumbed to the fire and fell with a mighty crash. "Great Scott, what are we going to do?" gasped Joe. "T-t-t-t-turn b-b-b-back!" said Ding-dong as if that settled the matter. "Py all means," chimed in Herr Muller, gazing ahead at the awe-inspiring spectacle. "How are you going to do that when that bridge won't hold us?" asked Nat. "Do you think we can beat the fire to the trail, Cal?" "We've gotter," was the brief, but comprehensive rejoinder. "But if we don't?" wailed Ding-dong. "Ef you can't find nothing ter say but that, jus' shut yer mouth," warned Cal in a sharp tone. His face was drawn and anxious. He was too old a mountaineer not to realize to a far greater extent than the boys the nature of the peril that environed them. His acute mind had already weighed the situation in all its bearings. In no quarter could he find a trace of hope, except in going right onward and trusting to their speed to beat the flames. True, they might have turned back and waited by the bridge, but the woods grew right up to the trail, and it would be only a matter of time in all probability before the flames reached there. In that case the Motor Rangers would have been in almost as grave a peril as they would by going on. The fire was nearly two miles from where they were, but Cal knew full well the almost incredible rapidity with which these conflagrations leap from tree to tree, bridging trails, roads, and even broad rivers. It has been said that the man or boy who starts a forest fire is an enemy to his race, and truly to any one that has witnessed the awful speed with which these fires devour timber and threaten big ranges of country, the observation must ever seem a just one. "Can't we turn off and outflank the flames?" asked Joe, as they sped on at as fast a pace as Nat dared to urge the car over the rough trail. Cal's answer was a wave of his hand to the thickset trees on either side. Even had it not been for the danger of fire reaching them before they could outflank it, the trunks were too close together to permit of any vehicle threading its way amidst them. There was but little conversation in the car as it roared on, leaping and careering over rocks and obstructions like a small boat in a heavy sea. The Motor Rangers were engaged in the most desperate race of their lives. As they sped along the eyes of all were glued on the trail ahead, with its towering walls of mighty pines and about whose bases chaparral and inflammable brush grew closely. The air was perceptibly warmer now, and once or twice a spark was blown into the car. Not the least awe-inspiring feature of a forest fire in the mountains is the mighty booming of the great trunks as they fall. It is as impressive as a funeral march. "Ouch, somebody burned my hand!" exclaimed Joe suddenly. But gazing down he saw that a big ember had lit on the back of it. He glanced up and noticed that the air above them was now full of the driving fire-brands. Overhead the dun-colored smoke was racing by like a succession of tempest-driven storm clouds. A sinister gloom was in the air. Suddenly, Cal, who had been half standing, gazing intently ahead, gave a loud shout and pointed in front of them. The others as they gazed echoed his cry of alarm. CHAPTER XXII. A DASH THROUGH THE FLAMES. The object thus indicated by Cal was in fact about as alarming a thing as they could have encountered. It was nothing more or less than the smoking summit of a big tree a few hundred feet ahead of them. As they gazed it broke into flame, the resinous leaves igniting with a succession of sharp cracks like pistol shots. In a second the tree was transformed into the semblance of an immense torch. Driven by the wind the flames went leaping and rioting among its neighbors till all above the Motor Rangers was a fiery curtain stretched between them and the sky. To make matters worse, the smoke, as acrid and pungent as chemical vapor, was driven in Nat's eyes, and he could hardly see to drive. His throat, too, felt hot and parched, and his gloves were singed and smoking in half a dozen places. "Get out that big bucket and fill it from the tank," he ordered as he drove blindly onward. "Guess it's about time," muttered Cal as he, guessing the rest of Nat's order, dashed the water right and left over the party, "we'd have bin on fire ourselves in a few seconds." Nat drove as fast as he dared, but the fire seemed to travel faster. The roar now resembled the voice of a mighty waterfall, and occasionally the sharp cracks of bursting trunks or falling branches filled the air. "The whole forest is going," bawled Cal, "put on more steam Nat." The boy did as he was directed and the beleaguered auto forged forward a little more swiftly. Suddenly, however, a happening that bade fair to put a dead stop to their progress occurred. Directly in front of them the chaparral had blazed about a tree, till it had eaten into the trunk. Weakened, the monster trembled for a moment and then plunged downward. "Lo-ok ou-t!" Cal bellowed the warning, and just in time. Nat, half blinded as he was, had not seen the imminent danger. With a crash like the subsidence of a big building, the tree toppled over and fell across the track, blazing fiercely, and with a shower of sparks and embers flying upward from it. [Illustration: As if it had been a leaping, hunting horse, the big car bounced and jolted over the log.] A new peril now threatened the already danger-surrounded lads, and their Western companion. The tree lay across their path, an apparently insurmountable object. A glance behind showed that the flames had already closed in, the fire, by some freak of the wind, having been driven back from their temporary resting place. But they knew that the respite was only momentary. Suddenly, the car surged forward, and before one of the party even realized that Nat had made up his mind they were rushing full tilt for the blazing log. "Wow!" yelled Cal carried away by excitement, as he sensed Nat's daring purpose, "he's going ter jump it--by thunder!" Even as he spoke the auto was upon the log and its front wheels struck the glowing, blazing barrier with a terrific thud. Had they not been prepared for the shock the Motor Rangers would have scattered out of the car like so many loose attachments. As if it had been a leaping, hunting horse, the big car bounced and jolted over the log, which was fully six feet in diameter. It came down again beyond it with a jounce that almost shook the teeth out of their heads, but the lads broke into a cheer in which Herr Muller's and Cal's voices joined, as they realized that Nat's daring had saved the day for them. Behind them lay the fiercely blazing forest, but in front the road was clear, although the resinous smell of the blaze and the smoke pall lay heavily above them still. A short distance further a fresh surprise greeted them. A number of deer, going like the wind, crossed the road, fleeing in what their instinct told them was a safe direction. They were followed by numerous wolves, foxes and other smaller animals. As they went onward they came upon a big burned-out patch in which an ember must have fallen, carried by some freak of the capricious wind. In the midst of it, squirming in slimy, scaly knots, were a hundred or more snakes of half a dozen kinds, all scorched and writhing in their death agonies. The boys were glad to leave the repulsive sight behind them. At last, after ascending a steep bit of grade they were able to gaze back. It was a soul-stirring sight, and one of unpassable grandeur. Below them the fire was leaping and raging on its way eastward. Behind it lay a smoking, desolate waste, with here and there a charred trunk standing upright in its midst. Already the blaze had swept across the trail, stripping it bare on either side. The lads shuddered as they thought that but for good fortune and Nat's plucky management of the car, they might have been among the ashes and débris. "Wall, boys," said Cal, turning to them, "you've seen a forest fire. What do you think of it?" "I think," said Nat, "that it is the most terrible agent of destruction I have ever seen." "I t-t-t-think we need a w-w-w-ash," stuttered Ding-dong. They burst into a laugh as they looked at one another and recognized the truth of their whimsical comrade's words. With faces blackened and blistered by their fiery ordeal and with their clothes scorched and singed in a hundred places, they were indeed a vagabond looking crew. "I'll bet if old Colonel Morello could see us now we'd scare him away," laughed Joe, although it pained his blistered lips to indulge in merriment. "Wall, there's a stream a little way down in that hollow," said Cal, pointing, "we'll have a good wash when we reach it." "And maybe I won't be glad, too," laughed Nat, setting the brakes for the hill ahead of them. Suddenly Ding-dong piped up. "S-s-s-s-say, m-m-m-may I m-m-m-make a remark?" "Certainly, boy, half a dozen of them," said Cal. "It's a go-g-g-g-good thing we lost Bismark," grinned Ding-dong, in which sage observation they all perforce acquiesced. "I've got something to say myself," observed Joe suddenly, "maybe you other fellows have noticed it? This seat is getting awfully hot." "By ginger, so it is," cried Cal suddenly, springing up from the easy posture he had assumed. "L-l-l-ook, there is s-s-s-smoke c-c-c-coming out from back of the car!" cried Ding-dong alarmedly. As he spoke a volume of smoke rolled out from behind them. "Good gracious, the car's on fire!" yelled Nat, "throw some water on it quick!" "Can't," exclaimed Cal, "we used it all up coming through the flames yonder." "We'll burn up!" yelled Joe despairingly. Indeed it seemed like it. Smoke was now rolling out in prodigious quantities from beneath the tonneau and to make the possibilities more alarming still, the reserve tank full of gasolene was located there. The tonneau had now grown so hot that they could not sit down. "Get out, everybody," yelled Joe, as badly scared as he had ever been in his life. "Yep, let us out, Nat," begged Cal. The Westerner was no coward, but he did not fancy the idea of being blown sky high on top of an explosion of gasolene any more than the rest. "Good thing I haven't got on my Sunday pants," the irrepressible Westerner remarked. "Hey, Nat," he yelled the next minute, as no diminution of speed was perceptible, "ain't you going ter stop?" "Not on your life," hurled back Nat, without so much as turning his head. He evidently had some plan, but what it was they could not for the life of them tell. Their hearts beat quickly and fast with a lively sensation of danger as the burning auto plunged on down the rough slope. All at once Joe gave a shout of astonishment. "I see what he's going to do now!" he exclaimed. So fast was the auto travelling that hardly had the words left his lips before they were fairly upon the little rivulet or creek Cal's acute eyes had spied from the summit of the hill. The next instant they were in it, the water coming up to the hubs. Clouds of white steam arose about the car and a great sound of hissing filled the air as the burning portion encountered the chill of the water. "Wall, that beats a fire department," exclaimed Cal, as, after remaining immersed for a short time, Nat drove the car up the opposite bank which, luckily, had a gentle slope. As Cal had remarked, it did indeed beat a fire department, for the water had put out the flames effectually. An investigation showed that beyond having charred and blistered the woodwork and paint that the fire had fortunately done no damage. It would take some little time to set things to rights, though, after the ordeal they had all gone through, and so it was decided that they would camp for a time at the edge of the river. "Hullo, what's all that going on over there?" wondered Joe, as he pointed to a cloud of dust in the distance. Cal rapidly shinned up a tree, and shading his eyes with his hand, gazed for some moments in the direction of the cloud. "Sheep!" he announced as he slid down again, "consarn thet Jeb Scantling, now I know who set thet fire." The boys looked puzzled till Cal went on to explain. "You know I told you fellows that cattlemen was dead sore at sheepmen," he said, "and that's the reason." He jerked one brown thumb backward to indicate that "that" was the fire. "Do you mean to say that Jeb Scantling started it?" gasped Nat. The idea was a new one to him. "Wall, I'd hate to accuse any one of doing sich a thing," rejoined Cal non-committally, "but," he added with a meaning emphasis, "I've heard of sheepmen setting tracts on fire afore this." "But whatever for?" inquired Joe in a puzzled tone. "So's to burn the brush away and hev nice green grass in the spring," responded Cal. "Well, that's a nice idea," exclaimed Nat, "so they burn up a whole section of country to get feed for a few old sheep." "Yep," nodded Cal, "and that's what is at the bottom of most of the sheep and cattlemen's wars you read about." At first the boys felt inclined to chase up Jeb, but they concluded that it would be impracticable, so, allowing the sheepman to take his distant way off into the lonelier fastnesses of the Sierras, they hastened to the stream and began splashing about, enjoying the sensation hugely. Suddenly a voice on the bank above hailed them. Somewhat startled they all turned quickly and burst into a roar of laughter as they saw Herr Muller, who had slipped quietly from among them "holding them up" with a camera. "Lookd idt breddy, blease," he grinned, "a picdgure I take idt." Click! And there the whole crew were transferred to a picture for future development. "I guess we won't be very proud of that picture," laughed Nat, turning to his ablutions once more. "No, we must answer in the negative," punned Joe. But the next minute he paid the penalty as Cal leaped upon him and bore him struggling to the earth. Over and over they rolled, Cal attempting to stuff a handful of soapsuds in the punning youth's mouth. "Help! Nat!" yelled Joe. "Not me," grinned Nat, enjoying the rough sport, "you deserve your fate." Soon after order was restored and they sat down to a meal to which they were fully prepared to do ample justice. "Say," remarked Cal suddenly, with his mouth full of canned plum pudding, "this stream and those sheep back yonder put me in mind of a story I once heard." "What was it?" came the chorus. "Wall, children, sit right quiet an' I'll tell yer. Oncet upon a time thar was a sheepman in these hills----" "Sing ho, the sheepman in the hills!" hummed Joe. "Thar was a sheepman in these hills," went on Cal, disdaining the interruption, "who got in trouble with some cattlemen, the same way as this one will if they git him. Wall, this sheepman had a pal and the two of them decided one day that ef they didn't want ter act as reliable imitations of porous plasters they'd better be gitting. So they gabbled and got. Wall, the cattlemen behind 'em pressed em pretty dern close, an' one night they come ter a creek purty much like this one. "Wall, they was in a hurry ter git across as you may suppose, but the problem was ter git ther sheep over. You see they didn't want ter leave 'em as they was about all the worldly goods they had. But the sheep was inclined to mutiny." "Muttony, you mean, don't you?" grinned Joe, dodging to safe distance. When quiet was restored, Cal resumed. "As I said, the sheep was inclined ter argify"--this with a baleful glance at Joe--"and so they decided that they'd pick up each sheep in ther arms and carry them over till they got the hull three thousand sheep across ther crick. You see it wuz ther only thing ter do." The boys nodded interestedly. "Wall, one of ther fellows he picks up a sheep and takes it across and comes back fer another, and then ther other feller he does the same and in the meantime ther first feller had got his other across and come back fer more and ther second was on his way over and----" "Say, Cal," suggested Nat quietly, "let's suppose the whole bunch is across. You see----" "Say, who's tellin' this?" inquired Cal indignantly. "You are, but----" "Wall, let me go ahead in my own way," protested the Westerner. "Let's see where I was; I--oh yes, wall, and then ther other feller he dumped down his sheep and come back fer another and----Say, how many does that make, got across?" "Search me," said Joe. Nat shook his head. "I d-d-d-d-on't know," stuttered Ding-dong Bell. "Diss iss foolishness-ness," protested Herr Muller indignantly. "Wall, that ends it," said Cal tragically, "I can't go on." "Why not?" came an indignant chorus. "Wall, you fellers lost count of ther sheep and there ain't no way of going on till we get 'em all over. You see there's three thousand and----" This time they caught a merry twinkle in Cal's eye, and with wild yells they arose and fell upon him. It was a ruffled Cal who got up and resumed a sandy bit of canned plum pudding. "You fellers don't appreciate realism one bit," grumbled Cal. "Not three thousand sheep-power realism," retorted Nat with a laugh. CHAPTER XXIII. THE HUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. The next morning they were off once more. As may be imagined each one of the party was anxious to reach the canyon in which Cal's mine was located. There they would be in touch with civilization and in a position to retaliate upon the band of Col. Morello if they dared to attack them. On the evening of the second day they found themselves not far from the place, according to Cal's calculations. But they were in a rugged country through which it would be impossible to proceed by night, so it was determined to make camp as soon as a suitable spot could be found. As it so happened, one was not far distant. A gentle slope comparatively free from rocks and stones, and affording a good view in either direction, was in the immediate vicinity. The auto, therefore, was run up there and brought to a halt, and the Motor Rangers at once set about looking for a spring. They had plenty of water in the tank, but preferred, if they could get it, to drink the fresh product. Water that has been carried a day or two in a tank is not nearly as nice as the fresh, sparkling article right out of the ground. "Look," cried Joe, as they scattered in search of a suitable spot, "there's a little hut up there." "M-m-m-maybe a h-h-h-hermit l-l-lives there," suggested Ding-dong in rather a quavering voice. "Nonsense," put in Nat, "that hut has been deserted for many years. See the ridge pole is broken, and the roof is all sagging in. Let's go and explore it." With a whoop they set out across the slope for the ruined hut, which stood back in a small clearing cut out of the forest. Blackened stumps stood about it but it was long since the ground had been cultivated. A few mouldering corn stalks, however, remained to show that the place had once been inhabited. As for the hut itself, it was a primitive shelter of rough logs, the roof of which had been formed out of "slabs" split from the logs direct. A stone chimney was crumbling away at one end, but it was many a year since any cheerful wreaths of smoke had wound upward from it. The boys were alone, Cal and Herr Muller having remained to attend to the auto and build a fire. Somehow, in the fading evening light, this ruined human habitation on the edge of the dark Sierran forest had an uncanny effect on the boys. The stillness was profound. And half consciously the lads sank their voices to whispers as they drew closer. "S-s-s-s-say hadn't we b-b-b-better go back and g-g-g-get a g-gun?" suggested Ding-dong in an awe-struck tone. "What for," rejoined Joe, whose voice was also sunk to a low pitch, "not scared, are you?" "N-n-n-no, but it seems kind of creepy somehow." "Nonsense," said Nat crisply, "come on, let's see what's inside." By this time they were pretty close to the place, and a few strides brought Nat to the rotting door. It was locked apparently, for, as he gave it a vigorous shake, it did not respond but remained closed. "Come on, fellows. Bring your shoulders to bear," cried Nat, "now then all together!" Three strong young bodies battered the door with their shoulders with all their might, and at the first assault the clumsy portal went crashing off its hinges, falling inward with a startling "bang." "Look out!" yelled Nat as it subsided, and it was well he gave the warning. Before his sharp cry had died out a dark form about the size of a small rabbit came leaping out with a squeak like the sound made by a slate pencil. Before the boy could recover from his involuntary recoil the creature was followed by a perfect swarm of his companions. Squeaking and showing their teeth the creatures came pouring forth, their thousands of little eyes glowing like tiny coals. "Timber rats!" shouted Nat, taking to his heels, but not before some of the little animals had made a show of attacking him. Nat was too prudent a lad to try conclusions with the ferocious rodents, which can be savage as wild cats, when cornered. Deeming discretion the better part of valor he sped down the hillside after Ding-dong and Joe, who had started back for the camp at the first appearance of the torrent of timber rats. From a safe distance the lads watched the exodus. For ten minutes or more the creatures came rushing forth in a solid stream. But at last the stampede began to dwindle, and presently the last old gray fellow joined his comrades in the woods. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Joe, "did you ever see such a sight?" "Well, I've heard of places in which the rats gathered in immense numbers, but I never knew before that such a thing as we have seen was possible," replied Nat; "there must have been thousands." "Mum-m-m-m-millions," stuttered Ding-dong, his eyes still round with astonishment. "I suppose some supplies were left in there," suggested Nat, "and that the rats gathered there and made a regular nesting place of it after the owner departed." "Well, now that they have all cleared out, let's go and have a look," said Joe. "Might as well," agreed Nat, "it's a good thing those creatures didn't take it into their heads to attack us, as I have read they have done to miners. They might have picked our bones clean." They entered the hut with feelings of intense curiosity. It was well that they trod gingerly as they crossed the threshold, for the floor was so honeycombed with the holes of the timber rats that walking was difficult and even dangerous. The creatures had evidently gnawed through the sill beams supporting the floor, for the hearthstone in front of the open fireplace had subsided and sagged through into the foundations, leaving a big open space. The boys determined to explore this later but in the meantime other things in the hut attracted their attention. There was a rough board table with a cracker box to serve as chair drawn up close to it. But both the table and the box had been almost gnawed to pieces by the ravenous rats. Some tin utensils stood upon the table but all trace of what they might have contained had, of course, vanished. Even pictures from illustrated magazines which had once been pasted on the walls had been devoured, leaving only traces to show what they had been. Nat, while the others had been investigating at large, had made his way to the corner of the hut where a rude bunk had been built. As he gazed into its dark recesses he shrank back with a startled cry. "Fellows! Oh, fellows! Come here!" The other two hastened to his side and were scarcely less shocked than he at what they saw. Within the bunk, the bed clothing of which had been devoured wholesale, lay a heap of whitened bones. A skull at the head of the rude bed-place told all too clearly that the owner had either been killed or had died in the lonely place and had been devoured by the rats. The grisly evidences were only too plain. The boys were almost unnerved by this discovery, and it was some time before any one of them spoke. Then Nat said in a low tone, almost a whisper:-- "I wonder who he was?" "There's a tin box," said Joe, pointing to a receptacle beneath the bunk, "maybe there's something in that to tell." "Perhaps," said Nat, picking the article up. It was a much battered case of the type known as "despatch box." The marks of the rats' teeth showed upon it, but it had not been opened. A rusty hammer with the handle half gnawed off lay a short distance away. With one sharp blow of this tool Nat knocked the lock off the despatch box. He gave a cry of triumph as he opened it. Within, yellow and faded, were several papers. "Let's get into the open air and examine these," suggested Nat, who was finding the ratty odor of the place almost overpowering. The others gladly followed him. Squatting down outside the hut in the fading light, they opened the first paper. It seemed to be a will of some sort and was signed Elias Goodale. Putting it aside for further perusal, Nat, in turn, opened and glanced at a packet of faded letters in a woman's handwriting, a folded paper containing a lock of hair, seemingly that of an infant, and at last a paper that seemed fresher than the others. This ink, instead of being a faded brown, was black and clear. The paper seemed to have been torn from a blank book. "Read it out," begged Joe. "All right," said Nat, "there doesn't seem to be much of it, so I will." Holding the paper close to his eyes in the waning day, the boy read as follows:-- "I am writing this with what I fear is my last conscious effort. It will go with the other papers in the box, and some day perhaps may reach my friends. I hope and pray so. It has been snowing for weeks and weeks. In my solitude it is dreadful, but no more of that. I was took down ill three days ago and have been steadily getting worse. It is hard to die like this on the eve of my triumph, but if it is to be it must be. The sapphires--for I found them at last--are hid under the hearthstone. I pray whoever finds this to see that they are restored to my folks whom I wronged much in my life before I came out here. "As I write this I feel myself growing weaker. The timber rats--those terrible creatures--have grown quite bold now. They openly invade the hut and steal my stores. Even if I recover I shall hardly have enough to live out the winter. The Lord have mercy on me and bring this paper to the hands of honest men. They will find details in the other papers of my identity." "Is that all?" asked Joe as Nat came to a stop. "That's all," rejoined Nat in a sober voice. "What do you think of it?" "That we'd better tell Cal and see what he advises." "That's my idea, too. Come on, let's tell him about it." The Motor Rangers lost no time in hastening back to the camp and Cal's face of amazement as he heard their story was a sight to behold. As for Herr Muller he tore his hair in despair at not having secured a photograph of the rats as they poured out of the ruined hut. "I've heard of this Elias Goodale," said Cal as he looked over the papers. "He was an odd sort of recluse that used to come to Lariat twice a year for his grub. The fellows all thought he was crazy. He was always talking about finding sapphires and making the folks at home rich. I gathered that some time he had done 'em a great wrong of some kind and wanted to repair it the best way he could. Anyhow, he had a claim hereabouts that he used to work on all the time. The boys all told him that the Injuns had taken all the sapphires there ever was in this part of the hills out of 'em, but he kep' right on. I last heard of him about a year ago--poor chap." "Was he old?" asked Nat. "Wall, maybe not in years, but in appearance he was the oldest, saddest chap you ever set eyes on. The boys all thought he was loony, but to me it always appeared that he had some sort of a secret sorrow." "Poor fellow," exclaimed Nat, "whatever wrong he may have done his death atoned for it." They were silent for a minute or so, thinking of the last scenes in that lonely hut with the snow drifting silently about it and the dying man within cringing from the timber rats. "Say!" exclaimed Joe suddenly, starting them out of this sad reverie, "what's the matter with finding out if he told the truth about those sapphires or if it was only a crazy dream?" "You're on, boy," exclaimed Cal, "I think myself that he must hev found a lot of junk and figgered out in his crazy mind they wuz sapphires and hid 'em away." "It's worth investigating, anyhow," said Nat, starting up followed by the others. It took them but a few seconds to reach the hut. Having entered they all crowded eagerly about the hearthstone. Cal dropped into the hole with his revolver ready for any stray rats that might remain, but not a trace of one was to be seen. Suddenly he gave a shout and seized a rough wooden box with both hands. "Ketch hold, boys," he cried, "it's so heavy I can't hardly heft it." Willing hands soon drew the box up upon the crazy floor, and Nat produced the rusty hammer. "Now to see if it was all a dream or reality," he cried, as he brought the tool down on the half rotten covering. The wood split with a rending sound and displayed within a number of dull-looking, half translucent rocks. "Junk!" cried Cal, who had hoisted himself out of the hole by this time, "a lot of blame worthless old pyrites." "Not py a chug ful," came an excited voice as Herr Muller pressed forward, "dem is der purest sapphires I haf effer seen." "How do you know?" demanded Nat quickly. "Pecos vunce py Amstertam I vork py a cheweller's. I know stones in der rough and dese is an almost priceless gollecdion." "Hoorooh!" yelled Cal, "we'll all be rich." He stepped quickly forward and prepared to scoop up a handful of the rough-looking stones, but Nat held him back. "They're not ours, Cal," he said, "they belong to the folks named in that will." "You're right, boy," said Cal abashed, "I let my enthoosiasm git away with me. But what are we going to do about it? Them folks don't live around here." "We'll have to find them and----Hark!" The boy gave an alarmed exclamation and looked behind him. He could have sworn that a dark shadow passed the window as they bent above the dully-gleaming stones. But although he darted to the door like a flash, nothing was to be seen outside. "What's the matter?" asked Cal, curiously. "Nothing," was the quiet rejoinder, "I thought I saw another timber rat, but I guess I was mistaken." CHAPTER XXIV. FACING THEIR FOES. "Nat, wake up!" "_Nat!_" "NAT!" Joe's third exclamation awoke the slumbering boy and he raised himself on the rough couch on one arm. "What is it, Joe?" he asked, gazing in a startled way at his chum. Joe was sitting bolt upright on the rough, wooden-framed bed, and gazing through a dilapidated window outside upon the moon-flooded canyon. "Hark!" whispered Joe, "don't you hear something?" "Nothing but the water running down that old flume behind the hut." "That's queer, I don't hear it any more either," said Joe; "guess it was a false alarm." "Guess so," assented Nat, settling down once more in the blankets. From various parts of the rough hut came the steady, regular breathing of Ding-dong Bell, Cal and Herr Muller. The latter must have been having a nightmare for he kept muttering:---- "Lookd oudt py der sapphires. Lookd oudt!" "No need for him to worry, they are safe enough in the hiding place where Cal used to keep his dust when he had any," grunted Joe, still sitting erect and on the alert, however. Somehow he could not get it out of his head that outside the hut he had heard stealthy footsteps a few moments before. The Motor Rangers and their friends had arrived at Cal's hut in the canyon that afternoon. Their first care had been to dispose safely of the box of precious stones in the hiding place mentioned by Joe. The evening before their last act at the camp by the ruined hut had been to consign the remains of the dead miner to a grave under the great pines. Nat with his pocketknife had carved a memorial upon a slab of timber. "Sacred to the memory of Elias Goodale. Died----." * * * * * And so, with a last look backward at the scene of the lonely tragedy of the hills, they had proceeded. Nat had not mentioned to his companions that he was sure that he had seen some one at the window, as they bent over the sapphires. After all it might have been an hallucination. The boy's first and natural assumption had been that whoever had peeped through the window was a member of Col. Morello's band, sent forward to track them. But then he recollected the burned forest that lay behind. It seemed hardly credible that any member of the band could have passed that barrier and arrived at the hut at almost the same time as the Motor Rangers. Had Nat known what accurate and minute knowledge the colonel possessed of the secret trails and short cuts of that part of the Sierras he might not, however, have been so incredulous of his first theory. The same afternoon they had reached a summit from which Cal, pointing downward, had shown them a scanty collection of huts amid a dark sea of pines. "That's the place," he said. Half an hour's ride had brought them to the canyon which they found had been deserted even by the patient Chinamen, since Cal's last visit. His hut, however, was undisturbed and had not been raided by timber rats, thanks to an arrangement of tin pans set upside down which Cal had contrived on the corner posts. The afternoon had been spent in concealing the sapphire chest in a recess behind some rocks some distance from the hut. A short tour of exploration followed. As Cal had said on a previous occasion, the camp had once been the scene of great mining activity. Traces of it were everywhere. The hillside was honeycombed with deserted workings and mildewed embankments of slag. Scrub and brush had sprung up everywhere, and weeds flourished among rotting, rusty mining machinery. It was a melancholy spot, and the boys had been anxious to leave it and push on to Big Oak Flat, ten miles beyond. But by the time they reached this decision it was almost dark and the road before them was too rough to traverse by night. It had been decided therefore to camp in Cal's hut that night. "Pity we can't float like a lot of logs," said Joe, as he stood looking at the water roaring through the flume which was a short distance behind the hut. "Yep," rejoined Cal, "if we could, we'd reach Big Oak Flat in jig time. This here flume comes out thereabouts." "Who built it?" inquired Nat, gazing at the moss-grown contrivance through which the water was rushing at a rapid rate. There had been a cloudburst on a distant mountain and the stream was yellow and turbid. At other times, so Cal informed them, the flume was almost dry. "Why," said Cal, in reply to Nat's question, "it was put up by some fellows who thought they saw money in lumbering here. That was after the mines petered out. But it was too far to a market and after working it a while they left. We've always let the flume stand, as it is useful to carry off the overflow from the river above." Somehow sleep wouldn't come to Joe. Try as he would he could not doze off. He counted sheep jumping over a fence, kept tab of bees issuing from a hive and tried a dozen other infallible recipes for inducing slumber. But they wouldn't work. Nat, after his awakening, had, however, dozed off as peacefully as before. Suddenly, Joe sat up once more. He had been electrified by the sound of a low voice outside the hut. This time there was no mistake. Some human being was prowling about that lonely place. Who could it be? He was not kept long in doubt. It was the voice of Dayton. Low as it was there was no mistaking it. Joe's heart almost stopped beating as he listened:-- "They're off as sound as so many tops, colonel. All we've got to do is to go in and land the sapphires, and the kid, too." "You are sure they have them?" "Of course. Didn't I see them in old Goodale's hut? You always said the old fellow was crazy. I guess you know better now. These cubs blundered into the biggest sapphire find I ever heard of." Joe was up now, and cautiously creeping about the room. One after another he awoke his sleeping companions. Before arousing Herr Muller, however, he clapped a hand over the German's mouth to check any outcry that the emotional Teuton might feel called upon to utter. Presently the voices died out and cautiously approaching the window Nat could see in the moonlight half a dozen dark forms further down the canyon. Suddenly a moonbeam glinted brightly on a rifle barrel. "They mean business this time and no mistake," thought Nat. Tiptoeing back he told the others what he had seen. "Maybe we can ketch them napping," said Cal, "oh, if only we had a telephone, the sheriff could nab the whole pack." "Yes, but we haven't," said the practical Nat. Cal tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. If there had been any doubt that they were closely watched it was dispelled then. Zip! _Phut!_ Two bullets sang by Cal's ears as he jumped hastily back, and buried themselves in the door jamb. "Purty close shooting for moonlight," he remarked coolly. "What are we going to do?" demanded Joe. "Well, thanks to our foresight in bringing in all the rifles and ammunition, we can make things interesting for them coyotes fer a long time," rejoined Cal. "But in this lonely place they could besiege us for a month if need be," said Nat. Cal looked grave. "That's so, lad," he agreed, "we'd be starved and thirsted out before long. If only we could communicate with Big Oak Flat." Nat dropped off into one of his deep studies. The boy's active mind was revolving the situation. It resolved itself into a very simple proposition. The colonel's band was well armed. They had ample opportunities for getting food and water. Situated as the Motor Rangers were, the others could keep them bottled up as long as they could stand it. Then nothing would be left but surrender. Nat knew now from what Joe had told him, that it was no fancy he had had at the hut. Dayton had been on their track and had unluckily arrived in time for his cupidity to be tempted by the sight of the sapphires. His injury when the man-trap fell must have been only a slight one. Nat knew the character of the outlaws too well to imagine that they would leave the canyon till they had the sapphire box and could wreak their revenge on the Motor Rangers. True, as long as their ammunition held out the occupants of the hut could have stood off an army. But as has been said, without food or water they were hopeless captives. Unless--unless---- Nat leaped up from the bedstead with a low, suppressed:-- "_Whoop!_" "You've found a way out of it?" exclaimed Joe, throwing an arm around his chum's shoulder. "I think so, old fellow--listen." They gathered around while in low tones Nat rehearsed his plan. "I ain't er goin' ter let you do it," protested Cal. "But you must, Cal, it's our only chance. You are needed here to help stand off those rascals. It is evident that they are in no hurry to attack us. They know that they can starve us out if they just squat down and wait." "Thet's so," assented Cal, scratching his head, "I guess there ain't no other way out of it but--Nat, I think a whole lot of you, and don't you take no chances you don't have to." "Not likely to," was the rejoinder, "and now the sooner I start the better, so good-bye, boys." Nat choked as he uttered the words, and the others crowded about him. "Donner blitzen," blurted out Herr Muller, "I dink you are der pravest poy I effer heardt of, und----" Nat cut him short. There was a brief hand pressure between himself and Joe, the same with Ding-dong and the others, and then the lad, with a quick, athletic movement, caught hold of a roof beam and hoisted himself upward toward a hole in the roof through which a stone chimney had once projected. Almost noiselessly he drew himself through it and the next moment vanished from their view. "Now then to cover his retreat," said Joe, seizing his rifle. The others, arming themselves in the same way rushed toward the window. Through its broken panes a volley was discharged down the canyon. A chorus of derisive yells greeted it from Morello's band. "Yell away," snarled Cal, "maybe you'll sing a different tune before daybreak." In the meantime Nat had emerged on the roof of the cabin. It was a difficult task he had set himself and this was but the first step. But as the volley rang out he knew that the attention of the outlaws had been distracted momentarily and he wriggled his way down toward the eaves at the rear of the hut. Luckily, the roof sloped backward in that direction, so that he was screened from the view of any one in front. Reaching the eaves he hung on for a second, and then dropped the ten feet or so to the ground. Then crouching like an Indian he darted through the brush till he reached the side of the old flume. He noted with satisfaction that the water was still running in a good stream down the mouldering trench. With a quick, backward look, Nat cast off his coat and boots, and flinging them aside picked up a board about six feet long that lay near by. The water at the head of the flume traversed a little level of ground, and here it ran more slowly than it did when it reached the grade below. Extending himself full length on the board, just as a boy does on a sleigh on a snowy hill, Nat held on for a moment. He gave one look about him at the moonlit hills, the dark pines and the rocky cliffs. Then, with a murmured prayer, he let go. The next instant he was shooting down through the flume at a rate that took his breath away. All about him roared the voices of the water while the crosspieces over his head whizzed by in one long blur. CHAPTER XXV. THROUGH THE FLUME. Faster than he had ever travelled before in his life Nat was hurtled along down the flume. Water dashed upward into his face, half choking him and occasionally his board would hit the wooden side with a bump that almost threw him off. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding and his head dizzy from the motion. It was the wildest ride that the lad, or any other lad for that matter, had ever undertaken. Suddenly, ahead of him--above the noise of the rushing water--came another sound, a deep-throated, sullen thunder. As he shot along with the speed of a projectile, Nat realized what the strange sound betokened. The end of the flume. Cal had told them that the raised water-course discharged its contents into a big pool at that point. With a sudden sinking of the heart Nat realized that he had forgotten to inquire how high the drop was. If it was very high--or if there was but little water in the pool below the flume--he would be dashed to pieces, or injured so that he could not swim, and thus drown. But even as the alarming thought was in his mind, Nat felt himself shot outward into space. Instinctively his hands came together and he dived downward, entering the water about twenty feet below him, with a clean dive. For a space the waters closed above the lad's head and he was lost to view in the moonlit pool. When he came to the surface, out of breath and bruised, but otherwise uninjured, he saw that he was in what had formerly been used as a "collection-pool" for the logs from the forest above. He struck out for the shore at once and presently emerged upon the bank. But as he clambered out, the figure of a Chinaman who had been seated fishing on the brink galvanized into sudden life. The Mongolian was poaching in private waters under cover of the darkness and was naturally startled out of a year's growth at the sudden apparition. With an ear-splitting screech the Mongolian leaped about three feet into the air as if propelled by a spring, and then, with his stumpy legs going under him like twin piston rods, he made tracks for the town. "Bad spill-it! Bad spill-it! He come catchee me!" he howled at the top of his voice, tearing along. As he dashed into the town a tall man dressed in Western style, and with a determined, clean-cut face under his broad-brimmed sombrero, stepped out of the lighted interior of the post-office, where the mail for the early stage was being sorted. "Here, Sing Lee," he demanded, catching the astonished Chinaman by the shoulder and swinging him around, "what's the matter with you?" "Wasee malla me, Missa Sheliff? Me tellee you number one chop quickee timee. Me fish down by old lumbel yard and me see spill-it come flum watel!" "What?" roared Jack Tebbetts, the sheriff, "a ghost? More likely one of Morello's band; I heard they were around here somewhere. But hullo, what's this?" He broke off as a strange figure came flying down the street, almost as fast as the fear-crazed Chinaman. "Wow!" yelled the sheriff, drawing an enormous gun as this weird figure came in view, "Halt whar you be, stranger? You're a suspicious character." Nat, out of breath, wet through, bruised, bleeding and with his clothing almost ripped off him, could not but admit the truth of this remark. But as he opened his mouth to speak a sudden dizziness seemed to overcome him. His knees developed strange hinges and he felt that in another moment he would topple over. The sheriff stepped quickly forward and caught him. "Here, hold up, lad," he said crisply, "what's ther trouble?" * * * * * "One o'clock. We ought to be hearing from Nat soon." Cal put his old silver watch back in his pocket and resumed his anxious pacing of the floor. The others, in various attitudes of alertness, were scattered about the place. Since Nat's departure they had been, as you may imagine, at a pretty tight tension. Somehow, waiting there for an attack or for rescue, was much more trying than action would have been. "Do you guess he got through all right?" asked Joe. "I hope so," rejoined Cal, "but it was about as risky a bit of business as a lad could undertake. I blame myself for ever letting him do it." "If Nat had his mind made up you couldn't have stopped him," put in Joe earnestly. "H-h-h-hark!" exclaimed Ding-dong. Far down the canyon they could hear a sound. It grew closer. For an instant a wild hope that it was the rescue party flashed through their minds. But the next instant a voice hailed them. Evidently Col. Morello had made up his mind that a siege was too lengthy a proceeding. "I will give you fellows in the hut one chance," he said in a loud voice, "give up that boy Nat Trevor and the sapphires and I will withdraw my men." Cal's answer was to take careful aim, and if Joe had not hastily pulled his arm down that moment would have been Morello's last. But as Cal's white face was framed in the dark window a bullet sang by viciously and showered them with splinters. "That's for a lesson," snarled Morello, "there are lots more where that came from." But as he spoke there came a sudden yell of alarm from his rear. "We're attacked!" came a voice. At the same instant the sound of a distant volley resounded. "Hooray! Nat made good!" yelled Cal, leaping about and cracking his fingers. The next instant a rapid thunder of hoofs, as the outlaws wheeled and made off, was heard. As their dark forms raced by, the posse headed by Sheriff Tebbetts and Nat, fired volley after volley at them, but only two fell, slightly wounded. The rest got clear away. A subsequent visit to their fortress showed that on escaping from the posse they had revisited it and cleaned all the loot out of it that they could. The express box stolen from Cal's stage was, however, recovered. As the posse galloped up, cheering till the distant canyons echoed and re-echoed, the besieged party rushed out. They made for Nat and pulled him from his horse. Then, with the young Motor Ranger on their shoulders, they paraded around the hut with him, yelling like maniacs, "'For he's a jolly good fellow'!" "And that don't begin to express it," said the sheriff to himself. "He's the grit kid," put in one of the hastily-gathered posse admiringly. And the "Grit Kid" Nat was to them henceforth. The remainder of the night was spent in the hut, Nat telling and retelling his wild experience in the flume. The next morning the posse set out at once at top speed for the fortress of Morello, the sapphire chest being carried in the auto which accompanied the authorities. Of course they found no trace of the outlaws; but the place was destroyed and can never again be used by any nefarious band. Nat and his friends were anxious for the sheriff to take charge of the sapphire find, but this he refused to do. It remained, therefore, for the Motor Rangers themselves to unravel the mystery surrounding it. How they accomplished this, and the devious paths and adventures into which the quest led them, will be told in the next volume of this series. Here also will be found a further account of Col. Morello and his band who, driven from their haunts by the Motor Rangers, sought revenge on the lads. Having remained in the vicinity of Big Oak Flat till every point connected with Morello and his band had been cleared up, the boys decided to go on to the famous Yosemite Valley. There they spent some happy weeks amid its awe-inspiring natural wonders. With them was Herr Muller and Cal. Bismark, as Cal had foretold, returned to the hotel at Lariat and Herr Muller got his money. But all the time the duty which devolved upon the Motor Rangers of finding Elias Goodale's heirs and bestowing their rich inheritance on them was not forgotten. Nat and his companions considered it in the nature of a sacred trust--this mission which a strange chance had placed in their hands. How they carried out their task, and what difficulties and dangers they faced in doing it, will be related in "THE MOTOR RANGERS ON BLUE WATER; OR, THE SECRET OF THE DERELICT." THE END. Reasons why you should obtain a Catalogue of our Publications _A postal to us will place it in your hands_ 1. You will possess a comprehensive and classified list of all the best standard books published, at prices less than offered by others. 2. You will find listed in our catalogue books on every topic: Poetry, Fiction, Romance, Travel, Adventure, Humor, Science, History, Religion, Biography, Drama, etc., besides Dictionaries and Manuals, Bibles, Recitation and Hand Books, Sets, Octavos, Presentation Books and Juvenile and Nursery Literature in immense variety. 3. You will be able to purchase books at prices within your reach; as low as 10 cents for paper covered books, to $5.00 for books bound in cloth or leather, adaptable for gift and presentation purposes, to suit the tastes of the most critical. 4. You will save considerable money by taking advantage of our SPECIAL DISCOUNTS, which we offer to those whose purchases are large enough to warrant us in making a reduction. HURST & CO., _Publishers_, 395, 397, 399 Broadway, New York. Motor Rangers Series By MARVIN WEST OUTDOOR LIFE STORIES FOR MODERN BOYS Cloth Bound Price 50¢ per volume. The Motor Rangers' Lost Mine. A new series dealing with an idea altogether original in juvenile fiction,--the adventures of a party of bright, enterprising youngsters in a splendid motor car. Their first trip takes them to the dim and mysterious land of Lower California. Naturally, as one would judge from the title, the lost mine, which proves to be Nat Trevor's rightful inheritance,--occupies much of the interest of the book. But the mine was in the possession of enemies so powerful and wealthy that it taxed the boys' resources to the uttermost to overcome them. How they did so makes absorbing reading. In this book also, the young motor rangers solve the mystery of the haunted Mexican cabin, and exterminate for all time a strange terror of the mountains which has almost devastated a part of the peninsula. The Motor Rangers too, have an exciting encounter with Mexican cowboys, which beginning comically, comes very near having a serious termination for all hands. Emphatically "third speed" books. Sold by Booksellers Everywhere. Hurst & Co., Publishers New York BORDER BOY SERIES BY FREMONT B. DEERING Frontier Stories for Modern Boys Cloth Bound Price, 50¢ per volume. The Border Boys on the Trail. There is little left of the romantic western life of which our forefathers delighted to read and in which they not infrequently took a part. The author of this series has, however, taken to himself modern conditions in this interesting section of the country in a vital way. The pages of this book throb with the strenuous outdoor life and pastimes of the ranch and range. The volume is as vivid as a western sunset and as lively as a bucking broncho. What boy will not want to read of the adventures of the ranchers and the boys in Grizzly Pass and the strange strategy of Black Ramon--the Border cattle-rustler which came nearly costing them all their lives? But the adventures do not terminate at the annihilation of the bridge by the rustler's gang. They elude pursuit for a time by this means but only for a time. The beginning of the end of their depredations comes when Jack and his cowpuncher chum escape from the bell-tower of the old mission. From then on to the conclusion of the book events come as fast as the discharge of an automatic rifle, or the rattling execution of the long roll on a snare-drum. No boy should fail to read how the Mexicans almost succeeded in releasing the pent-up waters of the irrigation dam and ruining a vast track of country. Thoroughly healthy in tone and appealing to manly standards the Border Boys are ideal chums for the wholesome lads of to-day. Sold by Booksellers Everywhere. HURST & CO., Publishers NEW YORK. BOY SCOUT SERIES BY LIEUT. HOWARD PAYSON MODERN BOY SCOUT STORIES FOR BOYS Cloth Bound Price, 50¢ per volume. The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol. A fascinating narrative of the doings of some bright boys who become part of the great Boy Scout movement. The first of a series dealing with this organization, which has caught on like wild fire among healthy boys of all ages and in all parts of the country. While in no sense text-book, the volume deals, amid its exciting adventures, with the practical side of Scouting. To Rob Blake and his companions in the Eagle Patrol, surprising, and sometimes perilous things happen constantly. But the lads, who are, after all, typical of most young Americans of their type, are resourceful enough to overcome every one of their dangers and difficulties. How they discover the whereabouts of little Joe, the "kid" of the patrol, by means of smoke telegraphy and track his abductors to their disgrace; how they assist the passengers of a stranded steamer and foil a plot to harm and perhaps kill an aged sea-captain, one must read the book to learn. A swift-moving narrative of convincing interest and breathless incident. Sold by Booksellers Everywhere. Hurst & Co. Publishers New York * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained. Page 54, "attampt" changed to "attempt" (and an attempt made) Page 160, "penertate" changed to "penetrate" (could not penetrate into) 
5623	----	THE YOUNG EXPLORER OR CLAIMING HIS FORTUNE BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. NEW YORK CONTENTS. I. Ben's Inheritance II. Deacon Pitkin's Offer III. Sam Sturgis' New Idea IV. A Brilliant Chance V. In Search of a Place VI. Mr. Fitch, The Senior Partner VII. Ben's Dinner Guest VIII. A Strange Acquaintance IX. At the Astor House X. Ben Receives a Call XI. Miss Sinclair's Stratagem XII. In San Francisco XIII. Preliminary Arrangements XIV. The Canon Hotel XV. A Polite Hostess XVI. A New Acquaintance XVII. A Tight Place XVIII. An Evening Call XIX. Ben's Midnight Excursion XX. A Thief's Disappointment XXI. Ben's Savings-Bank XXII. The Arrival at Murphy's XXIII. Among the Sierras XXIV. Beaten at His Own Game XXV. The Horse-Thieves XXVI. What Next? XXVII Ki Sing XXVIII. The Duel of the Miners XXIX. Chinese Cheap Labor XXX. A Midnight Visit XXXI. On the Mountain Path XXXII. The Mountain Cabin THE YOUNG EXPLORER CHAPTER I. BEN'S INHERITANCE. "I've settled up your father's estate, Benjamin," said Job Stanton. "You'll find it all figgered out on this piece of paper. There was that two-acre piece up at Rockville brought seventy-five dollars, the medder fetched a hundred and fifty, the two cows--" "How much does it all come to, Uncle Job?" interrupted Ben, who was impatient of details. "Hadn't you better let me read off the items, nephew?" asked Job, looking over his spectacles. "No, Uncle Job. I know you've done your best for me, and there's no need of your going through it all. How much is there left after all expenses are paid?" "That's what I was a-comin' to, Ben. I make it out that there's three hundred and sixty-five dollars and nineteen cents. That's a dollar for every day in the year. It's a good deal of money, Ben." "So it is, Uncle Job," answered Ben, and he was quite sincere. There are not many boys of sixteen to whom this would not seem a large sum. "You're rich; that is, for a boy," added Uncle Job. "It's more than I expected, uncle. I want you to take fifteen dollars and nineteen cents. That'll leave me just three hundred and fifty." "Why should I take any of your money, nephew?" "You've had considerable trouble in settling up the estate, and it's taken a good deal of your time, too." "My time ain't of much vally, and as to the trouble, it's a pity ef I can't take some trouble for my brother's son. No, Ben, I won't take a cent. You'll need it all." "But you said yourself it was a good deal of money for a boy, Uncle Job." "So it is, but it's all you've got. Most boys have fathers to take care of 'em, while you're alone in the world." "Yes I am alone in the world," said Ben sadly, his cheerful face clouding over. "But you've got an uncle, lad," continued Job Stanton, laying his hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "He's a poor man, but as much as in him lies, he'll be your friend and helper." "I know it, Uncle Job. You've always been kind to me." "And allus will be, Ben. Now, Ben, I've got a plan for you. I don't know what you'll think of it, but it's the best I've been able to think of." "What is it, Uncle Job?" "Ef you'll stay with me and help me in the shop, I'll give you a home, such as it is, and fifty dollars a year toward your clothes. Your Aunt Hannah and your Cousin Jane want you to make your home with us." "I'm very much obliged to you, Uncle Job," said Ben slowly. "You needn't be, boy. It's a sort of mutooal arrangement. It'll be as good for me as for you. You can put your money in the bank, and let it stay till you're twenty-one. Why, it'll be nigh on to five hunderd dollars by that time." "I'm much obliged to you, Uncle Job, as I said before, but there's one thing in the way." "What's that, Ben?" "I don't like shoemaking." "Perhaps it isn't genteel enough for you, Ben," said his uncle. "I don't care for that, Uncle Job, but I don't like being shut up in a shop. Besides, it doesn't give steady work. Last year you were without work at least a third of the time." "So I was, Ben," said Job. "I'm willin' to own that's a great drawback." "And it isn't likely to be any better hereafter. Last year was as good as the average." "It was better," Job admitted. "The year before I was out of work five months." "Well, Uncle Job, I want to work at something that'll give me employment all the year round." "So do I, Ben, but I don't see what you can find, unless you go to work on a farm. You're used to that, and I guess you could find a chance before long. There's Deacon Pitkin wants a boy, and would be glad of the chance of gettin' you." "I suppose he would," said Ben, laughing. "Would you advise me to go there?" "Well, there might be some objections, but-" "You know I wouldn't get enough to eat, Uncle Job," interrupted Ben. "Why, Deacon Pitkin's the meanest man in the village." "You mustn't be hasty in your judgments, nephew." "I'm not. I know what I'm talking about. I worked for the deacon two days once. He gave me ten cents a day and board-and such board! Why, I got up from the table hungry every meal, and yet the deacon reported afterward that I was a great eater. Mrs. Pitkin cuts a small pie into eight pieces, each about two mouthfuls, and when I asked for a second piece, she asked if I was allowed to have two pieces at home." "What did you say?" asked Uncle Job, evidently amused. "I said yes, and that each piece was twice as big as she gave." "I'm afraid that was rather forward, Ben. Did she say anything to that?" "She said I must be very greedy, and that boys always ate more'n was good for 'em. No, Uncle Job, I don't care to work for Deacon Pitkin." "Have you formed any plans, Ben? You don't want to go on a farm, and you don't want to go into a shoeshop, and that's about all you can find to do in Hampton." "I don't mean to stay in Hampton," said Ben quietly. "Don't mean to stay in Hampton!" exclaimed Uncle Joe, amazed. "No, uncle. There's a good many places besides Hampton in the world." "So there is, Ben," answered Uncle Job, with a disregard of grammar more excusable than his nephew's, for he had never had any special educational advantages,-"so there is, but you don't know anybody in them other places." "It won't take me long to get acquainted," returned Ben, not at all disturbed by this consideration. "Where do you want to go?" "I want to go to California." "Gracious sakes! Want to go to California!" gasped Job. "What put that idee into your head?" "A good many people are going there, and there's a chance to get rich quick out among the gold-mines." "But you're only a boy." "I'm a pretty large boy, Uncle Job," said Ben complacently, "and I'm pretty strong." "So you be, Ben, but it takes more than strength." "What more, Uncle Job?" "It takes judgment." "Can't a boy have judgment?" "Waal, he may have some, but you don't often find an old head on young shoulders." "I know all that, uncle, but I can work if I am a boy." "I know you're willin' to work, Ben, but it'll cost a sight of money to get out to Californy to start with." "I know that. It will take two hundred dollars." "And that's more'n half of all you've got. It seems to me temptin' Providence to spend such a sight of money for the chance of earning some on t'other side of the world, when you can get a livin' here and put all your money in the bank." "In five years it would only amount to five hundred dollars, and if I go to California, I expect to be worth a good deal more than that before two years are past." "I'm afraid you've got large idees, Ben." "You won't interfere with my going, Uncle Job?" asked Ben anxiously. "I won't actooly interfere, but I'll do all I can to have you give it up." "But if my mind is set upon it, you'll let me go, won't you, uncle?" "I suppose I must," said Job Stanton. "A wilful lad must have his way. But you mustn't blame me if things turn out unlucky." "No, I shall only blame myself." "There's one promise you must make me," said his uncle. "What is that?" "Take a week to consider whether you hadn't better take my advice and stay at home." "Yes, uncle, I'll promise that." "And you'll think it over in all its bearin's?" "Yes, uncle." "It ain't best to take any important step without reflection, Ben." "You're right, uncle." This conversation took place in Job Stanton's little shoe-shop, only a rod distant from the small, plain house which he had occupied ever since he had been married. It was interrupted by the appearance of a pretty girl of fourteen, who, presenting herself at the door of the shop, called out: "Supper's ready, father." "So are we, Jennie," said Ben, promptly. "You are always ready to eat, Ben," said his cousin, smiling. "That's what Mrs. Pitkin used to think, Jennie. She used to watch every mouthful I took." CHAPTER II. DEACON PITKIN'S OFFER. Ben's father had died three months before. He had lost his mother when ten years old, and having neither brother nor sister was left quite alone in the world. At one time his father had possessed a few thousand dollars, but by unlucky investments he had lost nearly all, so that Ben's inheritance amounted to less than four hundred dollars. This thought troubled Mr. Stanton, and on his death-bed he spoke about it to his son. "I shall leave you almost destitute, Ben," he said. "If I had acted more wisely it would have been different." "Don't trouble yourself about that, father," said Ben promptly. "I am young and strong, and I shall be sure to get along." "You will have to work hard, and the world is a hard taskmaster." "I don't feel afraid, father. I am sure I shall succeed." The dying father was cheered by Ben's confident words. Our hero was strong and sturdy, his limbs active, and his face ruddy with health. He looked like a boy who could get along. He was not a sensitive plant, and not to be discouraged by rebuffs. The father's brow cleared. "I am glad you are not afraid to meet what is in store for you," he said. "I believe you will do your part, and God helps those who help themselves." After his father's death, Ben became an inmate of his uncle's family while the estate was being settled. He paid for his board partly by work in the shop, and partly by doing chores. This brings us to the day when the conversation detailed in the first chapter took place. On the following morning Ben was sent on an errand to the village store. On his way he overtook Deacon Pitkin. "Good mornin', Ben!" said the deacon. "Where are you goin'?" "To the store, sir." "So am I. Ef you ain't in a hurry, le'ss walk along together." "All right, sir," answered Ben. "I think I know what's comin," he said to himself. "You're stayin' at your Uncle Job's, ain't you?" asked Deacon Pitkin. "Yes, sir." "You don't calc'late to keep on there, do you?" "No, sir; he would like to have me stay and work in the shop, but I don't fancy shoemaking." "Jest so. I wouldn't ef I was you. It's an onsartin business. There's nothin' like farmin' for stiddy work." "The old man kept me at work pretty stiddy," thought Ben. "He'd always find something for me to do." "'Ive been thinkin' that I need a boy about your age to help me on my farm. I ain't so young as I was, and I've got a crick in my back. I don't want a man-" "You'd have to pay him too high wages," Ben said to himself. "A strong, capable boy like you could give me all the help I need." "I expect I could," said Ben demurely. "I was sayin' to Mrs. Pitkin this mornin' that I thought it would be a good plan to take you till you was twenty-one." "What did she say?" asked Ben, interested. "Waal, she didn't say much," answered the deacon slowly; "but I guess she hasn't no objections." "Didn't she say that I had an awful appetite?" asked Ben, smiling. "She said you was pretty hearty," answered the deacon, rather surprised at Ben's penetration. "Boys should curb their appetites." "I don't think I could curb mine," said Ben thoughtfully. "I guess there wouldn't be any trouble about that," returned the deacon, whose meanness ran in a different channel from his wife's, and who took less note of what was eaten at his table. "Ef you think you'd like to engage, and we could make a bargain, you might begin next week." "Jest so," said Ben. The deacon looked at him rather sharply, but Ben didn't appear to intend any disrespect in repeating his favorite phrase. "Did your father leave you much?" inquired Deacon Pitkin. "A few hundred dollars," said Ben carelessly. "Indeed!" said the deacon, gratified. "What are you goin' to do with it?" "Uncle Job thinks it would be best to put it in the bank." "Jest so. It would fetch you some interest every year-enough to clothe you, likely. I'll tell you what I'll do, Ben. I'll give you your board the first year, and your interest will buy your clothes. The second year I'll give you twenty dollars and board, and maybe twenty more the third year." Ben shook his head. "I guess we can't make a bargain, Deacon Pitkin," he said. Deacon Pitkin knew that he had made a very mean offer, and felt that he could afford to increase it somewhat; but he was a close hand at a bargain, and meant to get Ben as cheap as he could. "What was you expectin'?" he asked cautiously. "You must remember that you're only a boy, and can't expect men's wages." Ben had no idea, as we know, of engaging to work for Deacon Pitkin at all; but he decided that the easiest way to avoid it was to put such a value on his services as to frighten the old man. "I am almost as strong as a man," he said, "and I can earn a great deal more than my board the first year." "I might be willin' to give you twenty dollars the first year," said the deacon. "I've been thinking," said Ben soberly, "that I ought to have a hundred and fifty dollars and board the first year." Deacon Pitkin fairly gasped for breath. He was fairly overpowered by Ben's audacity. "A-hundred-and-fifty-dollars!" he ejaculated, turning his wrinkled face toward our hero. "That's about the figure," said Ben cheerfully. "A hundred and fifty dollars and board, or three hundred dollars, and I'll board with my uncle." "Is the boy crazy?" asked the deacon, in a bewildered tone. "You'd have to pay a man as much as twenty dollars a month," pursued Ben. "That's about a hundred dollars a year more." "Benjamin," said the deacon solemnly, "do you want to ruin me?" "No, sir, I hope not," answered our hero innocently. "Then why do you ask such an unheard-of price?" "I think I'm worth it," said Ben. "Boys haven't much jedgment," said the deacon. "You'd better let me talk over this matter with your Uncle Job." "It won't be any use, Deacon Pitkin. Uncle Job won't interfere with me." "You can't get such wages anywhere. You'll have to work for less." "Perhaps I can't get my price in Hampton," said Ben. "Of course you can't. There ain't no one goin' to pay you men's wages." "Perhaps you are right, Deacon Pitkin. In that case, my mind is made up." "What will you do?" asked the deacon, showing some curiosity. "I'll leave town." "It's a resky thing, Benjamin. You ain't old enough to take care of yourself." "I think I can do it. Deacon Pitkin. I am not afraid to try. Still, if you'll give me a hundred and fifty dollars and board--" "You must think I'm crazy," said the deacon hastily. "I don't throw money away that way." "Then I'm afraid we can't make a bargain, deacon. Here is the store, and I'll bid you good morning." "If you think better of my offer, you can let me know, Benjamin. You can talk it over with your uncle." "All right, sir. If you think better of mine, just let me know within a week, or I may be gone from Hampton." "That's a cur'us boy," said the deacon meditatively. "He's got the most conceited idea of his vally to work of any boy I ever came across. A hundred and fifty dollars and board! What'll Mrs. Pitkin say when I tell her? She ain't much sot on the boy's comin' anyway. She thinks he's too hearty; but I don't mind that, so much. He's strong and good to work, an' he's the only boy in town that would suit me." "I wonder what the deacon thinks of me," soliloquized Ben. "I thought I should scare him a little when I named my price. If I'd thought he would take me at that figure, I'd have said more. It wouldn't suit me to work for him at all." In the evening Deacon Pitkin came over to see Job Stanton, and renewed his offer for Ben's services. "The boy's got wild idees about pay," he said; "but boys haven't much jedgment. You're a sensible man, Mr. Stanton, and you and me can make a fair bargain." "It won't be of much use, Deacon Pitkin. Ben's got his idees, an' he sticks to 'em." "But you're his uncle. You can make him see his true interest." "Ben's young," said Job, suspending his work; "but he's got to look out for himself. He may make mistakes, but I've promised not to interfere. I've got confidence in him that he'll come out right in the end. Truth is, deacon, he don't want to work at farmin', and that's why he asked you such a steep price. He knew you wouldn't agree to give it." This put the matter in a new light, and Deacon Pitkin reluctantly concluded that he must abandon the idea of obtaining Ben as a helper on his farm. CHAPTER III. SAM STURGIS' NEW IDEA. During the week which Ben had agreed to take before coming to a final decision, he had another offer of employment. This is how it came about: A little out of the village, in a handsome house, the best in Hampton, lived Major Sturgis, a wealthy landholder, who had plenty to live upon and nothing in particular to do, except to look after his property. He was a portly man, who walked with a slow, dignified step, leaning on a gold-headed cane, and evidently felt his importance. His son, Sam, was a chip of the old block. He condescended to associate with the village boys, because solitary grandeur is not altogether pleasant. He occasionally went to New York to visit a cousin of about his own age. From such a visit he had just returned, bringing back with him a new idea. "Father," he said, "Cousin Henry has a boy about his own age to wait on him, black his boots, and run errands." "Has he?" asked the major mechanically, not looking up from the daily paper which he was reading. "Yes, sir. He don't pay him much, you know, only five dollars a month and his board, and Henry finds it very convenient." Major Sturgis did not reply. In fact, he was too much interested in the article he was reading. "Ain't you as rich as uncle?" asked Sam, who was gradually leading up to his proposal. "Yes, Sam, I think so," answered his father, laying down the paper and removing his gold-bowed spectacles. "Then why won't you let me have a servant, too?" "What do you want of a servant? There are servants enough in the house." "I want a boy to follow me round, and do just what I bid him." "I don't see any necessity for it." "He could do errands for you, too, father," said Sam diplomatically. "We would have to send to the city for a boy, in case I let you have one." "No, we wouldn't," answered Sam. "Do you know of any one around here?" "Yes; there is Ben Stanton. He's got to find something to do." "I thought you didn't like Ben Stanton," said the major, in some surprise. "I have heard you say-" "Oh, he's rather uppish-feels too big for a poor boy; but I would soon train him. I'd make him know his place." "Your remarks are well founded, my son. Only yesterday I met the boy on the village street, and instead of taking off his hat and making a low bow, as he should do to a man of my position, he nodded carelessly, and said. 'How are you, major?' Really, I don't know what the country is coming to, when the rising generation is so deficient in veneration." "The fact is, father, Ben thinks himself as good as anybody. You'd think, by the way he speaks to me, that he considered himself my equal." "That is one of the evils incident to a republican form of government," said the major pompously. "For my part, I prefer the English social system, where the gentry are treated with proper deference." "Well, father, may I engage Ben as my servant?" "I am afraid you would not find him properly subordinate." "Just leave that to me," said Sam confidently. "If I can't teach him his place, then nobody can. I should enjoy having him to order about." Sam generally carried his point with his father, and the present instance was no exception. "I don't know that I have any particular objection," said the major. "How much wages may I offer, father?" "The same that your Cousin Henry's servant gets." "All right, sir," said Sam, with satisfaction. "I guess I'll go round, and see him about it this afternoon. I suppose he can come any time?" "Yes, my son." As Sam went out of the room his father thought, complacently: "My son has all the pride and instincts of a gentleman. He will do credit to the family." Few persons in the village would have agreed with the major. Sam Sturgis was decidedly unpopular. No boy who puts on airs is likely to be a favorite with any class of persons, and Sam put on rather more than he was entitled to. From time to time he received a rebuff, but still money will tell. He had his followers and sycophants, but we may be sure that Ben was not numbered among them. It was quite useless for Sam to patronize him-he would not be patronized, but persisted in treating the major's son with the most exasperating familiarity. Of course this would be impossible if he became Sam's servant, and this more than anything else was the motive of the young aristocrat in wishing to engage him. As to conferring a favor on Ben, that was the last thing in his thoughts. Sam bent his steps toward the humble home of Job Stanton, but he did not have to go the whole distance. He met Ben with a fishing-pole over his shoulder. "How are you, Sam?" was Ben's familiar greeting. "Want to go fishing with me?" "He's entirely too familiar," thought Sam. "I'll cure him of that when he is under my orders." At present Sam did not think it politic to express his feelings on the subject. Ben was so independent that it might frustrate his plan. "I will walk along with you, Ben," said Sam condescendingly. "All right. Haven't you got a fishing-pole at home?" "Yes, I have a very handsome one; it cost five dollars." "Then it's rather ahead of mine," said Ben. "I should say so," remarked Sam, surveying Ben's pole with contempt. "But I'll bet you can't catch as many fish with it," said Ben promptly. "I don't think it makes much difference to the fish," he added, with a laugh, "whther they are caught with a five-dollar pole or a five-cent one." "Very likely," said Sam briefly, "but I prefer to use a nice pole." "Oh, there's no objection," said Ben, "if you fancy it. It doesn't make any difference to me." "When are you going to work?" asked Sam abruptly. "I am working every day-that is, I am helping Uncle Job." "But I suppose you mean to get regular work somewhere, don't you?" "What's he after, I wonder?" thought Ben. "Maybe I do," he said aloud. "Perhaps I can throw something in your way," said Sam, in a patronizing way. "You are very kind," said Ben, who supposed Sam had heard of some business position which he could fill. Our hero decided that perhaps he had misjudged the major's son, and he was prepared to make amends. "If you get me a position, I shall be much obliged." "The fact is," said Sam, "I should find it convenient to have a boy go about with me, and be at my orders. My Cousin Henry has one, and father says I may engage you." Ben faced round, and looked steadily at Sam. He felt that he would far rather work for Deacon Pitkin, in spite of his meager table, or toil twelve hours a day in his uncle's shoe-shop, than accept such a place as was now offered him. He penetrated Sam's motive, and felt incensed with him, though he did not choose to show it. "What are you willing to pay?" asked Ben, in a businesslike tone. "Five dollars a month and your board," said Sam. "You'll live better than you ever did before in your life, and your duties will be easy." "What would you want me to do?" asked Ben. "Why, I would take you with me whenever I went out rowing or fishing. That would be easy enough. Then, in the morning you would black my shoes and keep my clothes well brushed, and go of any errands I had for you. Oh, well, I can't tell you all you would have to do, but you'd have an easy time." "Yes, I don't think it would tire me out," said Ben. "You'd want me to black your boots?" "Yes." "Well, I might agree to that on one condition." "What is that?" "That you would black mine." "What do you mean?" demanded Sam, his face flushing angrily. "Just what I say." "Do you mean to insult me?" "Not a bit; any more than you mean to insult me," "Do you dare to propose that I, a gentleman, should black your low-lived shoes?" exclaimed Sam furiously. "I think you're rather hard on my shoes," said Ben, laughing. "I'll come for four dollars a month, if you'll do that." "I never heard such impudence," said Sam, in concentrated wrath. "I never was so repaid for kindness before." "Look here, Sam," said Ben, "I understand just how kind you are. You want the satisfaction of ordering me round, and you can't have it. I decline your offer. I'd rather beg for bread than accept it." "You may starve, for all me," said Sam. "It's ridiculous for a poor boy to put on such airs. You'll die in the poorhouse yet." "I won't live there, if I can help it. What! are you going to leave me?" "I won't condescend to be seen with you." "Good-by, Sam. I hope you won't have to black your own boots." Sam did not deign a reply. "He looks mad," thought Ben. "I'd live on one meal a day rather than let him order me round." CHAPTER IV. A BRILLIANT CHANCE. The week was over, and Ben persisted in his determination to leave Hampton. "I'm sorry you are going, Ben," said his Cousin Jennie. "I shall miss you awfully." As Jennie was the prettiest girl in the village, though she did not inherit any good looks from her plain-looking father, Ben was gratified. "You'd forget me soon," he said. "No, I won't." "Especially when Sam Sturgis comes round to see you." "I don't want to see him. He's a stuck-up boy, and thinks himself too good to associate with common people." "He wanted to have me black his boots," said Ben. "He isn't fit to black yours," said Jennie energetically. "Oh, yes, he is," said Ben, laughing. "That's where you and I disagree." "I guess we both mean about the same thing," said Jennie, who saw the point. Ben's resolve to go to California was modified by an advertisement in a New York daily paper which he saw at the village tavern. It ran thus: "Wanted, six boys, from fifteen to eighteen years of age, to fill positions of trust. Ten dollars per week will be paid; but a deposit of fifty dollars is required as a guarantee of honesty. This sum will be repaid at the close of term of service. Address Fitch & Perguson, No.--Nassau Street." This advertisement looked quite attractive to Ben. He copied it, and showed it to Uncle Job. "Isn't that a good chance, Uncle Job?" he said. "Just think! Ten dollars a week!" "You'd have to pay your board out of it," said his uncle. "I know that, but my board wouldn't cost more than four dollars a week. That would leave me six." "So it would. I declare it does seem to be a good chance. Maybe they've got all the boys they want." "Why, you see, uncle, there's a good many boys that couldn't pay the deposit money. That would limit the number of applicants. Now, I have the money, and I guess I'd better write to New York at once about it." "Maybe you had, Ben." Ben immediately procured a sheet of paper and wrote to the advertisers, stating that he would like the position, and assuring them of his ability to furnish the required sum. The letter went to New York by the afternoon mail. Naturally Ben was a little excited and suffered a little from suspense. He feared that all the places would be filled, and such another chance was hardly to be expected again very soon. However, on Monday morning he was gratified by the receipt of the following letter: "No.--NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK. "MR. BENJAMIN STANTON: Your letter of yesterday is at hand. Fortunately we have one vacancy, the other places being already filled. We have rejected three applicants for it on account of unsatisfactory penmanship. Yours, however, is up to the mark, and we will engage you on the strength of it. It will be necessary for you to report as soon as possible at our office for duty. We require the deposit on account of the sums of money which you will handle. We do not doubt your honesty, but it seems desirable that you should furnish a guarantee, particularly as we pay a much larger salary than is usually given to young clerks. "Yours respectfully, "FITCH & FERGUSON. "P. S. Your engagement will not commence until the fifty dollars are in our hands." Ben was quite elated by his success. "I must start to-morrow morning," he said, "or I shall be in danger of losing the place." "It seems very sudden," said his aunt. "I am afraid I sha'n't have time to get your clothes ready. Some are dirty, and others need mending. If I'd had a little notice-" "It won't make any difference, Aunt Sarah," said Ben. "I'll take a few clothes in a carpetbag, and you can send the rest by express when they are ready." "Yes, Sarah, that will be the best way," said Uncle Job. "Ben don't want to run the risk of losing the place by delay." Mrs. Stanton acquiesced rather unwillingly, and for the remainder of the day Ben was busy making preparations to leave his country home. CHAPTER V. IN SEARCH OF A PLACE. Ben took the early train to New York on Tuesday morning, and in due time arrived in the city. He carried with him seventy-five dollars out of his small patrimony. Fifty were to be deposited with Messrs. Fitch & Ferguson, as required, and the balance was to defray his expenses till he began to receive a salary. Ben didn't expect to need much of it, for at the end of a week he would be paid ten dollars for his services, and until then he meant to be very economical. Ben had only been in New York twice before, but he happened to know his way to Nassau Street, and went there at once, with his carpetbag in his hand. As he entered Nassau Street from Printing-House Square, a bootblack accosted him. "How are you, country?" "Are you very anxious to know?" asked Ben, stopping short. "Yes." "I'm well enough and strong enough to give you a licking." "Good for you, country! Have you come to stay long?" Ben laughed. He concluded not to take offense, but to answer seriously. "That depends on whether I get the place I am after." "What is that?" asked the bootblack, in a friendly tone. Now, on the way to the city, Ben had overheard a conversation between two gentlemen, relative to certain swindlers in New York, which, for the first time, had aroused in him a suspicion that possibly there might be something wrong about the firm whose advertisement he had answered. He felt the need of an adviser, and though his choice may be considered rather a strange one, he decided to consult his new acquaintance, the bootblack. He briefly told him of the advertisement, and what it offered. The bootblack surveyed him with pitying curiosity. "You don't mean to say you swallow all that?" he said. "Don't you think it's all right?" asked Ben anxiously. "Look here," said the street boy, "do you think anybody's going to pay a boy ten dollars a week, when there's hundreds ready to work for three or four? Why, a man in Pearl Street advertised last week for a boy at three dollars, and there was a whole shoal of boys went for it. I was one of 'em." "Don't you earn more than that by your business?" "Sometimes I do, but it ain't stiddy, and I'd rather have a place." "Why do they advertise to give ten dollars, then?" asked our hero. "They want to get hold of your fifty dollars," said the bootblack. "Them fellers is beats, that's what they are." "What had I better do?" asked Ben, in perplexity. "Go and see 'em, and have a talk. If they're not after your fifty dollars, you'll know what it means." "It may be all right, after all," said Ben, who did not like to give up hope. "I may be General Grant," retorted the bootblack, "but if I know myself I ain't." "Well, I'll go round and talk with them. Where can I meet you afterwards?" "I'll be standin' here, if you ain't gone too long." "What's your name?" "Tom Cooper." "I am Ben Stanton. Thank you for your advice." "You're a good feller if you do come from the country. Just look out for them fellers. Don't let 'em hook you in." "All right, Tom." Ben moved on, watching the numbers as he walked slowly along, till he came to the one mentioned in the advertisement. There was a hallway and a staircase, with a directory of persons occupying offices on the floors above. From this Ben ascertained that Fitch & Ferguson occupied Room 17, on the fourth floor. "I wonder what business they are in," thought our hero as he mounted the stairs. "They must have considerable or they wouldn't need so many boys-that is, if they are on the square." Presently he stood in front of a door bearing the number 17. He knocked for admittance. CHAPTER VI. MR. PITCH, THE SENIOR PARTNER. "Come in," said a loud voice. Ben opened the door and entered. He found himself in a square room, almost bare of furniture. In an office chair at a table sat a dark-complexioned man of near forty. He appeared to be reading the morning paper. "Is this the office of Fitch & Ferguson?" inquired Ben. A glance at Ben's carpetbag indicated that he had come in answer to the advertisement, and he was received very graciously. "Come in," said the man in the chair, smiling affably. "This is the office of Fitch & Ferguson. I am Mr. Fitch." "My name is Stanton-Ben Stanton," said our hero. "I wrote you from Hampton about your advertisement." "For a boy at ten dollars a week?" suggested the dark man, with a pleasant smile. "Yes, sir." "We agreed to take you, did we not?" asked Mr. Fitch. "Yes, sir." "Have you had any business experience?" inquired Pitch. "No, sir." "I am sorry for that," said Mr. Fitch gravely. "Experience is important. I am not sure whether we ought to pay you ten dollars a week." Ben did not reply. He was not so much concerned about the amount of his compensation as about the reliable character of Fitch & Ferguson. "Still," mused Mr. Fitch, "you look like a boy who would learn fast. What do you think about it yourself?" "I think I could," answered Ben. "I should try to serve you faithfully." "That is well. We want to be served faithfully," said Mr. Fitch. "What kind of a business is it?" Ben ventured to ask, surveying the empty office with a puzzled look, which Mr. Fitch observed and interpreted aright. "We do a commission business," he said. "Of course, we keep no stock of goods here. Business is not done in the city, my young friend, as it is in the country." "No, I suppose not," returned our hero. "Without entering into details as to the character of our business," said Mr. Fitch, "I may say that you would be chiefly employed in making collections. It is because considerable sums of money would pass through your hands that we require a deposit in order to protect ourselves. By the way, have you the fifty dollars with you?" Ben admitted that he had. Mr. Fitch's face brightened up, for he had not felt quite sure of that. "I am glad to hear of it," he said. "It shows that you mean business. You may hand it to me, and I will give you a receipt for it." "I would like to ask you one or two questions first," said Ben, making no movement toward his pocket. Mr. Fitch frowned. "Really, I fail to catch your meaning," he said, in a changed tone. "Do you wish to enter my employ, or do you not?" "I should like to earn ten dollars a week." "Precisely. Then all you have to do is to hand me the fifty dollars and go to work." "You might keep me only a week," suggested Ben. "We shall keep you if you suit us, and you can if you try. If you are discharged, we give you back your money, and pay you for the time you work for us. That is fair, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." "Then we may as well settle the matter at once," and he waited for Ben to draw forth his money. Our hero would, undoubtedly, have done so, if he had not been cautioned by Tom Cooper. As it was, he could not help feeling suspicious. "I should like to propose something to you, sir," he said. "What is it?" asked Fitch impatiently. "Suppose you keep five dollars a week out of my wages for ten weeks-that'll make fifty dollars-and only pay it to me when I leave you." "Young man," said Mr. Fitch sternly, "this is trifling, and my time is too valuable for such discussion. Have you, or have you not, brought fifty dollars with you?" "I have." "Then you can secure the place-a place such as few New York boys are fortunate enough to fill. You must decide for yourself." He threw himself back in his chair and looked at Ben. "He seems very anxious about the money," thought our hero, "and I don't see any signs of any business. I'd better back out." "There are plenty of boys who want the place," continued Fitch, trying to look indifferent. "I guess you can give it to one of them," said Ben coolly. Mr. Fitch could not conceal his disappointment. The fifty dollars had a great attraction for him. He saw that Ben was in earnest, for he was already opening the door to go out. He must make an effort to detain him. "Wait a moment, my young friend. I like your appearance, and we may be disposed to take you on a little easier terms. Fifty dollars is probably a large sum to you." Ben admitted that it was. "Probably your means are limited?" "Yes, sir; I am a poor boy." "Just so. I will then relax our rules a little in your case. Of course, you won't mention it to our other boys, as it might create dissatisfaction." "No, sir." "We will take you on a deposit of forty dollars, then." Ben shook his head, and moved as if to depart. "In fact," said Mr. Fitch hastily, "I believe I will say thirty dollars, Though I am afraid my partner will blame me." Ben was not versed in city ways, but now he distrusted Mr. Fitch more than ever. "I would rather take a situation where no deposit is required," he said. "But you can't get any unless you agree to accept three or four dollars a week." "Can you afford to pay me ten dollars a week on account of my deposit?" asked Ben shrewdly. Mr. Fitch flushed, for Ben's question was a home thrust. "We don't want cheap boys," he said pompously. "We want boys who are worth high wages, and no others." "And you think I am worth high wages?" asked Ben. "I think so, but I may be mistaken." Ben was not required to answer, for the door opened hastily, and a man entered in visible excitement. "What is your business, sir?" asked Mr. Fitch, rather nervously. "Are you Fitch or Ferguson?" demanded the intruder. "I am Mr. Fitch." "Two days ago my son, James Cameron, entered your service." "Yes, sir." "Where is he now?" "We have sent him to Brooklyn to collect a bill." "He paid you a deposit of fifty dollars?" "Certainly. We require it as a guarantee of honesty and fidelity." "Well, I want you to pay it back." "I don't understand you, sir," said Mr. Fitch, looking very much disturbed. "It will be given up when your son leaves our employment." "Well, he's going to leave it to-day," said the other. "Can you get him another place as good? Ten dollars a week are not often paid to boys." "No, sir; it's that that makes me suspicious. Give me back the fifty dollars, and James shall leave your employment." "That is entirely irregular, sir," said Fitch. "Your son has been only two days in the office. At the end of the week he can leave us, and receive back his money." "That won't do," said the angry father. "It will have to do," said Fitch. "You are doing a very foolish thing, Mr. Cameron." "I'll risk that." "When your son returns from Brooklyn we will consider what can be done." "When will that be?" "In a couple of hours." "I will come in then." Cameron went out, and Ben followed him, the discomfited Fitch making no effort to detain the lad. "I was thinking of engaging myself to Mr. Fitch," said Ben to his companion. "Do you know anything against him?" "I hear that he's a swindler," said Cameron. "I was a fool to fall into his snare. Keep your money and you'll be better off." "Thank you, sir." Fifteen minutes afterward Mr. Fitch left his office, and when Mr. Cameron came back, the door was locked. He found his son waiting in the entry. "Did you collect any money in Brooklyn?" asked his father. "No; I guess Mr. Fitch gave me the wrong number. There was no such man living at the house he sent me to." "We've been fooled!" said the father bitterly. "Come home, James. I doubt we've seen the last of our money. If I ever set eyes on that man Pitch again I'll give him in charge for swindling." The senior partner of Pitch & Ferguson was at that moment on his way to Philadelphia with the remains of the fifty dollars in his pocket. But for Ben's caution he would have had another fifty dollars in his possession. CHAPTER VII. BEN'S DINNER-GUEST. Ben slowly retraced his steps to where he had left his friend, Tom Cooper. "Well," said the bootblack, "did you see Fitch and Ferguson?" "Yes," answered Ben soberly; "that is, I saw one of them." "Did you take the place?" "No; I found he was too anxious for my fifty dollars, though he offered after a while to take me for thirty." Tom Cooper laughed derisively. "I'll do better nor that," he said. "If you'll give me twenty dollars, I'll make you my private secretary, payin' you ten dollars a week." "How long will you keep me?" asked Ben, smiling. "Six days," answered Tom. "Then I'll have to sack you without pay, 'cause you don't understand your business." "Is that the way they manage?" asked Ben. The bootblack nodded. Ben looked grave. The disappointment was a serious one, and he felt now how much he had relied upon the promises of Fitch & Ferguson. He had formed no other plans, and it seemed likely that he must return to the country to resume his old life. Yet that seemed impracticable. There was no opening there unless he accepted one of the two offers already made him. But he was neither inclined to enter the employ of Deacon Pitkin, nor to become the valet and servant of Sam Sturgis. He was not quite sure whether he would not prefer to become a bootblack, like his new acquaintance. "What are you goin' to do?" asked Tom. "I wish I knew," said Ben earnestly. "What can I do?" "You might go into my business," suggested Tom. Ben shook his head. "I don't think I should like that." "No more would I if I'd got fifty dollars in my pocket. If I was you I'd go into business." "What kind of business?" "Well," said Tom reflectively, "you might buy out an apple or a peanut-stand, and have lots of money left." "Is there much money to be made that way?" inquired Ben. "Well, I never knowed anybody get rich in that line. I guess you'd make a livin'." "That wouldn't satisfy me, Tom. What I want most of all is to go to California." The bootblack whistled. "That's off ever so far, isn't it?" "Yes, it's a long way." "How do you go?" "There are three ways," answered Ben, who had made himself familiar with the subject. "The first is to go by land-across the plains. Then there is a line of steamers by way of Panama. The longest way is by a sailing-vessel round Cape Horn." "What would you do when you got to California?" asked Tom. "Go to work. I suppose I would go to the mines and dig gold." "I wish it wasn't so far off. I'd like to go myself. Do you think a feller could work his passage?" "By blacking boots?" "Yes." "I don't believe he could. Sailors don't care much about having their boots blacked." "How much does it cost to go?" "I don't know." "Why don't you go to the office and find out?" "So I will," said Ben, brightening up at the thought. "Do you know where it is?" "Yes." "Will you show me?" "I would if I'd make enough to buy me some dinner. I only had a five-cent breakfast, and I feel kinder holler." "I feel hungry myself," said Ben. "If you'll go with me I'll buy you some dinner to pay you for your trouble." "'Nough said!" remarked Tom briefly, as he shouldered his box. "I'm your man. Come along! Where shall we go first?" "To an eating-house. We might have to wait at the office." Tom conducted Ben to a cheap restaurant, not far away, where the two for a moderate sum obtained a plentiful meal. Had either been fastidious, some exception might have been taken to the style in which the dishes were served, but neither was critical. A dapper young clerk, however, who sat opposite Tom, seemed quite disturbed by the presence of the bootblack. As his eye rested on Tom he sniffed contemptuously, and frowned. In truth, our friend Tom might be useful, but in his present apparel he was not fitted to grace a drawing-room. He had no coat, his vest was ragged, and his shirt soiled with spots of blacking. There were spots also upon his freckled face, of which Tom was blissfully unconscious. It didn't trouble him any to have a dirty face. "Dirt is only matter in the wrong place," as a philosopher once remarked. Tom was a philosopher in his own way. The young clerk pulled out a scented handkerchief, and applied it to his nose, looking at Tom meanwhile. "What's the matter of yer?" inquired Tom, suspecting the cause of the dandy's discomfort. "Be you sick?" "It's enough to make one sick to sit at the table with you," answered the clerk. "Why?" "You are absolutely filthy. Don't you know any better than to come in where there are gentlemen?" "I don't see any except him," said Tom, indicating Ben with his glance. "This is really too much. Here, waiter!" A waiter answered the summons. "What is it, sir?" "Just remove my plate to another table, will you?" "Is anything the matter, sir?" "I am not accustomed to associate with bootblacks," said the clerk loftily. "All right, sir." "I am really surprised that you admit any of that low class." "As long as they pay their bills we are willing to receive them." "I don't believe that boy has got enough to pay for his dinner." The waiter, at this suggestion, looked at Tom rather suspiciously. After removing the plate of the sensitive customer, he came back to the table where the two boys were seated. "Have you given your order?" he asked. "Yes." "If you haven't got money enough to pay your check you'll be bounced." "Don't you trouble yourself, old woolly head," said Tom coolly. "My friend pays the bills. He's a banker down in Wall Street, and he's rich enough to buy out your whole place." "The dinner will be paid for," said Ben, smiling. "All right, gentlemen," said the waiter, more respectfully. "We'll be glad to see you any time." "Tom," said Ben, "I'm afraid you don't always tell the truth." "Why not?" "You told the waiter I was a Wall Street banker, and rich." "Oh, what's the odds? You're rich enough to pay for the dinners, and that's all he wants." "You came near spoiling the appitite of that young man over at the opposite table." "I'd like to spoil his beauty. He feels too big. I don't like to see a feller put on so many airs. What's the matter of me, I'd like to know?" "Why, you see, Tom, your face isn't very clean. There are spots of blacking on it." "A feller can't be always washin' his face. I'll wash it to-morrow mornin' at the lodge. Does it take away your appetite, too?" "Not a bit," said Ben, laughing. "Nothing but a good dinner will take away that." "You're the kind of feller I like," said Tom emphatically. "You don't put on no airs." "I can't afford to," said Ben. "I'm a poor boy myself." "I wouldn't feel poor if I had fifty dollars," returned Tom. "I hope you'll have it sometime, and a good deal more." "So do I. When I'm a rich man, I'll wash my face oftener." "And put blacking on your boots instead of your face," added Ben. "It might look better," Tom admitted. When dinner was over the two boys directed their steps to the California steamship office, on one of the North River piers. CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE. Tom Cooper was too familiar with the streets of New York to pay any attention to the moving panorama of which he and Ben formed a part. But everything was new and interesting to Ben, who had passed his life in a quiet country town. "I should think it was the Fourth of July," he said. "Why?" asked the bootblack. "Because there's such a lot of people and wagons in the streets." "There's always as many as this, except Sundays," said Tom. "Where do they all come from?" said Beu wonderingly. "You've got me there," answered Tom. "I never thought about that. Look out!" he exclaimed suddenly, dragging Ben from in front of a team coming up the street. "Do you want to get run over?" "I was looking the other way," said Ben, rather confused. "You've got to look all ways to once here," said Tom. "I guess you're right. Don't people often get run over?" "Once in a while. There's a friend of mine--Patsy Burke--a newsboy, was run over last year and had his leg broke. They took him to Bellevue Hospital, and cut it off." "Is he alive now?" "Oh, yes, he's alive and to work, the same as ever. He's got a wooden leg." "Poor boy!" said Ben compassionately. "Oh, he don't mind it, Patsy don't. He's always jolly." By this time they reached the office of the California Steamship Company. There was a large sign up, so that there was no difficulty in finding it. The two boys entered. The room was not a large one. There was a counter, behind which were two young men writing, and there was besides a man of middle age, who was talking to two gentlemen who appeared to be engaging passage. Seated in a chair, apparently awaiting her turn, was a young lady, whose face was half-concealed by a thick, green veil. When the two gentlemen were disposed of, the agent spoke to the young lady. "What can I do for you, miss?" he asked. "I am in no hurry, sir," she answered, in a low voice. "I will wait for those boys." "What's your business, boys?" demanded the agent, shrugging his shoulders. "When does the next steamer start, sir?" inquired Ben. "In three days." "What is the price of passage?" "First-class?" "No, sir, the cheapest." "One hundred dollars. Do you wish to secure passage?" "Not this morning, sir." The agent shrugged his shoulders again, as if to say "I thought so," and turned again to the young lady. "Now, miss," he said. "I beg your pardon, sir," she said hurriedly. "I will call again." As she spoke, she left the office, following the two boys so quickly that they almost went out together. Ben had not taken particular notice of the young lady, and was much surprised when he felt a hand laid on his arm, and, turning, his eyes fell npon her face. "May I speak a few words with you?" she said. "Certainly," answered Ben politely, though he could not conceal his astonishment. The young lady looked uneasily at Tom, and hesitated. "Won't you move away a few steps, Tom?" said Ben, understanding the look. "Thank you," said the young lady, in a low voice. "Are you intending to sail for California by the next steamer?" "I should like to, miss, but I am poor, and I don't know whether I can afford the expense of a ticket." "Would you go if your ticket were paid-by a friend?" "You bet I would-I mean I certainly would," answered Ben, correcting his phraseology, as he remembered that he was addressing a young lady, and not one of his boy friends. "Would you be willing to take care of me--that is, to look after me?" Ben was certainly surprised; but he answered promptly and with native politeness: "It would be a pleasure to me." "You were going alone-you had no friends with you?" "None at all, miss." "That is well," she said. "What is your name?" "Ben Stanton." "Do you live in the city?" "No, miss. I came from the small town of Hampton." "Where are you staying?" "Nowhere. I only arrived in the city this morning." "Will you be able to go by the next steamer?" Ben hesitated. It almost took away his breath--it seemed so sudden-but he reflected that there really was no reason why he should not, and he answered in the affirmative. "Then go back with me, and I will engage passage for us both." The young lady and Ben reentered the office, Tom Cooper looking on with astonishment. She approached the counter, this time with confidence, and the agent came forward. "I have concluded to engage passage for myself and this lad," she said. The agent regarded her with surprise. "Both first-class?" he asked. "Certainly, sir. I should like the lad to occupy a stateroom near mine." "Very well. I will show you on the plan those that are unengaged. I cannot give either of you a stateroom to yourselves. I can give you a room with a very agreeable lady, a Mrs. Dunbar, and the boy can occupy part of the adjoining room." "Very well, sir." "What name?" continued the agent. "Ida Sinclair," answered the young lady, with visible hesitation. "And the boy's name?" Miss Sinclair had forgotten; but Ben promptly answered for himself. The young lady drew out her pocketbook, and produced several large bills, out of which she paid the passage money. Then, turning to Ben, she said: "Now we will go." Ben followed her out of the office, feeling completely bewildered. Well he might. The young lady had paid two hundred and fifty dollars for his passage, and for this large outlay only required him to take care of her. No wonder he thought it strange. "You say you are not staying at any hotel?" said the young lady, as they emerged into the street. "No, Miss Sinclair." "I am staying at the Astor House, and it is important that you should be with me, as I may have some errands on which to employ you." "Is it an expensive hotel?" asked Ben. "That will not matter to you, as I shall pay the bill." "Thank you, Miss Sinclair; but you are spending a great deal of money for me." "I have an object in doing so. Besides, I have no lack of money." "Shall I go with you to the hotel now?" "Yes." "May I speak a moment to the boy who was with me?" "Certainly." "May I tell him where I am going?" "Yes, but ask him to keep it to himself." "I will, Miss Sinclair," and Ben was about to walk away. "On the whole, call the boy here," said Miss Sinclair. "Tom!" Tom Cooper answered the summons. "I am going to California with this lady," said Ben. "She has paid my passage." "You're in luck!" exclaimed Tom. "Say, miss, you don't want a boy to go along to black your boots, do you?" Miss Sinclair smiled faintly. "I think not," she answered. "Tom," continued Ben, "you won't say a word about my going, will you?" "Not if you don't want me to. Besides, there ain't nobody to tell." Miss Sinclair looked relieved. She drew out her pocketbook, and took from it a ten-dollar bill. "What is your name?" she asked. "Tom Cooper, ma'am." "Then, Tom, allow me to offer you a small present." "Is it all for me?" exclaimed Tom, in amazement. "Yes." Tom thrust it into his vest pocket, and immediately executed a somersault, rather to Miss Sinclair's alarm. "Excuse me, ma'am," said Tom, assuming his natural posture; "I couldn't help it, I felt so excited. I never was so rich before." "May I tell Tom where we are going to stop?" asked Ben. "Certainly, if he will keep it to himself." "I shall be at the Astor House, Tom. Come round and see me." Tom watched the two as they preceded him on their way to Broadway. "I wonder if I'm dreaming," he said to himself. "If I am, I hope I won't wake up till I've spent this ten dollars. I guess I'll go to the Old Bowery to-night." CHAPTER IX. AT THE ASTOR HOUSE. As they walked up to the hotel together, Miss Sinclair said: "You are probably surprised at what has taken place, but I have strong reasons for acting as I have done." "I don't doubt it, Miss Sinclair," returned Ben. "It is desirable that I should tell you-" "Don't tell me anything unless you like, Miss Sinclair. I am not troubled with curiosity." "Thank you, but in the confidential relations which we are to hold toward each other, it is necessary that you should understand my position. I will reserve my explanation, however, till we reach the hotel." "We are to stop at the Astor House?" "Yes, and I wish you to put down my name and your own on the register, and obtain two rooms as near together as convenient." "Very well, Miss Sinclair." "You may put me down as from-well, from Philadelphia." "All right. Shall I put myself down from Philadelphia, too?" "Not unless you choose. Your native village will answer. By the way, you are to pass for my cousin, and it will be better, therefore, that you should call me by my first name-Ida." "I wouldn't take the liberty but for your wishing it." "I do wish it-otherwise it would be difficult to pass you off as my cousin." "All right, Miss Sinclair-I mean Ida." "That is better. I shall call you Ben." "You couldn't very well call me Mr. Stanton," said our hero, smiling. "Not very well. But here we are at the hotel. We will go in together. I will go to the ladies' parlor, and you can join me there after securing rooms at the office." "Very well-Ida." Of course Ben was not used to city hotels, and he was a little afraid that he should not go to work properly, but he experienced no difficulty. He stepped up to the desk, and said to the clerk: "I should like to engage rooms for my cousin and myself." The clerk pushed the register toward him. Ben inscribed the names. At first he could not remember his companion's last name, and it made him feel awkward. Fortunately it came to him in time. "We can give you rooms on the third floor. Will that do?" "Yes, sir, I think so. We would like to be near together." "Very well. I can give you two rooms directly opposite to each other." "That will do, sir." The clerk touched a bell, and a porter presented himself: "Here are the keys of sixty-six and sixty-eight," said the hotel clerk. "Take this young gentleman's luggage to sixty-six, and show the lady with him to number sixty-eight." Ben followed the porter, pausing at the door of the ladies' parlor, where his companion awaited him. "Come, Ida," he said, feeling a little awkward at addressing Miss Sinclair so familiarly. "The servant is ready to show us our rooms." "Very well, Ben," said Miss Sinclair, smiling. She did not seem so nervous now. As the clerk had said, the rooms were directly opposite each other. They were large and very comfortable in appearance. As Miss Sinclair entered her room she said: "Join me in the ladies' parlor in fifteen minutes, Ben. I have something to say to you." Ben looked around him with considerable satisfaction. He had only left home that morning; he had met with a severe disappointment, and yet he was now fortunate beyond his most sanguine hopes. He had heard a great deal of the Astor House, which in Hampton and throughout the country was regarded at that time as the most aristocratic hotel in New York, and now he was actually a guest in it. Moreover, he was booked for a first-class passage to California. "It's like the Arabian Nights," thought Ben, "and Miss Sinclair must be a fairy." He took out his scanty wardrobe from the carpetbag, and put it away in one of the drawers of the bureau. "I might just as well enjoy all the privileges of the hotel," he said to himself. He took out his brush and comb, and brushed his hair. Then he locked the door of No. 66 and went down-stairs to the ladies' parlor. He did not have to wait long. In five minutes Miss Sinclair made her appearance. "Ben," she said, "here is the check for my trunk. You may take it down to the office and ask them to send for it. Then come back and I will acquaint you with some things I wish you to know." Ben speedily reappeared, and at Miss Sinclair's request sat down beside her on a sofa. "You must know, Ben," she commenced, "that I am flying from my guardian." "I hope it's all right," said Ben, rather frightened. He was not sure but he was making himself liable to arrest for aiding and abetting Miss Sinclair's flight. "You have no cause for alarm. He has no legal control over me, though by the terms of my father's will he retains charge of my property till I attain my twenty-fifth year. Before this, fourteen months must elapse. Meanwhile he is exerting all his influence to induce me to marry his son, so that the large property of which I am possessed may accrue to the benefit of his family." "He couldn't force you to marry his son, could he?" asked Ben. "No, but he has made it very disagreeable to me to oppose him, and has even gone so far as to threaten me with imprisonment in a madhouse if I do not yield to his persuasions." "He must be a rascal!" said our hero indignantly. "He is," said Miss Sinclair quietly. "I don't see how he can do such things in a free country." "He has only to buy over two unscrupulous physicians, and in a large city that can easily be done. On their certificate of my insanity I might any day be dragged to a private asylum and confined there." "I don't wonder you ran away, Ida." "I feel perfectly justified in doing so. Liberty and the control of my own person are dear to me, and I mean to struggle for them." "What makes you think of going to California? is it because it is so far off?" "Partly; but there is another reason," said Miss Sinclair. "I will not conceal from you that there is a person there whom I wish to meet." "Is it a young man?" asked Ben shrewdly. "You have guessed it. Richard Dewey is the son of a former bookkeeper of my father. He is poor, but he is a gentleman, and there is a mutual attachment between us. Indeed, he asked my guardian's consent to his suit, but he was repelled with insult, and charged with being a fortune-hunter. That name would better apply to my guardian and his precious son." "Is Mr. Dewey in California?" "Yes; he went out there some months since. He promised to write me regularly, but I have not heard a word from him. I know very well that he has written, and that my guardian has suppressed his letters." "That is shameful!" said Ben warmly. "It is indeed; but with your help I think I can circumvent Mr. Campbell yet." "Mr. Campbell is your guardian, I suppose, Ida?" "Yes." "You may reply upon me to help you in every way possible, Miss Sinclair." "Ida," corrected the young lady. "I mean Ida." "That's right, Cousin Ben." Now that Miss Sinclair's veil was removed, our hero could see that she was very pretty, and perhaps he felt all the more proud of being selected as her escort. But on one point he was in the dark. "May I ask you a question, Ida?" he said. "How is it that you have chosen me-a stranger, and so young-as your escort? I am only a green country boy." "Partly because I like your looks; you look honest and trustworthy." "Thank you, but I am only a boy." "That's all the better for me. It would not do for me to accept the escort of a man, and it would be awkward for me to propose it even if it would do." "At any rate, I am lucky to be selected. I hope you will be satisfied with me." "I feel sure of it." "You are spending a great deal of money for me." "You may feel surprised that I have so much money to spend independent of my guardian, but he has control only of the property left by my father. My mother left me thirty thousand dollars, of which I am sole mistress." "That is lucky for you." "Under present circumstances-yes." Here two ladies entered the parlor, and the conversation was suspended. "I believe I will go in to dinner now," said Miss Sinclair. "Will you come, Ben?" "I ate dinner an hour ago." "Then you can go where you please. Meet me here at six o'clock." "All right, Ida." CHAPTER X. BEN RECEIVES A CALL. Ben had scarcely left the room when it occurred to him that he ought to send home for the remainder of his clothes. He did not like to do so, however, without first consulting Miss Sinclair. "Well, Ben?" said the young lady inquiringly. "I would like to write home for my clothes, if you have no objection." "Certainly; but don't say anything about me." "All right." Ben went to the reading-room, and, procuring writing-materials, penned the following letter to his uncle: "ASTOR HOUSE, NEW YORK. "DEAR UNCLE JOB: Will you send me the rest of my clothes at once, by express? You may direct to this hotel, where I am now staying. The firm that I came to see turned out to be swindlers, and I was at first quite disappointed; but I have made other friends, and am to sail for California next Saturday. This may seem sudden to you. At any rate it does to me, and I don't expect to realize it till I am fairly at sea. It will be some time before I can write you, but I will send you a line from Panama, if possible. You needn't send me any more of my money, for I have with me all I shall need at present. "Give my love to aunt and Cousin Jenny. I should like to see you all again before I start, but I cannot spare the time. I am in good health and spirits, and I think my prospects are good. Your affectionate nephew, BEN." This letter excited considerable surprise in Hampton. "I'm afraid Ben's gettin' extravagant," said Uncle Job. "I've always heerd that the Astor House is a fashionable hotel where they charge big prices. Ben ought to have gone to a cheap place, and saved his money." "He says he's got money enough with him, father," said Mrs. Stanton. "How much did he take away with him?" "Seventy-five dollars." "And he had to pay his passage to California out of that?" "Of course." "He won't have much left when he gets to California, then." "No, he won't." "Don't you think you'd better send him some?" "No, wife. Ben says no, and I'm goin' accordin' to his directions. I suppose he knows best what he wants." Sam Sturgis did not often condescend to notice Job Stanton, but his curiosity got the better of his pride, and, meeting the old man a short time afterward, he asked: "Have you heard anythiug from Ben?" "Yes, he writ me a letter from New York. I got it this mornin'?" "Has he got a chance to black boots?" asked Sam, with a sneer. "He's stayin' at the Astor House," said Job, enjoying Sam's surprise. "Staying at the Astor House!" exclaimed the young aristocrat in astonishment. "Why, that is a tip-top hotel." "I always heerd it was," returned Job. "How can he afford to stay there?" "He didn't say." "Oh, I understand," said Sam, with an air of relief. "He's got a place to black boots, or clean knives. That must be the way of it." "I don't think it is, for he has engaged passage to Californy." "Is that so? When does he sail?" "On Saturday. We're goin' to send him his clothes. Do you want to send him any word or message?" "No; why should I?" "I thought you was one of his friends." "Yes, I will send him a message," said Sam. "Just tell him that when he has spent all his money, I'll give him the place I offered him before he left Hampton." "You're very kind," said Job, concealing his amusement; "but I don't think Ben will need to take up with your offer." "I think he will," said Sam. "I wonder whether Ben is really staying at the Astor House, and paying his expenses there," he said to himself. "If he is, he's a fool. I've a great mind to ask father if I may go up to New York, and see. Maybe he's only humbugging his uncle." So when Sam got home he preferred a request to visit New York, and obtained permission. We now return to the Astor House. Miss Sinclair and Ben went in to supper together. The young lady had scarcely taken her place, and looked around her, when she started, and turned pale. "Ben," she said hurriedly, "I must leave the table. Do you see that tall man sitting by the window?" "Yes, Cousin Ida." "It is my guardian. He has not seen me yet, but I must be cautious. Direct a servant to bring me some supper in my room, and come up there yourself when you are through." "All right!" Miss Sinclair left the room, but Ben maintained his place. He took particular notice of the gentleman who had been pointed out to him. He was a tall, slender man, with iron-gray hair, and a stern, unpleasant look. Ben judged that her guardian had not seen Miss Sinclair, for he seemed wholly intent upon his supper. "I don't wonder she wanted to run away from him," thought our hero. Ben smiled as it flashed upon him that this young lady was running away with him. "I didn't expect, when I left home, to meet with any such adventure as this," he said to himself. "But I do mean to help Miss Sinclair all I possibly can. It doesn't seem quite natural to call her Ida, but I will do as she wants me to." Meanwhile Mr. Campbell had made inquiries at the office if a young lady from Albany was staying at the hotel. "No," said the clerk. It will be remembered that Miss Sinclair had registered from Philadelphia, or, rather, Ben had done so for her. "Have you any young lady here without escort?" asked Mr. Campbell. "No, sir. There is a young lady from Philadelphia, but she arrived with her cousin, a lad of fifteen or sixteen." "That cannot be the one I am in search of," said the unsuspecting guardian. Of course, as the reader will readily surmise, Ida Sinclair was not the young lady's real name, but it is the name by which we shall know her for the present. After supper Ben went to Miss Sinclair's room, as directed. "I think, Ben," she said, "it will be best for me to take all my meals in my room during the short time I stay here. Should my guardian catch sight of me he might give me some trouble, and that I wish to avoid." "I guess you're right," said Ben. "I shall wish you to come to my room two or three times a day, as I may have some errands for you to do." "All right, Miss Sinclair." "You had better call me 'Cousin Ida,' so as to get used to it." The next day as Ben was standing on the steps of the hotel he saw, with surprise, Sam Sturgis approaching. It did not occur to him, however, that he was responsible for Sam's presence in the city. He was glad to see a familiar Hampton face, and he said cordially: "How are you, Sam?" Sam nodded. "You don't mean to say that you are stopping here, do you?" "Yes, I do," said Ben, smiling. "Why not?" "Because it's a first-class hotel." "Why shouldn't I stay at a first-class hotel, Sam?" "Because you are a poor boy. Maybe you've got some relations among the servants?" "If I have I don't know it." "Your uncle told me you were stopping here, but I didn't believe it." "Do you believe it now?" asked Ben. "Perhaps you just stay round here to make people believe you are a guest of the house." "Why should I care what people think? Nobody knows me here. However, Sam, if you want to be convinced, just come up to my room with me." Sam concluded to accept the invitation, and accompanied Ben to the desk. "Please give me the key to number sixty-six," said Ben. "Here it is, sir." Sam began to think Ben's statement was true, after all. There was no room for doubt when Ben ushered him into the handsome chamber which he occupied. "Make yourself at home, Sam," said Ben, enjoying his companion's surprise. "It's very queer," thought Sam. "I wonder whether he won't run off without paying his bill." Sam rather hoped that this might be the case, as it would involve Ben in disgrace. "Your uncle tells me you are going to sail for California on Saturday." "Yes, Sam." "Have you bought your ticket?" "Yes." "How much did you pay?" "Excuse me. I would rather not tell just now." "I suppose he goes in the steerage," thought Sam. As he could learn nothing more from our hero, Sam soon left him. It was certainly remarkable that the boy to whom he had recently offered the position of his bootblack should be a guest of a fashionable New York hotel. CHAPTER XI. MISS SINCLAIR'S STRATAGEM. Mr. Campbell had no particular reason to think that Miss Ida Sinclair, registering from Philadelphia, was the ward of whom he was in pursuit. Still, he thought it worth while to find out what he could about her, and managed to waylay Ben in the corridor of the hotel the next morning. "Good morning, boy!" he said stiffly, not having the art of ingratiating himself with young people. "Good morning, man!" Ben thought of replying, but he thought this would be hardly polite, and said: "Good morning, sir," instead. He suspected Mr. Campbell's purpose, and resolved to answer cautiously. "This is a nice hotel," said the guardian, resolving to come to the point by degrees. "Yes, sir." "I suppose you are too young to have traveled much?" "I never traveled much, sir." "Didn't I see you in the company of a young lady?" "Very likely, sir." "Your sister, I suppose?" "No, sir." "A relation, I suppose?" "I call her Cousin Ida," said Ben truthfully. "Indeed! And she is from Philadelphia?" Ben was placed in a dilemma. He saw that he should be forced to misrepresent, and this he did not like. On the other hand, he could not tell the truth, and so betray Miss Sinclair to her persecutor. "You can tell by looking at the hotel register," he said coldly. Mr. Campbell judged by Ben's tone that our hero meant to rebuke his curiosity, and, having really very little idea that he was on the right track, he thought it best to apologize. "Excuse my questions," he said, "but I have an idea that I know your cousin." "In that case," said Ben, "if you will tell me your name I will speak to Cousin Ida about it." Now Mr. Campbell was in a dilemma. If Ida Sinclair were really the ward of whom he was in pursuit, his name would only put her on her guard. He quickly thought of a ruse. "I will send a card," he said. He stepped to the clerk's desk, and asked for a blank card. After an instant's hesitation, he penciled the name James Vernon, and handed it to Ben. "The young lady may not remember my name," he said; "but in an interview I think I can recall it to her recollection. Please give it to your cousin." "All right, sir." Ben went up-stairs and tapped for admission at Miss Sinclair's door. "Well, Ben?" she said inquiringly. "Here is a card which a gentleman down-stairs asked me to hand you." "James Vernon!" repeated the young lady, in surprise. "Why, I don't know any gentleman of that name." "He said you might not remember it; but he thought he could recall it to your recollection in a personal interview." "I don't want a personal interview with any gentleman." "Not with your guardian?" asked Ben, smiling. "Was the man who handed you this card my guardian?" "Yes; he tried to find out all he could from me; but wasn't very successful. Then he said he thought he knew you, and handed me this card." "So he thinks to delude me by masquerading under a false name! He must suspect that I am his ward." "Of course you won't see him?" "No." "What shall I say?" "That I don't remember the name, and decline to see him." "Won't that increase his suspicions?" "I can't help it." "Very well." Ben went below; but thought he might as well put off the interview. It was not till afternoon that Mr. Campbell met him again. "Did you deliver my card, boy?" he asked. "My name is Benjamin," returned our hero, who did not fancy the manner of address. "Very well. Did you deliver my card, Benjamin?" "Yes, sir." "What did your cousin say?" "That she knew no gentleman or family of your name." "I did not expect she would remember; but I have reasons for asking an interview." "You mustn't be offended, sir; but she declines to meet a stranger." Mr. Campbell was baffled. "She mistakes my motive," he said, in a tone expressive of annoyance. "How long do you stay here?" "I can't say, sir," said Ben coldly. Mr. Campbell bit his lip and walked away. He did not fancy being foiled by a boy. It occurred to him, however, that by waiting patiently he might see the young lady at dinner. He kept watch, therefore, till he saw Ben entering the dining-room, and then, entering himself, secured a seat near-by. But the young lady, greatly to his chagrin, did not appear. Ben observed his vigilant watch, and after dinner reported to Miss Sinclair. The young lady smiled. "I have thought of a way to deceive him and quiet his suspicions," she said. Ben looked curious. "If I remain away from the table he will feel sure that I am his ward." "Yes, I suppose so." "Listen to my plan, then. I have the New York Herald here, with half a column of advertisements of seamtresses. I will give you a list of three, and you shall engage one to be here early to-morrow morning. Select one with a figure as much like mine as possible." "All right!" "I see you look puzzled," said Miss Sinclair, smiling. "I am, a little; I don't know what good that will do." "Then I will explain. I shall dress the seamstress in one of my own dresses, and let her go to the table with you. Mr. Campbell will naturally suppose that she is Miss Ida Sinclair, and will be satisfied." "I see! That is splendid!" exclaimed Ben, entering with hearty enthusiasm into the conspiracy. It happened, luckily, that the first seamstress on whom he called was sufficiently like Miss Sinclair in figure to justify him in engaging her. He directed her to call at the hotel at eight the next morning without fail. The poor girl was glad to make this engagement, having been without employment for two weeks previous. When she arrived, Miss Sinclair, without confiding too much in her, made known her desire, and the girl, who had had but a scanty breakfast, was glad to embrace the opportunity of enjoying the hospitality of a first-class hotel. Miss Sinclair had really work enough to employ her during the day. When Mr. Campbell caught sight of Ben approaching the dining-room in company with a young lady, he advanced eagerly and peered into the young lady's face. He turned away in disappointment. "I have made a fool of myself. It is only a common country girl. I must look elsewhere for my ward." Directly after breakfast Ben had the satisfaction of seeing the obnoxious guardian depart in a hack. "Good-by, Mr. Vernon!" he said politely. "I see you are leaving the hotel." "Good-by!" muttered Campbell. "I hope you'll excuse my cousin for not seeing you?" "I don't think she's the one I supposed," said Campbell. "It's of no consequence." Ben hastened to inform Miss Sinclair of her guardian's departure. "Now the field is clear," said Ida, breathing a sigh of relief. "I say, Ida, you managed him tip-top," said Ben admiringly. "I never should have thought of such a plan." Miss Sinclair smiled faintly. "I don't like to employ deceit," she said, "but it seems necessary to fight such an enemy with his own weapons." "He wanted to deceive you. He put a wrong name on his card." "That is true, Ben. I must thank you for the manner in which you have aided me in this matter. I should not have known how to act if I had not had you to call upon." Ben's face brightened. "I am glad to hear you say that, Cousin Ida," he said. "You are spending so much money for me that I shall be glad to feel that I have earned some of it." "Have no trouble on that score, Ben. I foresee that you will continue to be of great service to me. I regard the money expended for you as well invested." Ben heard this with satisfaction. It naturally gave him a feeling of heightened importance when he reflected that a wealthy heiress had selected him as her escort and right-hand man, and that she was satisfied with her choice. On Saturday morning Miss Sinclair and Ben went on board the California steamer, and when the tide served, they started on their long voyage. CHAPTER XII. IN SAN FRANCISCO. Ben was not seasick, and enjoyed the novel experiences vastly. Miss Sinclair was less fortunate. For four days she was sick and confined to her stateroom. After that she was able to appear among the other passengers. Ben was very attentive, and confirmed the favorable opinion she had already formed of him. At last the voyage came to a close. It was a bright, cheery morning when the steamer came within sight of San Francisco. It was not a populous and brilliant city as at present, for Ben's expedition dates back to the year 1856, only a few years after the discovery of gold. Still, there was a good-sized town on the site of the future city. The numerous passengers regarded it with rejoicing hearts, and exchanged hopeful congratulations. Probably with the exception of Miss Sinclair, all had gone out to make or increase their fortunes. Her fortune was already made. She had gone to enjoy personal liberty, and to find her plighted husband. "Well, Ben, we have nearly reached our destination," said Miss Sinclair, as she looked earnestly in the direction of the embryo city. "You are glad, are you not?" "Yes, Cousin Ida," said Ben slowly. "But you look thoughtful. Is there anything on your mind?" "I feel sorry that I am to part from you, Cousin Ida." "Thank you, Ben, but we are not to part permanently. You don't mean to forsake me utterly?" "Not if you need me," said our hero. "I shall still require your services. You remember that I came out here in search of a--friend?" said Miss Sinclair, hesitating. "Yes, I know, Cousin Ida." "I am desirous that he should know that I am in San Francisco, but, unfortunately, though I know he is in California, I have no idea where, or in what part of it he is to be found. Once in communication with him, I need have no further apprehension of interference or persecution on the part of my guardian." "To be sure," said Ben straightforwardly. "I suppose you would marry him?" "That may come some time," said Miss Sinclair, smiling, "but he must be found first." "You will travel about, I suppose?" said Ben. "No; I shall engage some one to travel for me. It would not be suitable for a young lady to go from one mining-camp to another." "Have you thought of any one you can send?" asked our hero. "Yes," said Miss Sinclair. "He is rather young, but I shall try the experiment." "Do you mean me?" asked Ben quickly. "Yes; are you willing to be my agent in the matter?" "I should like it of all things," said Ben, with sparkling eyes. "Then you may consider yourself engaged. The details we will discuss presently." "And where will you stay, Cousin Ida?" "In San Francisco. I have become acquainted with a lady on board who proposes to open a boarding-house in the city, or, rather, to take charge of one already kept by her sister. In my circumstances, it will be better for me to board with her than at a hotel. There I shall have a secure and comfortable home, while you are exploring the mining-districts in my interest." "That is an excellent plan," said Ben. "So I think." Here the conversation was interrupted by the bustle of approaching departure. Ben landed in the company of Miss Sinclair and Mrs. Armstrong, and the three proceeded at once to the boarding-house, over which the latter was in future to preside. A comfortable room was assigned to Miss Sinclair, and a small one to Ben. They were plainly furnished, but both enjoyed being on land once more. Our young hero, finding that his services were not required for the present, began to explore the city. It was composed almost wholly of wooden houses; some but one story in height, even on the leading streets, with here and there sand-hills, where now stand stately piles and magnificent hotels. He ascended Telegraph Hill, which then, as now, commanded a good view of the town and harbor; yet how different a view from that presented now. Ben was partly pleased and partly disappointed. Just from New York, he could not help comparing this straggling village on the shores of the Pacific with the even then great city on the Atlantic coast. He had heard so much of San Francisco that he expected something more. To-day a man may journey across the continent and find the same comfort, luxury, and magnificence in San Francisco which he left behind him in New York. In his explorations Ben came to a showy building which seemed a center of attraction. It seemed well filled, and people were constantly coming in and going out. Ben's curiosity was excited. "What is that?" he asked of a man who lounged outside, with a Mexican sombrero on his head and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. "That's the Bella Union, my chicken." "I don't know any better now." "Just go in there with a pocketful of gold-dust, like I did, and you'll find out, I reckon." "Is it a gambling-house?" inquired Ben, rather excited, for he had heard much of such places, but never seen one. "It's the devil's den," said the man bitterly. "I wish I'd never seen it." "Have you been unlucky?" "Look here, boy, jest look at me," said the stranger. "An hour ago I was worth a thousand dollars in gold-dust-took six months' hard work to scrape it together at the mines-now I haven't an ounce left." "Did you lose it there?" asked Ben, somewhat startled. "Well, I staked it, and it's gone." "Have you nothing left?" "Not an ounce. I haven't enough to pay for a bed." "What will you do for a place to sleep?" inquired Ben, to whom this seemed an alarming state of things. The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "I don't worry about that," he said. "I'll stretch myself out somewhere when night comes. I'm used to roughing it." "Won't you get cold sleeping out of doors?" asked Ben. The other gave a short, quick laugh. "What do you take me for, boy? I don't look delicate, do I?" "Not very," answered Ben, smiling. "I've slept out under the stars pretty reg'lar for the past six months. I only wish I was back to the mines." "Do you think I can go in?" Ben said hesitatingly. "Yes, youngster, there's nothin' to bender, but take a fool's advice, and ef you've got money in your pocket, don't do it." "You don't think I'd gamble, do you?" said Ben, horror-struck. "I've seen youngsters smaller than you bet their pile." "You won't catch me doing it. I am a poor boy, and have nothing to lose." "All right, then. You're a country boy, ain't you?" "Yes." "So was I once, but I've had the greenness rubbed off'n me. I was jest such a youngster as you once. I wish I could go back twenty years." "You're not very old yet," said Ben, in a tone of sympathy. "Why don't you reform?" "No, I'm not old-only thirty-six-and I ain't so bad as I might be. I'm a rough customer, I expect, but I wouldn't do anything downright mean. Ef you're goin' into this den, I'll go with you. I can't take care of myself, but mayhap I can keep you out of danger." "Thank you, sir." So Ben and his new acquaintance entered the famous gambling-den. It was handsomely furnished and decorated, with a long and gaily appointed bar, while the mirrors, pictures, glass, and silverware excited surprise, and would rather have been expected in an older city. There were crowds at the counter, and crowds around the tables, and the air was heavy with the odor of Chinese punk, which was used for cigar-lights, The tinkle of silver coin was heard at the tables, though ounces of gold-dust were quite as commonly used in the games of chance. "I suppose a good deal of money is won here?" said Ben, looking around curiously. "There's a good deal lost," said Ben's new acquaintance. "Gentlemen, will you drink with me?" said a young man, with flushed face, rising from a table near-by, both hands full of silver and gold, "I've been lucky to-night, and it's my treat." "I don't care if I do," said Ben's companion, with alacrity, and he named his drink. "What'll the boy have?" "Nothing, thank you," answered Ben, startled, "That won't do. I insist upon your drinking," hiccuped the young man, who had evidently drunk freely already. "Take it as a personal insult, if you don't." "Never mind the boy," said his new friend, to Ben's great relief. "He's young and innocent. He hasn't been round like you an' me." "That's so," assented the young man, taking the remark as a compliment. "Well, here's to you!" "I wouldn't have done it," said Ben's new friend rejoining him; "but it'll help me to forget what a blamed fool I've been to-night. You jest let the drink alone. That's my advice." "I mean to," said Ben firmly. "Do people drink much out here?" "Whisky's their nat'ral element," said the miner. "Some of 'em don't drink water once a month. An old friend of mine, Joe Granger, act'lly forgot how it tasted. I gave him a glass once by way of a joke, and he said it was the weakest gin he ever tasted." "Are there no temperance societies out here?" asked Ben. The miner laughed. "It's my belief that a temperance lecturer would be mobbed, or hung to the nearest lamppost," he answered. It is hardly necessary to say that even in 1856 intemperance was hardly as common in California as the statements of his new friend led Ben to suppose. His informant was sincere, and spoke according to his own observation. It is not remarkable that at the mines, in the absence of the comforts of civilization, those who drink rarely or not at all at home should seek the warmth and excitement of drink. "What's your name, boy?" asked the miner abruptly. "Ben Stanton." "Where were you raised?" Though the term was a new one to Ben, he could not fail to understand it. "In the State of Connecticut." "That's where they make wooden nutmegs," said the miner, "isn't it?" "I never saw any made there," answered Ben, smiling. "I reckon you've come out here to make your fortin?" "I should like to," answered Ben; "but I shall be satisfied if I make a living, and a little more." "You'll do it. You look the right sort, you do. No bad habits, and willin' to work hard, and go twenty-four hours hungry when you can't help it." "Yes." "Where'll you go first?--to the mines, I reckon." "Yes," answered Ben, reflecting that he would be most likely to find Richard Dewey at some mining-settlement. "Ef I hadn't been a fool, and lost all my money, I'd go along with you." "I should like the company of some one who had already been at the mines," said Ben. Then it occurred to him that his new acquaintance might possibly have encountered Dewey in his wanderings. At any rate, it would do no harm to inquire. "Did you ever meet a man named Dewey at the mines?" he asked. "Friend of yours?" "No; I never saw him, but I have promised to hunt him up. I have some important news for him." "Dewey!" mused the miner. "Somehow that name sounds familiar like. Can you tell what he was like?" "I never saw him, but I can get a description of him." "I'm sure I've met a man by that name," said the miner thoughtfully, "but I can't rightly locate him. I have it," he added suddenly. "It was at Murphy's, over in Calaveras, that I came across him. A quiet, stiddy young man-looked as if he'd come from a city-not rough like the rest of us-might have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old-didn't drink any more'n you do, but kept to work and minded his own business." "That must be the man I am after," said Ben eagerly. "Do you think he is at Murphy's now?" "How can I tell? It's most a year sence I met him. Likely he's gone. Miners don't stay as long as that in one place." Ben's countenance fell. He did not seem as near to the object of his journey as he at first thought. Still, it was something to obtain a clue. Perhaps at Murphy's he might get a trace of Dewey, and, following it up, find him at last. "How far is Murphy's from here?" he asked. "Two hundred miles, I reckon." "Then I'd better go there first." "Not ef you want to find gold. There's other places that's better, and not so far away." "It may be so, but I care more to find Richard Dewey than to find gold in plenty." "You said he wasn't a friend of yours?" said the miner, in some surprise. "No; I don't know him, but I am engaged by a friend of his to find him. That friend will pay; my expenses while I am on the road." "Has Dewey come into a fortin?" asked the miner. "Has a rich uncle died and left him all his pile?" "Not that I know of," answered Ben. "Then there's a woman in it?" said his new acquaintance, in a tone of conviction. "It's his sweetheart that wants to find him. I'm right. Yes, I know it. But there's one thing that I can't see through." "What is that?" "Why does the gal-if it is a gal-send a boy like you on the trail?" "Suppose there was no one else to send," suggested Ben. "That makes it a little plainer. Where is the gal?" "Ought I to confide in this man?" thought Ben. "I never met him before. I only know that he has lost all his money at the gambling-table. Yet he may help me, and I must confide in somebody. He is a rough customer, but he seems honest and sincere." "Here in San Francisco," he answered. "I cannot tell you more until I have her permission." "That's all right. Ef I can help you, I will, Ben. You said your name was Ben?" "Yes." "Mine is Bradley-Jake Bradley. I was raised in Kentucky, and I've got an old mother living there now, I hope. I haven't heard anything from her for nigh a year. It makes me homesick when I think of it. Got a mother, Ben?" "Neither father nor mother," answered Ben sadly. "That's bad," said the miner, with rough sympathy. "You're a young chap to be left alone in the world." "Yes; I do feel very lonely sometimes, Mr. Bradley." "Don't call me Mr. Bradley. I ain't used to it. Call me Jake." "All right, I'll remember it. Where can I meet you again, Jake?" "Here will do as well as anywhere." "Will you be here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock?" "Yes," answered Bradley. "I'll ask the porter to call me early," he added, with rough humor. Ben remembered that his new acquaintance had no money to pay for a night's lodging, and would be forced to sleep out. "Can't I lend you enough money to pay for a lodging?" he asked. "You kin, but you needn't. Jake Bradley ain't that delicate that it'll hurt him to sleep out. No, Ben, save your money, and ef I actilly need it I'll make bold to ask you for it; but I don't throw away no money on a bed." "If you hadn't lost your money in there," said Ben, pointing to the building they had just left, "wouldn't you have paid for a bed?" "I might have put on a little style then, I allow. It don't do for a man with a thousand dollars in his belt to lie out. I ain't afraid now." Ben, on leaving his new acquaintance, thought it best to go back at once to Miss Sinclair, to communicate the information he had obtained, rightly deeming it of importance. "Well, Ben, have you seen the whole town so soon?" asked Miss Sinclair, looking up from her trunk, which she was unpacking. "No, Cousin Ida, but I think I have learned something of Mr. Dewey." "You have not seen him?" asked Miss Sinclair quickly. "No, I have not seen him, but I have seen a man who met him nearly a year since at the mines." "Tell me about it, Ben," said the young lady. "Where was it that this man saw Richard-Mr. Dewey?" "At Murphy's." "Where is that?" "Two hundred miles away." "That is not far. Are you willing to go there?" "Yes, but you must remember, Cousin Ida, that it is nearly a year since he was there, and miners never stay long in one place, at least so my miner friend tells me." "At any rate, you may learn something of him there." "That is true." "Will this man go with you?" "He would, but he has no money to get out of the city." "I will pay his expenses as far as Murphy's, and farther, if he is likely to prove of service." "I think it will be best, if you can afford it," said Ben. "He knows the country, and I don't. Three months from now I should be willing to start off alone, but now-" "It is much better that you should have company." "It will cost you a good deal of money, Cousin Ida." "I shall not grudge a large sum, if need be, to find Richard. When can you see this man again?" "To-morrow morning." "Bring him here, and I will make arrangements with him." CHAPTER XIII. PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENTS. At nine o'clock on the following morning Ben found Jake Bradley at the appointed rendezvous. "You're on time, my lad," said Jake. "I didn't know as you'd think it worth while to look me up." "I promised," said Ben. "And you've kept your promise. That's more'n many a man would do." "How did you pass the night?" asked Ben. "I stretched out on the soft side of a board. It isn't the first time. I slept like a top." "Have you had breakfast?" "Well, there! you've got me," said Jake. "I reckoned on findin' an old friend that keeps a saloon on Montgomery Street, but he's sold out to another man, and I hadn't the face to ask him for a bite. What a consarned fool I was to throw away all my pile." "Where is the saloon?" said Ben. "We will go there, and while you are eating we can arrange our business." "Thank you, boy. I ain't above acceptin' a favor of you, and I allow that I'm empty, and need fillin' up." "You needn't thank me, Mr. Bradley-" "Jake!" "Jake, then. I am only acting as the agent of Miss Sinclair." "The gal you spoke of?" Ben nodded. "Then you can thank her. If there's anything I kin do for her, jest let me know." "I mean to. That is the business I want to speak to you about." After a hearty breakfast the two turned their steps to the private boarding-house where Miss Sinclair was eagerly awaiting them. Though Jake referred to her as "the gal," in his conversation with Ben, he was entirely respectful when brought face to face with the young lady. "I want to thank you for my breakfast, miss, first of all," said the miner. "If I hadn't been such a thunderin' fool, I needn't have been beholden to any one, but-" "You are entirely welcome, Mr. Bradley," said the young lady. "Ben tells me that you know something of Richard Dewey." "Yes, miss." "He is a valued friend of mine, and I am anxious to hear all that you can tell me of him. You don't know where he is now?" "No, miss." "When did you see him?" "Nigh on to a year ago." "That is a long time. You have heard nothing of him since?" "No, miss. I should say yes," he added, with sudden recollection. "One of our boys saw him some months later, and reported that he was well and prosperin'. I disremember where he was, but somewhere at the mines." "That is something. Do you think you could find him?" "I could try, miss," "I am going to send out Ben, but he is only a boy. I should like to have you go with him. You know the country, and he does not. Besides, you have seen Mr. Dewey." "Yes, I should know him ag'in if I met him." "How did he seem when you knew him?" asked Ida, hesitating, because conscious that the question was vaguely expressed and might not be understood. "He was a quiet, sober chap, workin' early and late," answered Jake, who, rough as he was, comprehended the drift of her questions. "He wasn't exactly pop'lar with the boys, because he wouldn't drink with 'em, and that made them think he was proud, or grudged the expense." "They were very greatly mistaken," said Ida hastily. "We found that out," said the miner. "A young chap fell sick; he was a newcomer and had neither friends nor money, and was pretty bad off. Dewey sat up with him night after night, and gave him fifty dollars when he got well to help him back to 'Frisco. You see, his sickness made him tired of the mines." "That was like Richard," said Ida softly. "He was always kind-hearted." "After that," continued Jake, "none of us had a word to say agin' him. We knowed him better, and we liked him for his kindness to that young chap." If Jake Bradley had sought to commend himself to Ida Sinclair, he could not have found a better or more effectual way than by praising her lover. She became more cordial at once, and better satisfied with the arrangement she had formed to send off the ex-miner in Ben's company in search of her lover. The arrangements were speedily made. The two were to start out, equipped at Miss Sinclair's expense, on an exploring-tour, the main object being to find Richard Dewey, and apprise him of her arrival in California. They were permitted, however, to work at mining, wherever there was a favorable opportunity, but never to lose sight of the great object of their expedition. From time to time, as they had opportunity, they were to communicate with Miss Sinclair, imparting any information they might have gathered. "I shall have to leave much to your discretion," said Ida, addressing them both. "I know absolutely nothing of the country, and you, Mr. Bradley, are tolerably familiar with it. I have only to add that should you become unfortunate, and require more money, you have only to let me know. In any event, I shall take care to recompense you for all your efforts in my behalf." "We don't want to bear too heavy on your purse, miss," said Jake Bradley. "Once we get to the mines, we kin take care of ourselves. Can't we, Ben?" "I hope so, Mr. Bradley." Bradley eyed Ben reproachfully, and our hero at once smilingly corrected himself. "I mean Jake." "That suits me better. I s'pose the young lady wouldn't like to call me Jake?" "I think not," said Ida, smiling. "I ain't used to bein' called mister. The boys always called me Jake." "But I am not one of the boys, Mr. Bradley," said Miss Sinclair. "Right you are, miss, and I reckon Richard Dewey would rather have you as you are." Ida laughed merrily. To her the miner was a new character, unlike any she had ever met, and though rough and unconventional, she was disposed to like him. "Find him for me, and you can ask him the question if you like. Tell him from me-but you must first know me by my real name." Ben looked surprised. He had forgotten that Ida Sinclair was only assumed to elude the vigilance of her guardian. "My real name is Florence Douglas. I am of Scotch descent, as you will judge. Can you remember the name?" "I can, Cousin Ida-I mean Cousin Florence," said Ben. "Then let Ida Sinclair be forgotten. Richard--Mr. Dewey-would not know me by that name." "I tell you, Ben, that gal's a trump!" said Jake Bradley enthusiastically, when they were by themselves; "and so I'll tell Dick Dewey when I see him." "She's been a kind friend to me, Jake. I hope we can find Mr. Dewey for her." "We'll find him if he's in California," answered Jake. CHAPTER XIV THE CANON HOTEL. Late in the afternoon of the third day subsequent a man and a boy might have been seen riding slowly through a rocky canon probably eighty miles west from San Francisco. Both were mounted on the small native horses of California, generally called mustangs. These animals possess a strength disproportioned to their size, and show great endurance. At times they have a playful habit of bucking, not quite agreeable to an inexperienced horseman. The reader will already have guessed that the two riders are Jake Bradley and Ben. The mustangs were on a walk, being apparently weary with the day's tramp. "Well, Ben," said Bradley, "what do you say to camping out for the night?" "I have no objection," said Ben, "and I don't think my horse has." "He is better off than mine, having less to carry. Are you tired?" "Not very tired, but my limbs are rather stiff." "What hotel shall we put up at, Ben?" asked Bradley, with a humorous glance about him. "There isn't much choice," said Ben. "The Canon Hotel seems to be the only one that is open hereabouts. The only objection is, that we shall have to sleep on the floor, with the windows all open." "That's about so, Ben," assented Bradley, laughing. "I shouldn't mind sleeping in a Christian bed to-night myself. Well, here goes!" As he spoke, he jumped from the back of his horse, and, taking out a rope, tethered it to a tree hard by. Ben followed his example. "Now for the grub," said Bradley. "I'm powerfully empty myself. This ridin' all day up and down hill is wearin' to the stomach. What do you say?" "I've got a healthy appetite myself, Jake." "This yere Canon Hotel that you was talkin' about ain't first-class. It don't supply anything but cold victuals. Now, ef we had a cup of coffee to wash it down, and kinder warm us up, it would go to the right spot, eh, Ben?" "You are right, Jake! but please don't speak of it again. It makes my mouth water." "Stay here a few minutes, Ben, and I'll reconnoiter a little. Perhaps I can find a better place for campin'." "All right, Jake!" While Bradley was absent Ben threw himself on the ground, and began to think. It was the third day of the expedition. Ben enjoyed riding through this new, unsettled country. He almost felt in the solitudes of the woods and hills as if he were the original explorer of this far-distant country. He was more than three thousand miles away from his native town, entrusted with a mission of importance. The thought was gratifying to his boyish fancy, and inspired him with a new sense of power and increased his self-reliance. He was glad, however, to have the company of Jake Bradley. He was ready to acknowledge that his chances of success, had he started alone, would have been much smaller, and certainly he would have found it exceedingly lonesome. His companion was not a man of culture, nor were his tastes elevated, but there was a rough honesty about him, and a good humor, which made him an agreeable companion. Besides, he knew the country, and Ben felt secure in leaving the conduct of the trip to him. "I am glad I came out here," thought Ben, as, with his head pillowed on his knapsack, he looked up through the branches of the tall trees to the blue sky beyond. "It's better than staying at home and working for Deacon Pitkin, or blacking boots for Sam Sturgis. Here I am my own man, free and don't need to run at anybody's bidding." Probably most boys of Ben's age share his love of independence, but it is neither practicable nor desirable that at sixteen a boy should be his own master, much as he may desire it. In the case of our hero, circumstances had thrown him upon his own resources, and it may be added that he could better be trusted with the management of himself than most boys. Ben's reverie was broken in upon by the return of his companion. "What are you dreamin' about, Ben?" queried Jake. "I was thinking about home, Jake." "This don't look much like it, eh, Ben?" "Not much." "Well, my lad, I've found something," continued Bradley. "Found something? What! a nugget?" exclaimed Ben, in excitement. "Not much. This ain't the place for such a find as that." "What, then, Jake?" "I've found a hotel." "Where?" asked Ben eagerly. "Get up and stand by me. There! look yonder. What do you see?" "It looks like smoke." "It is smoke. There's a cabin yonder. I've reconnoitered, and I seed the door open, and a woman inside. Now, I'm going to ask her to give us some supper and a bed. Won't that be fine?" "Splendid, Jake!" "Then unhitch that animal of yours, and we'll put our best foot forrards, and maybe we'll get a hot supper and a Christian bed to sleep in." CHAPTER XV. A POLITE HOSTESS. The cabin was a rough one, built of logs, with an adobe chimney. It contained two rooms and a loft. The inducements to live in such a lonely spot must have been small enough, but so many undesirable localities are inhabited, that it is hardly worth while to feel or express surprise at men's taste in such matters. The approach of Ben and his companion was not observed by the inmate or inmates of the cabin. It was only when Bradley, dismounting from his mustang, struck the door-post with the handle of his whip-for it is needless to say that bells were not to be found in that neighborhood--that their presence became known. A woman, tall, spare, and with harsh features, came to the door. She eyed Bradley askance. "Well, what's wanted, and who are you?" she demanded. "We are bound for the mines, ma'am," said Bradley. "We expected to camp out to-night, but we happened to see the smoke rising from your chimbly, and we made bold to ride up and ask you for supper and a night's lodging." "We don't take in tramps," said the woman roughly. "We're on a tramp," said Bradley, resolved not to be rebuffed, "but we've got money to pay for our accommodations." "This ain't a hotel," said the woman, but less roughly. "Of course not," said Bradley, in a conciliatory manner; "but I guess you won't object to get us some supper and give us a bed. We'll pay for all the trouble we make. That's fair, ain't it?" "I don't know what my husband will say," returned the woman, in an undecided manner. "Won't you ask him, ma'am?" "He's gone out just now. He won't be back for an hour." "While you're waitin' for him, can't you get us some supper? Then you can send us off if he ain't willin' to keep us." "I'll do that," said the woman. "You'd better stay outside till I get supper ready. There ain't much room here, and you'll be in the way." "Jest as you say, ma'am. I s'pose it would be too much to ask if you kin give us a hot cup of coffee. We haven't tasted any since we left 'Frisco." "I can give you coffee," answered the woman. "My husband likes it, and we always keep it on hand." "Good!" said Bradley, his face lighting up with satisfaction. "We've rid far to-day, and a cup of coffee will go to the right spot." Bradley and Ben threw themselves on the ground near-by, and awaited with complacence the call to supper. "We're in luck, Ben," said his companion. "Who'd have expected a hot supper out here in this lonely place?" "I don't much like the looks of our landlady, Jake," said Ben. "She ain't handsome, I allow, Ben; but if she gives us a good supper, that don't matter. We must make the most of this, for it's uncertain when we get another." "W'on't she give us breakfast in the morning?" "I didn't think of that. Maybe she will, and that'll be a good start on our to-morrow's journey." In about three-quarters of an hour the woman came to the door, and called the travelers in to supper. An unpainted wooden table was set in the middle of the floor, on which was spread a simple but appetizing meal. There was a plate of meat, which appeared to have been fried; a loaf of bread, and a pot of coffee; but there was neither milk nor butter. This naturally detracted from the attractiveness of the bread and coffee, but our travelers were not disposed to be fastidious. Ben tasted the meat, and it evidently puzzled him. In taste it differed from anything he had eaten before. Bradley smiled at his perplexity. "Don't you know what it is, Ben?" he asked. "No." "Do you like it?" "I am hungry enough to enjoy anything." "Well, lad, it's bear steak." "Bear steak!" repeated Ben, in surprise. "Exactly. I've eaten it before two or three times. You see, we haven't any markets here to depend on, and we must take what we can get." "It isn't bad," said Ben meditatively. During this conversation the landlady had been out of the room. As it concluded, she reentered. "Your supper is good, ma'am," said Bradley. "Now if you only had a cow to supply you with milk and butter, you'd be fixed complete." "If you want 'em you'll have to go somewhere else," said the woman. "Excuse me, ma'am. I wasn't complainin' of the fare-not by no means. I was only thinkin' of you." "There's no call to think of me, stranger." "Have you lived long in these parts, ma'am?" inquired Bradley socially. "Fools ask questions, and fools answer them. I ain't a fool," responded the polite hostess. "Excuse my curiosity, ma'am. I didn't know that it would be disagreeable to you to answer." "Who told you it was?" "I thought from your way of speakin'." "It's none of your business, that's all," said the hostess. Even Bradley was silenced. It was clear that their hostess was not inclined to be social. The remainder of the meal passed in silence. CHAPTER XVI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. After supper the two travelers emerged from, the cabin and stretched themselves out under the trees once more. Bradley produced a clay pipe, filled the bowl with tobacco, and began to smoke. "It's a pity you don't smoke, Ben," he said, his face expressing the satisfaction he felt. "Would you advise me to, Jake?" questioned our hero. "No, Ben; I guess you're better off without it; but there's nothing makes me feel so good as a smoke after a good supper." "I feel comfortable without it, Jake." "Then let well enough alone. I wonder whether our sweet-tempered hostess is goin' to give us a bed to-night. Not that it matters much. I'd rather have a good supper, and sleep under the trees, than have the best bed in Californy without the supper." Here their attention was drawn to a man who was leisurely approaching. He was dressed roughly in a red shirt, trousers tucked in his boots, and a hat with a broad flapping brim. As he strode along, his revolver and bowie-knife were carelessly exposed. His complexion was dark; he wore an abundant beard, and whatever he might be, he looked like a desperado, whom one would not care to meet on a dark night, unless well armed and on the alert. He stopped short when he caught sight of the two travelers. "Who are you?" he asked abruptly. "We're bound for the mines," answered Bradley. "Your good lady, if so be as you live there--indicating the cabin-has just provided us with a capital supper." The newcomer glanced toward the door of the cabin, at which the woman now made her appearance. "Givin' you some supper, eh? I hope she's saved some for me." "Yes, Jack," said his wife, in a conciliatory tone; "there's plenty for you. These strangers offered to pay well for supper and lodging, and I thought you wouldn't object. I gave them the supper, but I wouldn't say anything about the lodging until you came." "Well, stir round, old gal, and get me something to eat, for I'm dead hungry." "Supper is ready now, Jack." The man entered his cabin, and the next twenty minutes were consumed in repairing the ravages of hunger. "How do you like his looks, Jake?" asked Ben, in a low voice. "He's just the sort of man I'd expect to find in a State prison," answered Bradley. "That man's a rascal, if looks mean anything." "I'll tell you what he reminds me of, Jake. Did you ever read 'Oliver Twist'?" "All of a Twist? That's a queer name. What is it?" "It's a story by Dickens. He describes a brutal villain, named Bill Sykes, who murders his wife." "This chap looks as if he wouldn't mind doing it. His wife's afraid of him, though half an hour ago I would have said she wasn't afraid of anything." "That's so. They seem pretty well matched." Presently the master of the cabin came out. It was not easy for his harsh features to look amiable, but his manner was no longer offensive. He even seemed inclined to be social. "Traveled fur to-day?" he inquired. "About thirty miles, as near as I can guess," said Bradley. "Is that your boy?" "No, he's no kin to me. We're travelin' together-that's all." "Goin' to the mines?" "We are goin' to Murphy's." "Come from 'Frisco?" "Yes." The proprietor of the cabin at this reply fixed his eyes reflectively upon Ben and his companion. "I'd like to know what he's thinkin' about," said Bradley to himself. "Somehow I mistrust him. A man with that face can't help bein' a scoundrel." "Don't you find it lonely livin' out here?" he asked. Jack Carter shrugged his shoulders. "I don't care for company," he said. "As long as me and the old woman get enough to eat, our own company's good enough for us." "Are there any mines near-by?" asked Bradley. "Not very." "What inducement can he have to live out here in the wilderness?" thought Bradley. "If he were workin' a mine now, I could understand. How does he make a livin', I wonder?" "Have you lived here long?" he asked. "Quite a while." It was clear that Jack did not care to answer definitely, and was disposed to give as little information as possible about himself. It was yet early when the two travelers felt an inclination to sleep. They had had a hard day's tramp, and wished to be stirring early the next day. As yet, however, they were uncertain whether they would be permitted to sleep in the cabin. Bradley resolved to put the question to the man. "If you haven't got room for us to sleep," he said, "Ben and I will camp out, as we have done before." "The old woman's makin' up a bed for you," said Jack. "We don't keep a hotel, but we've got room for you two." "Thank you." "Wait here, and I'll see if the bed's ready." He entered the cabin, probably to consult with his wife. "I don't know why it is, Ben," said Bradley, in a low voice, "but I mistrust that man." "Don't you think it safe to sleep here?" asked Ben gravely. "I think if we are prudent we shall keep a careful watch over our host and hostess; they may mean us harm." "What motive would they have for harming us, Jake?" "To get possession of our money. There's a gang of robbers hereabouts, who make their livin' by stopping stages, and lyin' in wait for solitary travelers, and I strongly suspect that this man is one of them." "Do you judge from his looks?" "Not wholly, but I can't think of any other motive he can have for livin' in this out-of-the-way place. There are no mines near, and the huntin' wouldn't pay him. I may be mistaken, but that's what I think." "What shall we do?" asked Ben, a little startled by his companion's suggestion. "That's more than I can tell you, Ben." "We might camp out." "And be surprised in our sleep. No, we shall be as safe in the cabin as outside. Besides, I may be wrong. But, hush! here comes our agreeable friend." Jack Carter had in his hand a bottle and a tin mug. "Strangers," said he, "Jack Carter's a poor man, but he's not so poor that he can't offer a glass of wine to a friend." As he spoke, he poured out a liberal mug of wine and offered it to Bradley. Our friend Bradley was not a member of a temperance society, and he could not resist the temptation. His conscience smote him when he thought of the suspicions he had cherished, and there was a sudden revulsion. "After all," thought he, "Jack Carter is a good fellow. He don't look it, to be sure, but a man can't help his looks What is it the poet says, 'A man may smile and be a villain still.' Jack's a rough customer, but he's treatin' Ben and me tiptop." "I drink your health, Jack," he said cordially. "You've treated Ben and me like gentlemen, and we're glad to know you. You're the right sort." And he drained the mug. Jack Carter filled it again, and passed it to Ben. "Take a drink, boy," he said. "It will make you feel good." "No, thank you," said Ben politely. "What's the matter?" asked Jack, frowning. "Why won't you drink?" "I never drink," answered Ben. "I promised my father I wouldn't, and I can't break my word." "This wine is weak. It wouldn't hurt a baby." "I would rather not drink," said Ben. "Ain't you goin' a little too fur, Ben?" remonstrated Bradley. "Your father meant rum and whisky and sich. He wouldn't mind wine." "Yes, he would," said Ben, resolutely. "I had an uncle who died a drunkard, and it was that that made my father so particular. I promised him faithfully, and now that he's dead, I can't break my work to him." "The boy's right, Jack," said Bradley. "It won't hurt you and me, but if he don't want to drink, we won't press him." "It's blasted nonsense!" exclaimed Jack angrily. "The boy's puttin' on airs, that's what's the matter." "He's a good boy," said Bradley. "You don't know him as well as I do." "Jest as you say," muttered Jack, in a dissatisfied tone. "If you want to go to bed now, you can." "I'm ready, for one," said Bradley, rising with, alacrity. "I'm powerful sleepy." "Come in, then." They followed their host into the cabin. CHAPTER XVII. A TIGHT PLACE. The lower part of the cabin was divided into two rooms, over which was a loft. There was no staircase; but there was a short ladder by which the ascent was made. "You're to sleep up there," said Jack, pointing to the loft. "Me and the old woman sleep below." "All right," said Bradley, gaping. "I can sleep anywhere to-night. I'm powerful sleepy." He ascended the ladder first, and Ben followed. There was no bedstead, but a straw pallet was stretched in one corner, with a blanket in place of a quilt. "I sha'n't undress, Ben," said Bradley, throwing himself down on the rude bed. "I can't keep my eyes open long enough. I think I never felt so sleepy in the whole course of my life." "I am tired, but not sleepy," returned Ben. "I won't undress, either. I can sleep just as well in my clothes." Scarcely a minute had passed when Bradley was breathing in the unconsciousness of slumber. As Ben lay down beside him, he could not help feeling surprised at his companion's yielding so suddenly to the power of sleep. That he should be tired was not surprising; but when seated outside he had not seemed unusually drowsy, that is, up to the time of his drinking the wine. A quick suspicion flashed upon Ben's mind. Had the wine anything to do with this sudden drowsiness? Ben had not much experience of life; but he had heard of liquors being drugged, and it seemed possible that the wine which had been offered to Bradley might have been tampered with. If so, it was only too evident what was the object of their host. It was natural to suppose that the two travelers were provided with money, and it was undoubtedly the intention of Jack Carter to rob them in their sleep. This was not a pleasant thought, nor one calculated to soothe Ben to sleep. He was only a boy, and to find himself in a robber's den was certainly rather a startling discovery. If he had been able to consult with his companion, it would have been a relief; but Bradley was in a profound sleep. Ben nudged him, but without the slightest effect. He was insensible as a log. Finding more vigorous measures necessary, the boy shook him, but succeeded only in eliciting a few muttered words. "I can't wake him," thought Ben, more and more disturbed in mind. "I am sure it must be the wine which makes him sleep so heavily. What can I do?" This question was more easily asked than answered. Ben was quite aware that single-handed he could not cope with a powerful man like Carter. With Bradley's help he would have felt secure; but no assistance could now be expected from his companion. So far as he could see, he must submit to be robbed, and to see his companion robbed. Of course, there was a chance that he might be mistaken. It was possible that Bradley's might be a natural sleep, induced by excessive fatigue, and there might be nothing sinister in the intentions of their host. Ben, however, found it difficult to convince himself of this, much as he desired to do so. The existence of a gang of robbers in the vicinity, referred to by Bradley, was not calculated to reassure him. If Carter did not belong to this gang, his personal appearance was certainly calculated to foster the suspicion of his connection with them, and the suspicion was strengthened by the fact of his living in this lonely place without any apparent inducement. For the first time, perhaps, since he had left the East, he wished himself in the security of home. As Deacon Pitkin's hired boy, living on frugal diet, he would have been better off than here at the mercy of a mountain bandit. But Ben was a boy of spirit, and not inclined to submit in a cowardly manner without first considering if in any possible manner he could guard against the danger which menaced him. Fatigued as he was by the day's ride, he would, under ordinary circumstances, have fallen asleep quickly; but now anxiety and apprehension kept him broad awake. "If I could only rouse Bradley," he said to himself, "I should feel more comfortable. I don't like the responsibility of deciding what is best to be done." His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of low voices below. Evidently Carter and his wife were conversing, and probably about them. Anxious to hear what was said, as this might give him a clue to their plans, Ben rose softly from his low couch, and drew near the edge of the opening through which he had mounted into the loft. In this position he was able to hear what was said. "They must have money," said Carter. "They would need it to get them out to the mines. Whatever it is, I am bound to have it." "The man seems strong," replied the wife. "You may not find it an easy task to master him." "What can he do?" returned Carter contemptuously. "He is in a dead sleep. I put enough stuff into his wine to keep him in a stupor for twelve good hours. If I'm not a match for a sleeping man, I'll go and hang myself." "But the boy-he took no wine." "No; he's one of them temperance sneaks. But he's only a baby. I could lay him out with one hand." "Don't harm him, Jack!" said the woman. "I can't help feeling kindly to him. Our boy, had he lived, would have been about his age. I can't help thinking of that." "Don't be silly! Because we had a boy once, mustn't interfere with business." "But you won't hurt him, Jack?" pleaded the woman, who, hard as she seemed, appeared to have a soft side to her nature. "No; I won't hurt the brat if he behaves himself and doesn't get bumptious. Likely enough he'll be fast asleep. Boys at his age generally sleep well." "In the morning they will discover that they have been robbed. What will you say to them?" "Tell them it's none of my business; that I know nothing about it." "But if the boy is awake, and sees you at work, Jack?" "Then it will be different. It would have been better for him to have taken the wine." "Do you think he suspected anything?" "No; how could he suspect that the wine was drugged? He is one of them temperance sneaks, I tell you." "How soon are you going up, Jack?" "In half an hour. I want to give the boy time enough to get asleep. That will make matters easy." "Don't you think I had better go up, Jack?" "Why should you? Why should I let a woman do my work?" "Then I should know the boy would receive no harm." "Oh, that's it, is it? You make a great fuss about the boy." "Yes; I can't help thinking about my own boy." "Oh, drop that! It makes me sick. Wasn't he my boy as well as yours? I'm sorry he's gone. I could have brought him up to be a help to us in our business." "Never, Jack, never!" exclaimed his wife fervently. "Hello! what's that?" "I mean that I should have been unwilling to have our son grow up no better than we are. He, at any rate, should have been a good man." "What's up now, old woman? You haven't been attending Sunday-school lately, have you?" demanded Jack, with a sneer. "I did once, Jack, and I haven't quite forgotten what I learned there, though it don't look like it now." "Are you going back on me?" demanded Jack fiercely. "No, Jack, it's too late for that. I have helped you, and I mean to help you, but to-night the sight of that boy, and the thought of our son, who died so long ago, have given me a turn. If it was a man, it would be different. But you have promised you won't harm him, and no more need be said." "Too much has been said already, to my thinkin'," growled Jack. "However, that's over, and I expect you to help me if I need help." Ben heard every word that was said, and it confirmed his suspicions. There was no doubt that an attempt would be made to rob him and his companion before morning, and the prospect was not pleasant. By submitting quietly he would come to no harm, and the loss of the money would not be irreparable. He and Bradley had each started with a hundred dollars, supplied by Miss Doughlas, and thus far but little of this sum had been spent. Their employer would doubtless send them a further supply if they were robbed, but they would be reluctant to apply to her, since the loss would be partly the result of their imprudence. Ben felt that he was in a tight place, and he was not quite certain what he should or could do. CHAPTER XVIII. AN EVENING CALL. To lie awake in momentary expectation of a hostile attack, from which there is apparently no escape, is by no means a comfortable position. The cabin was in the heart of the woods, with no other dwelling within twenty miles, so far as Ben knew. In fact, if it were true, as Jack had said, that there were no mines near at hand, there were probably no neighbors, except, possibly, of Jack's kind. The question recurred to Ben: Was he willing to surrender his money, and go forth penniless, or should he attempt to escape or resist? "If Jake would only wake up!" he thought, surveying, with perplexity, the recumbent form at his side. But Jake was as senseless as a log, and the attempt to rouse him would inevitably attract attention below and precipitate the attack, besides leaving them utterly penniless. There was another idea which occurred to our hero: Could he secrete his own money and Jake's, or the greater part of it, and thus save it from the clutches of his dishonest host? If it had been in the form of bank-bills, there might have been some chance of doing this, but it was not so easy to conceal gold pieces. While considering this question, Ben rose softly and looked out of the window. Strictly speaking, there was no window, but a hole about fifteen inches square, screened by a curtain of coarse cotton cloth. This Ben moved aside, and looked out. It was not a very dark night. In the half-light Ben was able to see a considerable distance. The height of the opening from the ground was probably not much over twelve feet, as well as the boy could estimate. There would have been no difficulty in his getting out and swinging to the ground, but to this move there were two objections: First, he would be sure to be heard by his enemy below; and, secondly, he was unwilling to leave Jake in the power of the enemy. While he was standing at the window he heard the noise of some one moving below. The heavy step convinced him that it was Jack. He could not leave his place and lie down without being detected, and he hastily decided to remain where he was. In this way he might possibly gain time. Jack softly stepped from round to round of the ladder, and presently his head peered above the floor. He started angrily when he saw the boy at the window. "What are you about there, boy?" he demanded roughly. Ben turned, and said composedly: "I am looking out." "Why are you not in bed and asleep, like your friend?" "I tried to sleep, sir, but I couldn't." "Do you expect to get to sleep looking out of that hole?" "I thought I'd see how light it was." "Well, I can't have you trampin' round, keepin' the old woman and me awake. I wouldn't have let you sleep here ef I had known that's the way you spend the night." "I beg pardon if I disturbed you," said Ben politely. "Well, that don't do no good, your apologizin'. Jest lay down and get to sleep in a hurry, or I'll know the reason why." "All right, sir," said Ben submissively. "What's the name of that chap that's with you?" continued Jack. "It's Jake Bradley." "He's a sensible man, he is. He lays down and goes to sleep, while you're trampin' round the room and lookin' out of doors. You won't see nothin' to pay you." "I think you're right, sir. I'll lie down and go to sleep." "You'd better. Me and the old woman can't be kept awake all night." When Ben had resumed his place on the floor, the intruder descended the ladder. Though it would have been easy enough to execute his plan of robbery now, he evidently preferred to wait till both the travelers should be asleep. It was not true, as he had said, that he had heard Ben moving about. In fact, it had been a surprise to him to find the boy up, but this afforded a convenient and plausible pretext for his intrusion, and he had availed himself of it. CHAPTER XIX. BEN'S MIDNIGHT EXCURSION. When Jack Carter went downstairs it was his intention to wait from half an hour to an hour, and then to make another visit to his lodgers. This would allow time for Ben to fall asleep, and, although Jack would have had no difficulty in overcoming his resistance, he preferred to commit the robbery when both the travelers were in a state of unconsciousness. But he overestimated his ability to keep awake. Usually he was a sound sleeper, and during the day preceding he had taken a long walk across the mountains. The natural result followed. While he was waiting for Ben to fall asleep, he fell asleep himself. Ben was not long in ascertaining this welcome fact. A series of noises, not very musical, announced that Jack was asleep. He had a confirmed habit of snoring, to which, fortunately, his wife had become accustomed, so that it did not disturb her rest. Ben crept near the edge of the loft and looked over. The bed on which his amiable host reposed was in full view. Both husband and wife were fast asleep, and their sleep was likely to be protracted. Under this change of circumstances, what was Ben to do? This was the question which he anxiously asked himself. Now there would be no difficulty in escaping, if he saw fit. But here there was a difficulty. Jake could not be roused, and, if he could, it would not be very agreeable to lose a night's sleep, for Ben, as well as his host, felt very sleepy. Yet if he allowed himself to remain in the loft, the danger of robbery would recur in the morning, for Jack would be sure to wake earlier than Bradley, who had been drugged, as Ben was convinced. Sometimes, in the midst of perplexity, a way of relief is suddenly opened. A lucky suggestion, sent, perhaps, by an overruling Providence, provides a path of escape from some menacing evil. This happened in the present instance. "Why," thought Ben, "can't I take our money, steal downstairs and out of the cabin, and hide it in some secure place where we can find it in the morning? Then I can sleep in security for the remainder of the night, and my thievish friend will be disappointed." No sooner did the idea occur to Ben than he prepared to carry it out. As has already been said, Bradley had about a hundred dollars in gold pieces, and Ben as much more. This would have made a very good haul for Jack, who did not anticipate obtaining so much. It was more than our young hero felt willing to lose, and he was prepared to run a large risk in the effort to save it. The risk, of course, was that he might wake Jack or his wife in coming downstairs. There would be no difficulty in opening the door, for it was not fastened in any way. As to the danger of rousing his entertainers, Ben was not much afraid of waking Jack, for he was evidently in a sound sleep. His wife was more likely to be disturbed, and, in that case, Ben was provided with an excuse. He would say that he was thirsty, and in search of some water, which would have been true enough, though this was not the main object of his expedition. Ben had not taken off his shoes and stockings, and began to descend the ladder with his shoes on, but it occurred to him that his steps might be audible, and he quietly removed both shoes and stockings. He had previously taken Bradley's money, with the exception of a few dollars, without in the least arousing his sleepy comrade, who, in consequence of the potion he had unsuspiciously taken, was still wrapped in unconscious slumber. "Now," thought Ben, "I must do my work as quickly as I can." He was not insensible to the risk he ran, and it was not without a thrill of excitement that he set foot on the floor of the cabin, and looked at the sleeping faces of Jack Carter and his wife. But there was no time to waste. He stepped softly to the door and opened it. Just then the woman stirred in her sleep, and uttered something unintelligible. Ben was alarmed lest she were about to wake up, and stood stock-still, with his fingers on the latch. But there was no further sound. The woman partially turned over, and soon her quiet, regular breathing notified Ben that sleep had resumed its power over her. Probably she had stirred in consequence of some uneasy dream. With a deep breath of relief, Ben opened the door, passed out, and closed it softly after him. He was out of the house, and in the freedom of the woods. Before morning he might have put fifteen miles between him and the cabin of his foes. He would have felt disposed to do so, and avoid all further trouble, if Bradley had been with him, and in condition to travel. As this was not to be thought of, he proceeded to search for a suitable place to secrete his troublesome treasure. The cabin stood in a valley, or canon, in the shadow of gigantic pine-trees, rising straight as a flagpole to the altitude of nearly two hundred feet. They were forest giants, impressive in their lofty stature, and Ben regarded them with wonder and awe. They were much smaller in every way than the so-called big trees to be found in the Calaveras and Mariposa groves; but these had not at that time been discovered, and the pines were the largest trees our hero had ever encountered. Ben looked about him in vain to find a suitable hiding-place in the immediate neighborhood of the cabin. If there had been a large flat rock under which he could have placed the gold pieces, that would have suited him; but there was absolutely nothing of the kind in sight. So Ben wandered away, hardly knowing whither his steps were carrying him, till he must have been at least a quarter of a mile distant from the cabin. Here his attention was attracted by a tree of larger circumference than any he had seen nearer, which showed the ravages of time. The bark was partly worn away, and, approaching nearer, Ben saw that it had begun to decay from within. There was an aperture about a foot above the ground through which he could readily thrust his hand. "That's the very thing!" exclaimed Ben, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. "Nobody would ever think of looking for money there. Here I can hide our gold, and to-morrow, when we set out on our journey, we can take this tree on our way." Ben took from his pockets the gold which belonged to Bradley and himself, and wrapping them securely in a paper which he happened to have with him, he thrust the whole into the cavity in the tree. "There!" said he, "our treasure is much safer there than it would be in our possession, for to-night, at least." Ben carefully took the bearings of the tree, that he might not forget it. There was little difficulty about this, as it was larger than any of its neighbors, not so tall, perhaps, but of greater circumference. "I shall remember it now," he said to himself. As Ben walked back to the humble cabin he became very drowsy. He was quite fatigued with his day's march, and it was now nearly or quite two hours since his companion had fallen asleep. It was fortunate for him that Ben had been more wakeful. "I shall be glad enough to sleep now," thought Ben. "I don't know when I have felt more tired." He reached the cabin door, and listened outside to learn whether any one were stirring. He could still hear the sonorous snore of Jack, and could distinguish the deep breathing of his hostess. All seemed to be safe. He softly opened the door, and closed it after him. Without arousing any one, he made his way up the ladder to the loft, where Bradley lay precisely as he had left him. Ben threw himself down beside him with a deep sigh of satisfaction, and in ten minutes he, too, was sound asleep. CHAPTER XX. A THIEF'S DISAPPOINTMENT. Jack Garter, regardless of his plans respecting his guests, slept through the night, and it was not till after the sun rose that he opened his eyes. His wife was already up and moving about the room. Jack stretched himself negligently, but all at once his purpose flashed upon him. "Bess, what time is it?" he demanded. "Past six o'clock, as you can see by the sun." "Curse it! what made me fall asleep?" ejaculated Jack, with an oath. "Now it may be too late." "How long have you been awake, Bess?" he asked. "An hour or more." "Why didn't you wake me up?" demanded Jack sharply. "I didn't know you wanted me to," answered his wife. "Only yesterday you swore at me for waking you up an hour later." "Yesterday isn't to-day, and I had something to do," said Jack, looking significantly upward. "Didn't you attend to it last night?" "No; curse my drowsiness! I fell asleep like a natural-born fool that I was." "How could I know that? I was asleep myself." "You always have some excuse," said Jack, rather unreasonably. "Just quit movin' round and makin' a noise. It may not be too late yet." No sound was heard in the loft above. Happily, the two lodgers might still be asleep, so Jack said to himself, and in that case he might still be able to carry out his plan. At any rate, there was no time to lose, and he began softly to ascend the ladder. When his head reached the level of the flooring he looked eagerly at the rude couch where his guests lay. Both were fast asleep. Bradley was still held in the power of the powerful drug which had been mingled with his wine, and Ben had yielded to the sound and healthful slumber which at his age follows fatigue. His boyish face lay on his hand, and he looked innocent and happy. There was a smile about his lips, for he was dreaming of his far-away home. The sight might have appealed to any one less hardened than Jack Carter, calling up memories of his own dead boy, and powerfully appealing to what heart he had left. But Jack felt simply relieved to find that the boy, whose wakefulness he had feared, was sound asleep. "All the better," he muttered. "It isn't too late, after all. Now, Jack Carter, is your time. I hope you'll make a good haul." Treading softly, Jack stepped to the side of Bradley. He thought it best to rid him first, for there was no danger of his waking up. But he was destined to disappointment. The most thorough search brought to light only five dollars in gold. "What has he done with his money?" muttered the thief, with a frown. "Of course, he must have more." The idea came to him that the bulk of the money might have been given to the boy, who was less likely to attract the notice of plunderers. This was a point easily settled, and Jack turned his attention to Ben. Ben was asleep when the search commenced, but his sleep was not as profound as Bradley's, and he woke up. But, luckily, recollection came with consciousness, and summoning all his self-command, he counterfeited sleep, not interfering with Jack or his designs. He was willing to lose the little he had in his pocket, and, besides, he was curious to hear what Jack would say when he found out how inconsiderable was the booty which he secured. It must be admitted that Ben found it difficult to restrain himself from some movement which would have betrayed to the thief that he was awake. Jack, however, being fully convinced that Ben was asleep, did not fix his eyes upon the countenance of his young lodger, and so remained ignorant of his wakefulness. The second search proved no more satisfactory than the first. The boy was no richer than the man. In a low voice Jack indulged in an oath indicating his deep disgust. "I didn't think they were such poor tramps," he said to himself, "or I wouldn't have taken all this trouble. Only ten dollars between the two of them! Why, they're little more than beggars?" Stay! They might have concealed their money. There was no place in the loft, for it was wholly bare of furniture, but their luggage was thrown down carelessly. There were no lodes, and Jack was able to extend his search to their knapsacks; but he found nothing that repaid him. He was forced finally to the conclusion that they were as poor as they seemed. Had Jack Carter been one of those generous highwaymen, of whom we sometimes read, he would have disdained to rob Ben and his friend of their little all. But indeed that was not his style. He coolly pocketed the two gold pieces, which were all he had been able to find, and sullenly descended the ladder. His wife looked at him inquiringly. "Look at that!" he said grumblingly, as he displayed the two gold pieces. "Was it all you could find?" "Yes." "They must be poor." "Poor! They are beggars." The woman, who was not as hard as she looked, was struck with compassion. "Give it back to them, Jack," she entreated. "It is little enough, and they will have need of it." "So do I have need of it," growled her lord and master. "No, you don't, Jack. It isn't worth your taking." "I'm the best judge of that, woman." "They will suffer. I can't bear to have that boy suffer. He reminds me so of our dead son." "You're a fool!" said her husband roughly. "And you have no heart!" said his wife bitterly. "I don't want one if it's going to make a fool of me. Come, hurry up the breakfast, for I must be out of the way before they come down. They'll miss their money, and I don't want to be asked any questions." "What shall I say if they ask me where it is, Jack?" "Anything you like," he answered impatiently. "Say the cat did it, or anything else. Do you think a woman needs teachin' what she is to say?" "They will think we did it," persisted his wife. "Let them. They can't prove anything. Just hurry up that breakfast, I tell you." The wife did as she was ordered, and Jack sat down to his breakfast. He ate heartily, having a conscience that did not trouble him about such trifles as plundering the guests who had slept beneath his roof, and rose to leave the house. "Give 'em some breakfast," he said, as he opened the door; "and tell 'em you won't take no pay on account of their loss. That'll about make things square, I reckon. I've taken my pay in advance." He shouldered his gun and went out into the woods. CHAPTER XXI. BEN'S SAVINGS-BANK. It was not till an hour afterward that Ben rose from his lowly couch, and, by dint of violent shaking, succeeded in rousing Bradley. "Come, Bradley, wake up!" he cried. "The sun is high, and it is time we were on our way." Bradley stretched himself, took a long breath, and said: "I must have had a long sleep." "Yes, you dropped off as soon as you lay down, and have slept ever since." "And did you sleep as soundly?" "No, I was awake twice during the night," answered Ben. "I don't know how it is, but I am sleepy still. Seems to me I don't stand fatigue as well as you. I am sleepy yet, and feel as if I could sleep all the forenoon." "The effects of the drug," thought Ben. Ben considered whether he should tell Bradley what had happened during the night. He decided briefly to say a few words about it in a whisper, and postpone a full explanation till later, for their hostess was below, and could hear any loud word that might be uttered. Bradley was instructed that he must claim to have lost five dollars. "But I had a hundred," said Bradley, feeling in his pockets. "It's all right," whispered Ben. "I'll explain by and by. Not a word of the loss till after breakfast." Bradley was quite bewildered, and utterly failed to understand the situation. But he had considerable faith in his young companion, and was willing to follow Ben's instructions. They descended the ladder, Ben in advance. The woman looked at them sharply, to see if they had yet discovered the robbery, but each seemed unconcerned. "They don't know it yet," she said to herself. "Madam, can you give us some breakfast?" asked Ben politely. "I'll give you such as I have," said Mrs. Carter, feeling a little remorse for her husband's theft, and pity for what she supposed their penniless condition. "That will be perfectly satisfactory, and we shall be much obliged to you." The breakfast was nearly ready in anticipation of their needs, and they partook of it heartily. Now came the critical moment. Ben thrust his hand into his pocket, appearing to search for his money, and, after a brief space, withdrew it in apparent dismay. "I can't find my money," he said. Mrs. Carter's face flushed, but she said nothing. She anticipated their suspicion, and was ashamed. "Bradley," said Ben, "have you your money?" Jake Bradley repeated the search, and he, too, expressed surprise. "I had it when I went to bed," he added. "What is it?" asked the woman slowly, turning to them a troubled face. "Have you lost anything?" "I don't seem to find my money, ma'am," answered Bradley. "Nor I mine," said Ben. "It's curious." Mrs. Carter could not tell by their manner whether they suspected anything, but she had her story ready. It was an invention, but life with Jack Carter had left her few compunctions about such a simple matter as telling a lie. "I missed something myself," she said. "We don't lock our door of nights, and I reckon some tramp got in last night, when we were asleep, and robbed us all. Have you lost much, you two?" "Not much, ma'am. There wasn't much to take." "It's a pity. I am sorry it happened under my roof. But we slept very sound last night, Jack and me, and that's the way it must have come." She looked at them critically, to detect, if she could, whether they suspected her husband or herself, but both the travelers were on their guard. "Did you have much taken, ma'am?" asked Bradley. "No," she answered hurriedly, rather ashamed of the imposture. "We ain't rich, Jack nor I." "What I am most sorry for," said Ben, "is that we have nothing to pay for our accommodations." "You're welcome to your lodging and what you've ate," said the woman sincerely. "And, if you like, I'll put up some luncheon for you to eat by and by." "Thank you, ma'am, it will be very acceptable," answered Bradley. "She's better than her husband," thought Ben. "After all, we haven't lost much, for we shall get nearly the worth of our lost money." The woman remarked, with some surprise, that they did not take their loss much to heart. "How do you expect to get along without money?" she could not help asking. "We're used to roughing it, ma'am," said Bradley. "I'm an old miner, and I think I can find some of my old chums before long." By this time luncheon was ready, and they soon left the cabin. Bradley could no longer repress his curiosity. "Now, Ben, tell me all about it," he said. "Where is our money?" Ben looked back, to make sure that he would not be overheard, and answered: "I put it in the bank for security, Jake." "What do you mean?" "If I am not very much mistaken, we shall find it hidden in a hole in a tree, quarter of a mile away." "Who put it there?" asked his companion, in surprise. "I did." "When?" "Last night, about midnight, as near as I can guess." Ben laughed at his companion's evident perplexity, and told him in detail the story of the night's adventure. "Ben, I'm proud of you," said Bradley, slapping our hero on the back. "There are not many grown men that would have known what to do under the circumstances." "I confess that I was very much puzzled myself," said Ben modestly. "I could have done nothing if our honest host hadn't fallen asleep." "He would feel rather provoked if he knew that nearly all of our money is untouched," said Bradley; "that is, if we find it again." "There's no fear of that," said Ben. "Do you see that tree yonder?" "The large one?" "Yes." "That is my savings-bank." They quickened their steps till they reached the stately monarch of the forest. Ben quickly thrust his hand into the cavity and drew out the precious parcel which he had committed to it during the night. It was precisely as he had placed it there. No one had touched it. "Now," said Ben, "I will give you ninety-five dollars. That is the amount of which I picked your pocket last night." "You are a pickpocket of the right sort," said his companion. "You took my money in order to save it." Their money recovered, they started on their day's march, and nightfall found them twenty miles nearer their destination. CHAPTER XXII. THE ARRIVAL AT MURPHY'S. One morning about eleven o'clock they came in sight of Murphy's. It was only a mining-settlement of the most primitive description. A few tents and cabins, with rough, bearded men scattered here and there, intent upon working their claims, gave it a picturesque appearance, which it has lost now. It was then a more important place than at present, however, for the surface diggings are exhausted, and it is best known-to-day by its vicinity to the famous Calaveras grove of big trees. "So this is Murphy's?" said Ben, rather disappointed. "It doesn't seem to be much of a place." "You didn't expect to see a regular town, did you?" asked Bradley. "I don't know. I hardly knew what to expect. It seems a rough place." "And I suppose the people seem rough, too?" "Yes." "So they are in appearance; but you can't tell what a man has been, by his looks here. Why, the man that worked the next claim to me was a college graduate, and not far away was another who had been mayor of a Western city." "And were they dressed like these men here?" asked Ben. "Quite as roughly. It won't do to wear store-clothes at the mines." "No, I suppose not; but these men look like immigrants just come over." Bradley laughed. "Wait till we have been at work a little while, and we shall look no better," he said, laughing. "What is that?" asked Ben suddenly, stopping short while an expression of horror came over his face. Bradley followed the direction of his finger, and saw suspended from a tree the inanimate body of a man, the features livid and distorted, and wearing an expression of terror and dismay, as if his fate had come upon him without time for preparation. "I reckon that's a thief," answered Bradley unconcernedly. "A thief! Do they hang people for stealing out here?" "Yes, they have to. You see, my lad, there ain't any laws here, nor courts. If a man steals, the miners just take the matter into their own hands, and if there ain't a doubt of it, they hang him as soon as they catch him." "It's horrible!" said Ben, who had never before seen the victim of a violent death. "Maybe it is, but what can we do?" "Put him in prison," suggested Ben. "There ain't any prisons, and, if there were, there would be nobody to keep them." Just then Bradley was hailed by a rough-looking man, whom at home Ben would have taken for a tramp. "What, Bradley, back again? I didn't expect to see you here?" "I didn't expect to come, Hunter, but I fooled away my money in 'Frisco, and have come back for more." "And who's this boy-your son, or nephew?" "No; he's no kin to me. I ran across him down to 'Frisco. Ben, let me make you acquainted with my old chum, Frank Hunter. He isn't much to look at, but-" "I have seen better days," interrupted Hunter, smiling. "I was rather a dandy in my college days at old Yale, though I don't look like it now." Ben regarded him with surprise. He had not dreamed that this sun-brown, bearded man, in the roughest of mining-garbs, had ever seen the inside of a college. Hunter smiled at the boy's evident surprise. "I don't look like a college graduate, do I? But I assure you I am not the worst-dressed man in camp. My friend, the mayor, is rougher-looking than I. Some time I hope to return to the haunts of civilization, and then I will try to conform to habits which I have almost forgotten." "How are you making out, Hunter?" asked Bradley. "Pretty well. I have made more here in six months than I did by three years' practise of law before I came out here." "Do you like it as well, Mr. Hunter?" Ben could not help asking curiously. "No, I don't; but then, it's only for a time, as I say to myself when I get tired of the rough life I am leading. When I've made a respectable pile I shall start for 'Frisco, and take passage home, put up my shingle again, and wait for clients with money enough to pay my board while I'm waiting. A young lawyer needs that always." "Perhaps you'll be Judge Hunter, in time," said Bradley. "I've served in that capacity already," said Hunter unexpectedly, "and that not longer ago than yesterday. Do you see that poor wretch up there?" and he pointed to the suspended body already referred to. "Yes; what did he do?" "He was a notorious thief-served a term in the penitentiary East for stealing, and came out here to practise his profession. But this climate is unhealthy for gentlemen in that line of business." "Did he rob anybody here?" "Yes; you remember Johnson?" "Is he still here?" "He is about ready to go home, with money enough to lift the mortgage from his farm. We all knew it, for Johnson was so happy that he took everybody into his confidence. He had all his money tied up in a bag which he kept in his tent. "Imprudent, of course, but we haven't any banks or safes here," added Hunter, meeting the question in Ben's eyes. "Well, this rascal, Ross, wormed himself into his confidence, found out exactly where the bag was kept, and night before last, in the middle of the night, he crept to the tent, and was in the act of carrying off the bag, when, as luck would have it, my friend, the mayor, who was taking a night walk in the hope of curing a severe headache, came upon him. "Ross showed fight, but was overpowered, and tied securely till morning. When morning came we tried him, I being judge. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be hung. The sentence was carried into effect in the afternoon. He won't steal any more, I reckon." Ben took another hasty look at the dangling criminal whose end had been so sudden and horrible, and he shuddered. "Why don't you take him down?" he asked. "It was ordered that he hang for twenty-four hours, as a warning to any others in camp who might be tempted to steal. The time isn't up yet. "You are a young gold-hunter," said Hunter, scanning over hero's youthful face. "Yes, I am," Ben confessed; "but I had to earn a living, and I thought I could do it better here than at home." "Are you from the East?" "I am from Hampton, in New York State." "I know something of Hampton," said Hunter. "I have never been there; but I have a distant relative living there." "Who is it?" asked Ben, with interest. "I know everybody there." "I dare say you know my relative, for I am given to understand that he is the great man of Hampton." "Mayor Sturgis?" "Yes, that is his name. He married a cousin of my mother, so the relationship is not very close. He is rich, isn't he?" "He is the richest man in Hampton." "I suppose he is aware of that fact," said Hunter, laughing. "If he isn't, his son, Sam, is," replied Ben. "Sam wanted to engage me as his servant before I came away. He wanted me to black his boots." "And you objected, I suppose?" "I wouldn't work for Sam Sturgis for a hundred dollars a month!" said Ben emphatically. "Then you don't like him?" "He is very big-feeling," said Ben, using a boy's word, "and likes to boss all the rest of the boys. He thinks he is far above us all." "He ought to come out here. California takes the airs out of a man if he has any. We are all on an equality here, and the best man wins-I mean the man of the most pluck-for success doesn't depend on moral excellence exactly. Well, old friend, are you going to settle down among us again?" It was to Bradley this question was addressed. "I don't know. I'm here on a little matter of business, along of this boy. Is Richard Dewey here now?" "Dewey? No. He had poor luck, and he dusted a month ago." Ben and his companion exchanged glances of disappointment. "Where did he go?" asked Bradley, who was evidently getting discouraged. "He was going to the mountains," he said. "He had been studying up something about minerals, and he had an idea that he'd find a rich ledge among the Sierras that would pay better than this surface-mining." "Is there anybody that knows what direction he took?" "My friend, the mayor, knows as well as any man. Dewey was his next neighbor, and often talked over his plans with him." "Then we will go and see the mayor." "No need of going, here he comes." CHAPTER XXIII. AMONG THE SIERRAS. Ben had heard of mayors, and once he had seen one, a pompous-looking man who had once served in that capacity in an inland city of some twenty thousand inhabitants, and he supposed that all mayors were alike. He could hardly believe his eyes, therefore, when he saw before him a man of medium height, dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers, and wearing a hat once white, but now dirt-begrimed. "Friends of yours, judge?" said the newcomer, speaking to Hunter, and indicating by a nod Ben and his companion. "You ought to know one of them, mayor," said Hunter. "Why, it's Bradley," said the mayor, extending his hand cordially. "Glad to see you back again." Bradley shook hands, and introduced Ben. "I'm told you can tell me where to find Richard Dewey, colonel," said Bradley, employing another title of the mayor. "I can't just say where he is," said the mayor; "but I can tell you where he meant to go." "That will help us." "You don't mean him any harm?" asked the mayor quickly. "Far from it. We have the best news for him." "Because Dick Dewey is a friend of mine, and I wouldn't bring him into trouble for the richest claim in Californy." "That's where we agree, colonel. The fact is, there's a young lady in 'Frisco who has come out on purpose to find him-his sweetheart, and an heiress, at that. Me and Ben have agreed to find him for her, and that's the long and short of it." "Then I'm with you, Bradley. I've seen the girl's picture. Dick showed it to me one day, and she does credit to his taste. He's had bad luck at the mines; but-" "That won't matter when them two meet," said Bradley. "She's better than any claim he can find this side the mountains." Bradley and our young hero spent the remainder of the day and the night at Murphy's, hospitably provided for by the judge and the mayor, and Ben listened with avidity to the stories of the miners and their varying luck. If he had not been in search of Richard Dewey, he would have tarried at Murphy's, selected a claim, and gone to work the very next day. He was anxious to have his share in the rough but fascinating life which these men were leading. To him it seemed like a constant picnic, with the prospect of drawing a golden prize any day, provided you attended to business. "That will come by and by," he thought to himself. "We must find Cousin Ida's beau, and then we can attend to business." Somehow, it seemed more natural to use the first name by which he had known the young lady who employed him than the real name which he had learned later. It may be necessary to remind the reader that her name was Florence Douglas. The next morning, after breakfast, the two friends left Murphy's, and bent their course toward the mountains where they were told that Richard Dewey was likely to be found. The direction given them was, it must be confessed, not very definite, and the chances seemed very much against their succeeding in the object of their search. A week later we will look in upon them toward nightfall. They were among the mountains now. After the close of a laborious day they had tethered their animals to a tree, and were considering a very important subject, namely, where to find anything that would serve for supper. Their supply of provisions was exhausted, and there was no means of purchasing a fresh supply. Bradley took out his supply of gold, and surveyed it ruefully. "Ben," said he, "I never knew before how little good there is in bein' rich. Here we've both got money, and we can't get anything for it. It's cheap traveling for we haven't spent anything sence we've left Murphy's." "I wish we could spend some of our money," said Ben uneasily. "If there was only a baker's, or an eating-house here, I'd be willing to pay five dollars for a good square meal." "So would I. Somehow, gold don't look as good to me as it used to. We may starve to death with money in our pockets." Ben's eyes were fixed upon a slender brook not far away that threaded its silvery way down a gentle incline from the midst of underbrush. "I wonder if we can't catch some trout," he said. "Don't they have trout in these mountains?" "To be sure they do; and the best in the world," said Bradley briskly. "The California mountain trout can't be beat." "But we have no fishing-tackle," suggested Ben. "Never mind, we have our guns." "How will that help us?" "We can shoot them, to be sure." Ben looked surprised. "Didn't you ever shoot pickerel? We can shoot trout in the same way. Come, Ben, follow me, and we'll see if we can't have a good supper, after all." Leaving their mustangs to gather a supper from the scanty herbage in their neighborhood, the two friends made their way to the brook. It had seemed very near, but proved to be fully a quarter of a mile away. When they reached it they brought their guns into requisition, and soon obtained an appetizing mess of trout, which only needed the service of fire to make a meal fit for an epicure. "I can hardly wait to have them cooked," sard Ben. "I'm as hungry as a hunter. I understand what that means now." "I sha'n't have any trouble in keeping up with you, Ben," said his companion. "We'll have a supper fit for a king." They gathered some dry sticks, and soon a fire was blazing, which, in the cool night air, sent out a welcome heat. After supper they lay down on their backs and looked up into the darkening sky. Ben felt that it was a strange situation. They were in the heart of the Sierras, miles, perhaps many miles, away from any human being, thousands of miles away from the quiet village where Ben had first seen the light. Yet he did not feel disturbed or alarmed. His wanderings had inspired self-reliance, and he did not allow himself to be troubled with anxious cares about the future. If by a wish he could have been conveyed back to his uncle's house in the far East, he would have declined to avail himself of the privilege. He had started out to make a living for himself, and he was satisfied that if he persevered he would succeed in the end. "What are you thinking about, Ben?" asked Bradley, after a long pause. "I was thinking how strange it seems to be out here among the mountains," answered Ben, still gazing on the scenery around him. "I don't see anything strange about it," said his less imaginative comrade. "Seein' we came here on our horses, it would be strange to be anywhere else." "I mean it is strange to think we are so far away from everybody." "I don't foller you, Ben. I suppose it's sorter lonelylike, but that ain't new to me." "I never realized how big the world was when I lived at home," said Ben, in a slow, thoughtful way. "Yes, it's a pretty largish place, that's a fact." "What were you thinking of, Jake?" asked Ben, in his turn. "I was thinkin' of two things: whereabouts Dewey has managed to hide himself, and then it occurred to me how consolin' it would be to me if I could light on a pound of smokin'-tobacco. I've got a pipe, but it ain't no good without tobacco." "That don't trouble me much, Jake," said Ben, with a smile. "It's the next thing to a good supper, Ben," said Bradley; "but I might as well wish for the moon." "You needn't wish in vain for that," said Ben, pointing out the orb of evening, with its pale-yellow light peeping over the tall tree-tops, and irradiating the scene with its pensive shimmer. "I can see it, but that don't help me any," said Bradley. "If I saw a world made of tobacco up in yonder sky, it would only make me feel worse because I couldn't get any." "What was it you was a-wishin' for, friend?" asked an unfamiliar voice. Bradley sprang to his feet, and Ben followed suit. They saw two strange figures, clad in Spanish style, with large, napping sombreros on their heads, who unheard, had descended the mountains, and were now close upon them. "Who are you?" asked Bradley doubtfully. "Friends," was the reassuring reply. "We'll join your little party if you have no objection. I'd invite you to take a drink if there was any saloon handy. As there isn't, jest help yourself to this," and he drew out a pouch of smoking-tobacco. "Just what I was wantin'," said Bradley, delighted. "You're welcome, whoever you are." "Ben, can't you get together some sticks and light the fire? It's coolish." CHAPTER XXIV. BEATEN AT HIS OWN GAME. Bradley was of a social disposition, and even without the gift of tobacco would have been glad of an addition to their small party. "I'm glad to see you," he said, repeating his welcome. "I wonder I didn't hear you comin'. Have you been long in Californy?" "Well onto a year," said the one who seemed the elder of the two. "How is it with you, stranger?" "I have been here about as long," answered Bradley. "Ben has only just come out." "What luck have you had?" pursued the questioner. "Good and bad. I made quite a pile, and went to 'Frisco and gambled it away like a fool. Now I've come back for another trial." '"What might your name be?" "Bradley-Jake Bradley. It isn't much of a name, but it'll do for me. The boy is Ben Stanton--come from the East." "My name is Bill Mosely," said the other. "My friend's Tom Hadley. We're both from Missouri, and, though I say it, we're about as wide-awake as they make 'em. We don't stand no back talk, Tom and me. When a man insults me, I drop him," and the speaker rolled his eyes in what was meant to stimulate ferocity. Bradley eyed him shrewdly, and was not quite so much impressed as Mosely intended him to be. He had observed that the greatest boasters did not always possess the largest share of courage. "Isn't that so, Tom?" asked Bill Mosely, appealing to his friend. "I should say so," answered Tom, nodding emphatically. "You've seen me in a scrimmage more than once?" "I should say I have." "Did you ever see me shoot a man that riled me?" "Dozens of times," returned Hadley, who appeared to play second fiddle to his terrible companion. "That's the kind of man I am," said Bill Mosely, in a tone of complacency. Still, Bradley did not seem particularly nervous or frightened. He was fast making up his mind that Mosely was a cheap bully, whose words were more terrible than his deeds. Ben had less experience of men, and he regarded the speaker as a reckless desperado, ready to use his knife or pistol on the least provocation. He began to think he would have preferred solitude to such society. He was rather surprised to hear Bradley say quietly: "Mosely, you're a man after my own heart. That's the kind of man I be. If a man don't treat me right, I shoot him in his tracks. One day I was drinkin' in a saloon among the foothills, when I saw a man winkin' at me. I waited to see if he would do it again. When he did, I hauled out my revolver and shot him dead." "You did?" exclaimed Mosely uneasily. "Of course I did; but I was rather sorry afterward when I heard that his eyelids were weak and he couldn't help it." "Did you get into any trouble about it, stranger?" asked Mosely, with a shade of anxiety. "No; none of the party dared touch me. Besides, I did the handsome thing. I had the man buried, and put a stone over him. I couldn't do any more, could I?" "No," said Mosely dubiously, and he drew a little farther away from Bradley. "What do you find to eat?" he inquired, after a pause. "Tom and I are as hungry as if we hadn't eaten anything for a week. You haven't got any provisions left over?" "No; but you can have as good a supper as we had, and we had a good one. What do you say to trout, now?" Bill Mosely smacked his lips. "Jest show me where I'll find some," he said. Bradley pointed to the brook from which he had drawn his supply. "I don't mind helping you," he said. "Ben, are you tired?" "No, Jake." "Then come along, and we'll try to get some supper for our friends." "All right!" said Ben cheerfully. In a short time a fresh supply of trout was drawn from the brook, and they were roughly cooked at the fire, Bradley officiating as cook. "Now, my friends, set up," said he. "I'm sorry I can't give you any potatoes, but the barrel's out, and it's too late to get any at the store. Likewise, you must excuse the puddin', as it's too late to make any." The two visitors appeared to think no apologies were needful, for they made short work with the trout. From the manner in which they devoured their supper, it was quite evident that it was some time since they had eaten. Ben and Bradley did not join them, having already eaten heartily. "I hope you relished your supper, gentlemen," said Bradley politely. "I should say we did," responded Tom Hadley. "I say, them trout beat the world." "I'll shoot the man that says they don't!" said Bill Mosely, relapsing into his old tone. "So will I!" exclaimed Bradley, springing to his feet and brandishing his revolver. Ben began to see that he was playing a part, and, with assumed gravity, he looked to see what effect it would have on their new friend. "I say, stranger, don't handle that weapon of yours so careless," said Mosely uneasily. "I guess you're right," said Bradley, appearing to calm down. "Once I was swingin' my gun kinder careless, and it went off and hit my friend, Jim Saunders, in his shoulder. Might have been worse. He had a narrer escape. But Jim couldn't complain. I jest took care of him, night and day, till he got well. I couldn't do any more'n that, now, could I?" "I reckon he'd rather you hadn't shot him," said Mosely dryly. "I reckon you're right," said Bradley, with equanimity. "Such little accidents will happen sometimes, Mosely. Somehow, you can't always help it." "It's best to be keerful," observed Mosely uneasily. "I should say so," echoed his friend, Tom Hadley. "Right you both are!" said Bradley affably. "I say, Mosely, I like you. You're jest such a sort of man as I am. You'd jest as lieve shoot a man as to eat your dinner; now, wouldn't you?" "If he'd insulted me," said Mosely hesitatingly. "Of course. Come, now, how many men have you killed, first and last?" "About twenty, I should think," answered the bully, who seemed to grow meeker and more peaceable as Bradley's apparent reckless ferocity increased. "Only twenty!" exclaimed Bradley contemptuously. "Why, that's nothing at all!" "How many have you killed?" asked Mosely uneasily. "Seventy or eighty, I should say," answered Bradley carelessly. "Of course, a man can't keep an account of all these little affairs. I did once think I'd keep a list, but I got tired of it after a short time, and gave it up after I'd got up to forty-seven." "Where was you raised, stranger?" asked Mosely. "In Kentucky-glorious old Kentuck! and if there's a man dares to say a word against my State, I'll take his life!" and Bradley sprang to his feet. "Lay down again, stranger," interposed Bill Mosely hastily. "There's no one here wants to say a word agin' Kentuck. It's a glorious old State, as you say. Isn't it, Tom?" "I should say so," responded Tom Hadley, using his customary formula. "Are you in search of gold, Mosely?" asked Bradley, in a more quiet manner. "We're kinder prospectin' among the hills," answered Mosely. "You haven't come across anything yet, have you?" "Not yet. Have you?" "We're looking for a friend that's gone ahead. Maybe he's struck it rich. When we find him we'll turn in and help him." "You've got one advantage of us, stranger. You've got hosses, and we've had to walk." "Why didn't you buy animals?" "We did, but they were stolen from us a little way back." "If our hosses should be stolen," said Bradley, "the thieves would die within a week." Mosely and his friend looked at each other in silence, and the conversation languished. "Ben," said Bradley, after the two visitors were fast asleep, "shall I tell you what I think of these two men?" "Well, Bradley?" "They are thieves, and they meant to steal our hosses." "Won't they do it now?" Bradley laughed. "They'll be afraid to," he answered. "I've beaten them at their own game, and they think I'm as desperate a bully as they pretend to be. No; they won't think it safe to interfere with our property." "How many men did you say you had killed, Jake?" asked Ben, with a smile. "That was all talk. Thank Heaven, I haven't the blood of any fellow creature on my hands!" CHAPTER XXV. THE HORSE-THIEVES. All four slept soundly, but the visitors awoke first. "Are you awake, Tom?" inquired Mosely. "I should say so," answered his friend. Bill Mosely raised himself on his elbow and surveyed Ben and Bradley. Their deep, tranquil breathing showed that they were sound asleep. Mosely next glanced at the mustangs which were tethered near-by. "Tom," said he, "I wish we had them mustangs. It's a deal easier ridin' than walkin'." "I should say so." "When I struck this party last night I meant to have 'em; but this man is such a bloody ruffian that I don't know as it would be safe." Hadley said nothing. His customary phrase would not apply, and he was a man of few words, besides. "What did he say he would do if a fellow stole his horses, Tom?" "Said he'd die within a week," answered Had-ley, with unfailing memory. Bill Mosely looked discouraged. He privately thought Bradley was just the man to keep his word, and he did not fancy getting into difficulty with him. "That depends on whether he caught him," he said, after a while, hopefully. "I should say so, Bill." "Now," said Mosely, lowering his voice, "if we could get away while they are asleep, there wouldn't be much chance of their knowin' where we were." "That's so, Bill." "Anyway, if we don't take 'em we may be overtaken by the party that we borrowed some gold-dust from." Tom Hadley responded in his customary manner. "And that would be mighty bad luck," continued Mosely, with a shudder. "I should say so, Bill." In fact, Mosely felt that their situation was not likely to be made worse by a new theft. Only thirty miles away was a party of miners with whom they had worked in company, but without much success, till, emboldened by temptation and opportunity, they had stolen a bag of gold-dust from a successful comrade, and fled under cover of the night. In the primitive state of society at the mines, stealing was a capital offense, and if they were caught their lives would probably pay the penalty. Even now some of the injured party might be on their track, and this naturally inspired them with uneasiness. Thus they were between two fires, and, in spite of the fear with which Bradley had inspired them, it looked as if another theft would conduce to their safety. If they carried away the mustangs, Bradley and Ben, even if they hit on the right trail, would have to pursue them on foot, and among the Sierras a man is no match for a mustang in speed and endurance. "I've a great mind to carry off them mustangs," said Mosely thoughtfully. "Are you with me?" "I should say so." "Why don't you ever say something else, Tom?" demanded Mosely impatiently. "What do you want me to say?" asked Hadley, in surprise. "Well, never mind; it's your way, I suppose, and I can rely upon you." "I should say so." Mosely shrugged his shoulders. It was clearly idle to expect any great variety in Tom Hadley's conversation. "Whatever we do must be done quickly," he said, in a quiet, decided tone. "They'll wake up before long, and there won't be any chance. You, Tom, take that near animal, and I'll tackle the other. Jest untie them quiet and easy, and when I say the word start. Do you understand?" "I should say so, Bill," said Hadley, nodding. "Then here goes." In a few seconds they had loosened the mustangs and had sprung upon their backs. "Now, go!" exclaimed Mosely, in a energetic whisper. So on their stolen horses they drew stealthily away from the camp till they were perhaps a furlong away, and then, putting the mustangs to their speed, they soon put a distance of miles between them and their sleeping owners. They would have liked to remain long enough to have a trout breakfast, but that was impracticable. CHAPTER XXVI. WHAT NEXT? Some persons are said to have premonitions of coming ill, but this could not be said in the present instance of Bradley and his young companion. Bradley had the shrewdness to read the real cowardice of Mosely, who was the leader, and did not dream that he would have the courage to take the horses. But then, he did not know the danger in which their two visitors had placed themselves by their recent theft. Danger will strengthen the courage of the timid, and, in this case, it decided Mosely to commit a new theft. The robbers were quite five miles away when Ben opened his eyes. He looked about him with sleepy eyes, and it was only by an effort that he remembered the events of the previous evening. It was with no misgiving that he looked for the horses. When he realized that they were gone, his heart gave a great bound, and he rose on his elbow. Next he looked for Mosely and Hadley, but, of course, in vain. "They've stolen the mustangs!" he said to himself, in genuine dismay, and instantly seizing Bradley by the shoulder, shook him energetically. "What's the matter, Ben?" demanded Bradley, in amazement. "You needn't be quite so rough." "It's time you were awake!" said Ben hurriedly. "Those fellows have stolen our mustangs!" "What's that you say?" ejaculated Bradley, now thoroughly awake. "The mustangs are gone, and they are gone!" said Ben. "When did you find it out?" "Only just now. I was sleepy, and overslept myself." "Half-past seven o'clock," said Bradley, referring to a cheap silver watch which he had bought for a trifle from a miner at Murphy's who was hard up. "I'm afraid they must have been gone some time. It's a bad lookout for us, Ben." "So it is, Jake. You thought they wouldn't dare to take anything." "No more I thought they would. That Bill Mosely bragged so much I didn't think he had enough pluck." "Does it take much pluck to be a thief, Jake?" "Well, in Californy it does," answered Bradley. "When a man steals a boss here, he takes his life in his hand, and don't you forget it. If it was only a year in the penitentiary, or something like that, it wouldn't scare 'em so bad. That Mosely's a bad lot, and will likely die in his boots." "What's that?" "Be shot standing, or swing from the branch of a tree. I thought I'd said enough last night to put him off the notion of playin' us such a trick." "Probably he thought there wouldn't be any chance of our catching him when we were reduced to walk." "It's likely you're right, Ben, and I ought to have thought of that. I jest wish I could set eyes on the critter at this particular minute. To treat us that way after our kindness, that's what riles me." "What shall we do, Jake?" "That's to be considered. Blamed if I know, unless we foot it, and that will be no joke, over these hills and through these forests." "We may come upon their track, and overtake them when they are not expecting it." "I wish we might," said Bradley, the lines about his mouth tightening. "I'd give 'em a lesson." "They are two men," said Ben thoughtfully, "and we are only a man and a boy." "That is so, Ben; but I'll match you against Hadley. He don't amount to a row of pins; and if I can't tackle Bill Mosely, then I'll never show myself in 'Frisco again." "I don't mind so much the loss of the mustangs," said Ben, "but I'm sorry that we shall be delayed in our search for Richard Dewey." "That's bad, too. I expect that nice young lady in 'Frisco is a-waitin' anxiously to hear from him. Plague take that rascal Mosely!" he broke out, in fresh exasperation. "Well, Jake, suppose we get some breakfast, and then consider what we will do." "That's a good thought, Ben. We can't do much on an empty stomach, that's a fact." For reasons which need not be specified, it was decided that the breakfast should consist of trout. Despite their loss, both had a good appetite, and when that was satisfied they became more hopeful. CHAPTER XXVII. KI SING. Leaving Ben and his companion for a time, we go back to record an incident which will prove to have a bearing upon the fortunes of those in whom we are interested. One morning two men, Taylor and O'Reilly, who had been out prospecting, came into camp, conveying between them, very much as two policemen conduct a prisoner, a terrifled-looking Chinaman, whose eyes, rolling helplessly from one to the other, seemed to indicate that he considered his position a very perilous one. At that early period in the settlement of California, a few Chinamen had found their way to the Pacific coast; but the full tide of immigration did not set in till a considerable time later, and, therefore, the miners regarded one as a curiosity. "Who have you got there, O'Reilly?" inquired one of his mining-comrades. "A yeller haythen!" answered O'Eeilly. "Look at the craythur! Ain't he a beauty jist wid his long pigtail hangin' down his back like a monkey's tail?" "Where did you find him?" "He was huntin' for gold, the haythen, jist for all the world as if he was as white as you or I." Mr. Patrick O'Reilly appeared to hold the opinion that gold-hunting should be confined to the Caucasian race. He looked upon a Chinaman as rather a superior order of monkey, suitable for exhibition in a cage, but not to be regarded as possessing the ordinary rights of an adopted American resident. If he could have looked forward twenty-five years, and foreseen the extent to which these barbarians would throng the avenues of employment, he would, no doubt, have been equally amazed and disgusted. Indeed, the capture of Ki Sing was made through his influence, as Taylor, a man from Ohio, was disposed to let him alone. Soon a crowd gathered around the terrified Chinaman and his captors, and he was plied with questions, some of a jocular character, by the miners, who were glad of anything that relieved the monotony of their ordinary life. "What's your name?" asked one. The Chinaman gazed at the questioner vacantly. "What's your name, you haythen?" repeated O'Reilly, emphasizing the inquiry by a powerful shake. "My name Ki Sing," answered the Mongolian nervously. "Where did you come from, old pigtail?" "My name Ki Sing, not Pigtail," said the Chinaman, not understanding the meaning of the epithet. This answer appeared to be regarded by the crowd as either witty or absurd, for it elicited a roar of laughter. "Never mind what your name is, old stick in the mud! We'll call you whatever we please. Where do you come from?" "Me come from 'Flisco." It is well known that a Chinaman cannot pronounce the letter r, which in his mouth softens to l, in some cases producing a ludicrous effect. "What have you come here for, Cy King, or whatever your name is." "My name Ki Sing." "Well, it's a haythen name; anyhow," remarked Mr. Patrick O'Eeilly. "Before I'd have such a name, I'd go widout one intirely. Did you hear the gintleman ask you what you came here for?" "You bling me," answered Ki Sing shrewdly. There was another laugh. "That Chinee ain't no fool!" said Dick Roberts. "What made you leave China?" he asked. "Me come to Amelica fol gold." "Hi, ho! That's it, is it? What are you going to do with your gold when you find it?" "Cally it back to China." "And when you've callied it back, what'll you do then?" "Me mally wife, have good time and plenty money to buy lice." Of course, Ki Sing's meaning was plain, but there was a roar of laughter, to which he listened with mild-eyed wonder, evidently thinking that the miners who so looked down on him were themselves a set of outside barbarians, to whom the superior civilization of China was utterly unknown. It is fortunate that his presumption was not suspected by those around him. No one would have resented it more than Mr. Patrick O'Reilly, whose rank as regards enlightenment and education certainly was not very high. "I say, John," said Dick Roberts, "are you fond of rat pie?" "Lat pie velly good," returned Ki Sing, with a look of appreciation. "Melican man like him?" "Hear the haythen!" said O'Reilly, with an expression of deep disgust. "He thinks we ate rats and mice, like him. No, old pigtail, we ain't cats. We are good Christians." "Chlistian! Ma don't know Ghlistian," said the Chinaman. "Then look at O'Reilly," said Dick Roberts, mischievously. "He's a good solid Christian." Ki Sing turned his almond eyes upon O'Reilly, who, with his freckled face, wide mouth, broad nose, and stubby beard, was by no means a prepossessing-looking man, and said interrogatively: "He Chlistian?" "Yes, John. Wouldn't you like to be one?" Ki Sing shook his head decidedly. "Me no want to be Chlistian," he answered. "Me velly well now. Me want to be good Chinaman." "There's a compliment for you, O'Reilly," said one of the miners. "John prefers to be a Chinaman to being like you." "He's a barbarious haythen, anyhow," said O'Reilly, surveying his prisoner with unfriendly eyes. "What did he come over to America for, anyhow?" "He probably came over for the same reason that brought you, O'Reilly," said a young man, who spoke for the first time, though he had been from the outset a disgusted witness of what had taken place. "And what's that?" demanded O'Reilly angrily. "To make a living," answered Richard Dewey quietly. As this is the first time this young man has been introduced, we will briefly describe him. He was of medium size, well knit and vigorous, with a broad forehead, blue eyes, and an intelligent and winning countenance. He might have been suspected of too great amiability and gentleness, but for a firm expression about the mouth, and an indefinable air of manliness, which indicated that it would not do to go too far with him. There was a point, as all his friends knew, where his forbearance gave way and he sternly asserted his rights. He was not so popular in camp as some, because he declined to drink or gamble, and, despite the rough circumstances in which he found himself placed, was resolved to preserve his self-respect. O'Reilly did not fancy his interference, and demanded, in a surly tone: "Do you mean to compare me wid this haythen?" "You are alike in one respect," said Richard Dewey quietly. "Neither of you were born in this country, but each of you came here to improve your fortunes." "And hadn't I the right, I'd like to know?" blustered O'Reilly. "To be sure you had. This country is free to all who wish to make a home here." "Then what are you talkin' about, anyway?" "You ought to be able to understand without asking. Ki Sing has come here, and has the same right that you have." "Do you mane to put me on a livel wid him?" "In that one respect, I do." "I want you to understand that Patrick O'Reilly won't take no insults from you, nor any other man!" "Hush, O'Reilly!" said Terence O'Gorman, another Irish miner. "Dewey is perfectly right. I came over from Ireland like you, but he hasn't said anything against either of us." "That is where you are right, O'Gorman," said Richard Dewey cordially. "You are a man of sense, and can understand me. My own father emigrated from England, and I am not likely to say anything against the class to which he belonged. Now, boys, you have had enough sport out of the poor Chinaman. I advise you to let him go." Ki Sing grasped at this suggestion. "Melican man speak velly good," he said. "Of course, you think so," sneered O'Reilly. "I say, boys, let's cut off his pigtail," touching the poor Chinaman's queue. Ki Sing uttered a cry of dismay as O'Reilly's suggestion was greeted with favorable shouts by the thoughtless crowd. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DUEL OF THE MINERS. O'Reilly's suggestion chimed in with the rough humor of the crowd. They were not bad-hearted men, but, though rough in their manners, not much worse on the average than an equal number of men in the Eastern States. They only thought of the fun to be obtained from the proceeding, and supposed they would be doing the Chinaman no real harm. "Has anybody got a pair of scissors?" asked O'Reilly, taking the Chinaman by the queue. "I've got one in my tent," answered one of the miners. "Go and get it, then." Ki Sing again uttered a cry of dismay, but it did not seem likely that his valued appendage could be saved. Public sentiment was with his persecutor. He had one friend, however, among the rough men who surrounded him, the same who had already taken his part. Richard Dewey's eyes glittered sternly as he saw O'Reilly's intention, and he quietly advanced till he was within an arm's length of Ki Sing. "What do you mean to do, O'Reilly?" he demanded sternly. "None of your business!" retorted O'Reilly insolently. "It is going to be my business. What do you mean to do?" "Gut off this haythen's pigtail, and I'd just like to know who's going to prevent me." At this moment the miner who had gone for a pair of scissors returned. "Give me them scissors!" said O'Reilly sharply. Richard Dewey reached out his hand and intercepted them. He took them in place of O'Reilly. "Give me them scissors, Dewey, or it'll be the worse for you!" exclaimed the tyrant furiously. Dewey regarded him with a look of unmistakable contempt. There was a murmur among the miners, who were eager for the amusement which the Chinaman's terror and ineffectual struggles would afford them. "Give him the scissors, Dewey!" said half a dozen. "Boys," said Dewey, making no motion to obey them, "do you know what you are about to do? Why should you interfere with this poor, unoffending Chinaman? Has he wronged any one of you?" "No, but that ain't the point," said a Kentuckian. "We only want to play a joke on him. It won't do him no harm to cut his hair." "Of course not," chimed in several of the miners. "Do you hear that, Dick Dewey?" demanded O'Reilly impatiently. "Do you hear what the boys say? Give me them scissors." "Boys, you don't understand the effects of what you would do," said Dewey, taking no notice of O'Reilly, much to that worthy's indignation. "If Ki Sing has his queue cut off, he can never go back to China." "Is that the law, squire?" asked a loose-jointed Yankee. "Yes, it is. You may rely on my word. Ki Sing, if you cut off your queue, can you go back to China?" "No go back-stay in Melica allee time." "You see he confirms my statement." "That's a queer law, anyway," said the Kentuckian. "I admit that, but such as it is, we can't alter it. Now, Ki Sing has probably a father and mother, perhaps a wife and children, in China. He wants to go back to them some time. Shall we prevent this, and doom him to perpetual exile, just to secure a little sport? Come, boys, you've all of you got dear ones at home, that you hope some day to see again. I appeal to you whether this is manly or kind." This was a sort of argument that had a strong effect. It was true that each one of these men had relatives for whom they were working, the thought of whom enabled them to bear hard work and privations thousands of miles away from home, and Richard Dewey's appeal touched their hearts. "That's so! Dewey is right. Let him go, O'Reilly!" said the crowd. The one man who was not touched by the appeal was O'Reilly himself. Not that he was altogether a bad man, but his spirit of opposition was kindled, and he could not bear to yield to Dewey, whose contempt he understood and resented. His reply was, "I'm goin' to cut off the haythen's pigtail, whether or no. Give me them scissors, I tell you," and he gave a vicious twitch to the Chinaman's queue, which made Ki Sing utter a sharp cry of pain. Richard Dewey's forbearance was at an end. His eyes blazed with fury, and, clenching his fist, he dashed it full in the face of the offending O'Reilly, who not only released his hold on Ki Sing, but measured his length on the ground. O'Reilly was no coward, and he possessed the national love of a shindy. He sprang to his feet in a rage, and shouted: "I'll murder ye for that, Dick Dewey! See if I don't!" "A fight! a fight!" shouted the miners, willing to be amused in that way, since they had voluntarily given up the fun expected from cutting off the Chipaman's queue. Richard Dewey looked rather disgusted. "I don't want to fight, boys," he said. "It isn't to my taste." "You've got to, you coward!" said O'Reilly, beginning to bluster. "I don't think you'll find me a coward," said Dewey quietly, as he stood with his arms folded, looking at O'Reilly. "You'll have to give O'Reilly satisfaction," said one of the miners. "You've knocked him down, and he's got a right to it." "Will it be any satisfaction to him to get knocked over again?" asked Dewey, shrugging his shoulders. "You can't do it! I'll bate you till you can't stand!" exclaimed the angry Irishman. "I'll tache you to insult a gintleman." "Form a ring, boys!" exclaimed the Kentuck-ian. "We'll see there's fair play." "One thing first," said Dewey, holding up his hand. "If I come off best in this encounter, you'll all agree to let this Chinaman go free? Is that agreed?" "Yes, yes, it is agreed!" Ki Sing stood trembling with fear while these preliminaries were being settled. He would have escaped from the crowd, but his first movement was checked. "No, Cy King, we can't let you go jest yet," said Taylor. "We're goin' to see this thing through first." O'Reilly was not in the least daunted by the contest in which he was to engage. Indeed, he felt a good deal of satisfaction at the prospect of being engaged in a scrimmage. Of course, he expected to come off a victor. He was a considerably larger man than Richard Dewey, with arms like flails and flats like sledge-hammers, and he had no sort of doubt that he could settle his smaller antagonist in less than five minutes. But there was one thing of which he was not aware. Though slender, Dewey had trained and hardened his muscles by exercise in a gymnasium, and, moreover, he had taken a course of lessons in the manly art of self-defense. He had done this, not because he expected to be called upon to defend himself at any time, but because he thought it conducive to keeping up his health and strength. He awaited O'Reilly's onset with watchful calmness. O'Reilly advanced with a whoop, flinging about his powerful arms somewhat like a windmill, and prepared to upset his antagonist at the first onset. What was his surprise to find his own blows neatly parried, and to meet a tremendous blow from his opponent which set his nose to bleeding. Astonished, but not panic-stricken, he pluckily advanced to a second round, and tried to grasp Dewey round the waist. But instead of doing this, he received another knock-down blow, which stretched him on the ground. He was up again, and renewed the attack, but with even less chance of victory than before, for the blood was streaming down his face, and he could not see distinctly where to hit. Dewey contented himself with keeping on guard and parrying the blows of his demoralized adversary. "It's no use, O'Reilly!" exclaimed two or three. "Dewey's the better man." "Let me get at him! I'll show him what I can do," said O'Reilly doggedly. "As long as you like, O'Reilly," said Richard Dewey coolly; "but you may as well give it up." "Troth and I won't. I'm stronger than you are any day." "Perhaps you are; but I understand fighting, and you don't." "An O'Reilly not know how to fight!" exclaimed the Irishman hotly. "I could fight when I was six years old." "Perhaps so; but you can't box." One or two more attacks, and O'Reilly was dragged away by two of his friends, and Dewey remained master of the field. The miners came up and shook hands with him cordially. They regarded him with new respect, now that it was found he had overpowered the powerful O'Reilly. Among those who congratulated him was his Mongolian friend, Ki Sing. "Melican man good fightee-knock over Ilishman. Hullah!" "Come with me, Ki Sing," said Dewey. '"I will take care of you till to-morrow, and then you had better go." CHAPTER XXIX. CHINESE CHEAP LABOR. Though Dewey had received from the miners a promise that they would not interfere with Ki Sing in case he gained a victory over O'Reilly, he was not willing to trust entirely to it. He feared that some one would take it into his head to play a trick on the unoffending Chinaman, and that the others unthinkingly would join in. Accordingly, he thought it best to keep the Mongolian under his personal charge as long as he remained in camp. Ki Sing followed him to his tent as a child follows a guardian. "Are you hungry, Ki Sing?" asked Dewey. "Plenty hungly." "Then I will first satisfy your appetite," and Dewey brought forth some of his stock of provisions, to which Ki Sing did ample justice, though neither rat pie nor rice was included. When the lunch, in which Richard Dewey joined, was over, he said: "If you will help me for the rest of the day, I will pay you whatever I consider your services to be worth." "All lightee!" responded Ki Sing, with alacrity. Whatever objections may be made to the Chinaman, he cannot be charged with laziness. As a class they are willing to labor faithfully, even where the compensation is small. Labor in China, which is densely peopled, is a matter of general and imperative necessity, and has been so for centuries, and habit has probably had a good deal to do with the national spirit of industry. Ki Sing, under Richard Dewey's directions, worked hard, and richly earned the two dollars which his employer gave him at the end of the day. Of course Dewey's action did not escape the attention of his fellow miners. It cannot be said that they regarded it with favor. The one most offended was naturally O'Reilly, who, despite the pounding he had received, was about the camp as usual. "Boys," he said, "are you goin' to have that haythen workin' alongside you?" "It won't do us any harm, will it?" asked Dick Roberts. "If Dewey chooses to hire him, what is it to us?" "I ain't goin' to demane myself by workin' wid a yeller haythen." "Nobody has asked you to do it. If anybody is demeaning himself it is Dick Dewey, and he has a right to if he wants to." "If he wants to hire anybody, let him hire a dacent Christian." "Like you, O'Reilly?" "I don't want to work for anybody. I work for myself. This Chinaman has come here to take the bread out of our mouths, bad cess to him." "I don't see that. He is workin' Dick Dewey's claim. I don't see how that interferes with us." Of course, this was the reasonable view of the matter; but there were some who sided with the Irishman, among others the Kentuckian, and he volunteered to go as a committee of one to Dewey, and represent to him the sentiments of the camp. Accordingly he walked over to where Dewey and his apprentice were working. "Look here, Dewey," he began, "me and some of the rest of the boys have takin' over this yere matter of your givin' work to this Chinaman, and we don't like it." "Why not?" asked Dewey coolly. "We don't feel no call to associate with sich as he." "You needn't; I don't ask you to," said Dewey quietly. "I am the only one who associates with him." "But we don't want him in camp." "He won't trouble any of you. I will take charge of him." "Look here, Dewey, you've got to respect public sentiment, and public sentiment is agin' this thing." "Whose public sentiment--O'Reilly's?" "Well, O'Reilly don't like it, for one." "I thought so." "Nor I for another." "It strikes me, Hodgson, that I've got some rights as well as O'Reilly. Suppose I should say I didn't choose to work in the same camp with an Irishman?" "That's different." "Why is it different?" "Well, you see, an Irishman isn't a yeller heathen." Dewey laughed. "He may be a heathen, though not a yellow one," he said. "Well, Dewey, what answer shall I take back to the boys?" "You can say that I never intended to employ the Chinaman for any length of time; but I shall not send him off till I get ready." "I'm afraid the boys won't like it, Dewey." "Probably O'Reilly won't. As for you, you are too intelligent a man to be influenced by such a man as he." All men are sensible to flattery, and Hodgson was won over by this politic speech. "I won't say you're altogether wrong, Dewey," he said; "but I wouldn't keep him too long." "I don't mean to." Hodgson returning reported that Dewey would soon dismiss the Chinaman, and omitted the independent tone which the latter had assumed. The message was considered conciliatory, and pronounced satisfactory; but O'Reilly was not appeased. He still murmured, but his words produced little effect. Seeing this, he devised a private scheme of annoyance. CHAPTER XXX. A MIDNIGHT VISIT. This conversation set Dewey to thinking. Though he was independent, he was not foolishly so, and he was not willing, out of a spirit of opposition, to expose his new acquaintance to annoyance, perhaps to injury. He did not care to retain Ki Sing in his employment for any length of time, and made up his mind to dismiss him early the next mornng, say, at four o'clock, before the miners had thrown off the chains of sleep. He did not anticipate any harm to his Mongolian friend during the night; but this was because he did not fully understand the feeling of outraged dignity which rankled in the soul of O'Reilly. Patrick O'Reilly was like his countrymen in being always ready for a fight; but he was unlike them in harboring a sullen love of revenge. In this respect he was more like an Indian. He felt that Richard Dewey had got the better of him in the brief contest, and the fact that he had been worsted in the presence of his fellow miners humiliated him. If he could only carry his point, and deprive the Chinaman of his queue after all, the disgrace would be redeemed, and O'Reilly would be himself again. "And why shouldn't I?" he said to himself. "The haythen will sleep in Dewey's tent. Why can't I creep up, unbeknownst, in the middle of the night, and cut off his pigtail, while he is aslape? Faith, I'd like to see how he and his friend would look in the morning. I don't belave a word of his not bein' allowed to go back to Chiny widout it. That is an invintion of Dewey." The more O'Reilly dwelt upon this idea the more it pleased him. Once the pigtail was cut off, the mischief could not be repaired, and he would have a most suitable and satisfactory revenge. Of course, it would not do to make the attempt till Ki Sing and his protector were both fast asleep. "All men are children when they are asleep," says an old proverb. That is, all men are as helpless as children when their senses are locked in slumber. It would be safer, therefore, to carry out his plan if he could manage to do so without awaking the two men. O'Reilly determined not to take any one into his confidence. This was prudent, for it was sure to prevent his plan from becoming known. There was, however, one inconvenience about this, as it would prevent him from borrowing the scissors upon which he had relied to cut off the queue. But he had a sharp knife, which he thought would answer the purpose equally well. It was rather hard for O'Reilly to keep awake till midnight-the earliest hour which he thought prudent-but the motive which impelled him was sufficiently strong to induce even this sacrifice. So, as the shadows darkened, and the night came on, Patrick O'Reilly forced himself to lie awake, while he waited eagerly for the hour of midnight. Meanwhile, Richard Dewey and Ki Sing lay down at nine o'clock and sought refreshment in sleep. Both were fatigued, but it was the Chinaman who first lost consciousness. Dewey scanned with curiosity the bland face of his guest, looking childlike and peaceful, as he lay by his side. "I wonder if he is dreaming of his distant home in China," thought Dewey. "The cares of life do not seem to sit heavy upon him. Though he has been in danger to-day, and may be so still, he yields himself up trustfully to the repose which he needs. Is it true, I wonder, that cares increase with mental culture? Doubtless, it is true. If I were in China, threatened with a loss which would prevent my returning to my native country, I am sure it would keep me awake. But there can be nothing to fear now." Richard raised himself on his elbow, and looked about him. The tents of the miners were grouped together, within a comparatively small radius, and on all sides could be heard-it was now past ten-the deep breathing of men exhausted by the day's toils. This would not ordinarily have been the case at so early an hour, for when there was whisky in the camp, there was often late carousing. It chanced, however, at this time that the stock of liquor was exhausted, and, until a new supply could be obtained from San Francisco, necessity enforced the rule of total abstinence. It would have been well if, for months to come, there could have been the same good reason for abstinence, but, as a matter of fact, the very next day some casks were brought into camp, much to the delighted and satisfaction of the anti-temperance party. Finally Dewey fell asleep, but his sleep was a troubled one. He had unthinkingly reclined upon his back, and this generally brought bad dreams. He woke with a start from a dream, in which it seemed to him that the miners were about to hang Ki Sing from the branch of one of the tall trees near-by, when he detected a stealthy step close at hand. Instantly he was on the alert. Turning his head, he caught sight of a human figure nearing the tent. A second glance showed him that it was O'Reilly, with a knife in his hand. "Good heavens!" thought Dewey, "does he mean to kill the poor Chinaman?" A muttered sentence from O'Reilly reassured him on this point. "Now, you yeller haythen, I'll cut off your pigtail in spite of that impertinent friend of yours--Dick Dewey. I'll show you that an O'Reilly isn't to be interfered wid." "So he wants the poor fellow's queue, does he?" said Dewey to himself. "You're not quite smart enough, Mr. O'Reilly." There was no time to lose. O'Reilly was already on his knees, with the poor Chinaman's treasured queue in his hand, when he felt himself seized in a powerful grip. "What are you about, O'Reilly?" demanded Richard Dewey, in a deep, stern voice. O'Reilly uttered a cry, rather of surprise than alarm. "What are you about?" repeated Richard Dewey, in a tone of authority. "I'm goin' to cut off the haythen's pigtail," answered the Irishman doggedly. "What for?" "I've said I'd do it, and I'll do it." "Well, Mr. O'Reilly, I've said you sha'n't do it, and I mean to keep my word." O'Reilly tried to carry out his intent, but suddenly found himself flung backward in a position very favorable for studying the position of the stars. "Are you not ashamed to creep up to my tent in the middle of the night on such an errand as that, Patrick O'Reilly?" demanded Dewey. "No, I'm not. Let me up, Dick Dewey, or it'll be the worse for you," said the intruder wrathfully. "Give me your knife, then." "I won't. It's my own." "The errand on which you come is my warrant for demanding it." "I won't give you the knife, but I'll go back," said O'Reilly. "That won't do." "Don't you go too far, Dick Dewey. I'm your aiqual." "No man is my equal who creeps to my tent at the dead of night. Do you know what the camp will think, O'Eeilly?" "And what will they think?" "That you came to rob me." "Then they'll think a lie!" said O'Reilly, startled, for he knew that on such a charge he would be liable to be suspended to the nearest tree. "If they chose to think so, it would be bad for you." "You know it isn't so Dick Dewey," said O'Reilly. "I consider your intention quite as bad. You wanted to prevent this poor Chinaman from ever returning to his native land, though he had never injured you in any way. You can't deny it." "I don't belave a word of all that rigmarole, Dick Dewey." "It makes little difference whether you believe it or not. You have shown a disposition to injure and annoy Ki Sing, but I have foiled you. And now," here Dewey's tone became deep and stern, "give me that knife directly, and go back to your tent, or I'll rouse the camp, and they may form their own conclusions as to what brought you here." O'Reilly felt that Dewey was in earnest, and that he must yield. He did so with a bad grace enough and slunk back to his tent, which he did not leave till morning. Early in the morning, Richard Dewey awakened Ki Sing. "You had better not stay here, Ki Sing," he said. "There are those who would do you mischief. Go into the mountains, and you may find gold. There you will be safe." "Melican man velly good-me go," said the Chinaman submissively. "Good luck to you, Ki Sing!" "Good luckee, Melican man!" So the two parted, and when morning came to the camp, nothing was to be seen of the Chinaman. Dewey returned O'Reilly's knife, the latter receiving it in sullen silence. It was not long afterward that Richard Dewey himself left Murphy's in search of a richer claim. CHAPTER XXXI. ON THE MOUNTAIN PATH. My readers will not have forgotten Bill Mosely and his companion Tom Hadley, who played the mean trick upon Bradley and our hero of stealing their horses. I should be glad to state that they were overtaken and punished within twenty-four hours, but it would not be correct. They had a great advantage over their pursuers, who had only their own feet to help them on, and, at the end of the first day, were at least ten miles farther on than Ben and Bradley. As the two last, wearied and well-nigh exhausted, sat down to rest, Bradley glanced about him long and carefully in all directions. "I can't see anything of them skunks, Ben," he said. "I suppose not, Jake. They must be a good deal farther on." "Yes, I reckon so. They've got the horses to help them, while we've got to foot it. It was an awful mean trick they played on us." "That's so, Jake." "All I ask is to come up with 'em some of these days." "What would you do?" "I wouldn't take their lives, for I ain't no murderer, but I'd tie 'em hand and foot, and give 'em a taste of a horsewhip, or a switch, till they'd think they was schoolboys again." "You might not be able to do it. They would be two to one." "Not quite, Ben. I'd look for some help from you." "I would give you all the help I could," said Ben. "I know you mean it, and that you wouldn't get scared, and desert me, as a cousin of mine did once when I was set upon by robbers." "Was that in California?" "No; in Kentucky. I had a tough job, but I managed to disable one of the rascals, and the other ran away." "What did your cousin have to say?" "He told me, when I caught up with him, that he was goin' in search of help, but I told him that was too thin. I told him I wouldn't keep his company any longer, and that he had better go his way and I would go mine. He tried to explain things, but there are some things that ain't so easily explained, that I wouldn't hear him. I stick to my friends, and I expect them to stand by me." "That's fair, Jake." "That's the way I look at it. I wonder where them rascals are?" "You mean Mosely and his friend?" "Yes. What galls me, Ben, is that they're likely laughin' in their shoes at the way they've tricked us, and there's no help for it." "Not just now, Jake, but we may overtake them yet. Till we do, we may as well take things as easy as we can." "You're right, Ben. You'mind me of an old man that used to live in the place where I was raised. He never borrered any trouble, but when things was contrary, he waited for 'em to take a turn. When he saw a neighbor frettin', he used to say, 'Fret not thy gizzard, for it won't do no good.'" Ben laughed. "That was good advice," he said. "I don't know where he got them words from. Maybe they're in the Bible." "I guess not," said Ben, smiling. "They don't sound like it." "Perhaps you're right," said Bradley, not fully convinced, however. "Seems to me I've heard old Parson Brown get off something to that effect." "Perhaps it was this-'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "Perhaps it was. Is that from the Bible?" "Yes." "It might have been made a little stronger," said Bradley thoughtfully. "The evil of some days is more than sufficient, accordin' to my notion." The two explorers camped out as usual, and the fatigue of their day's tramp insured them a deep, refreshing sleep. The next day they resumed their journey, and for several days to come no incident worthy of mention varied the monotony of their march. Toward the close of the fourth day they saw from a distance a figure approaching them, who seemed desirous of attracting their attention. Ben was the first to see him. "Jake," said he, "look yonder!" "It's a Chinee!" said Bradley, in surprise. "How did the critter come here, in the name of wonder?" "I suppose he is looking for gold as well as we." "The heathen seems to be signalin' us. He's wavin' his arm." This was the case. The Chinaman, for some reason, seemed to wish to attract the attention of the newcomers. He stopped short, and waited for Ben and Bradley to come up. "Who are you, my yeller friend?" asked Bradley, when he was near enough to be heard. "My name Ki Sing." "Glad to hear it. I can't say I ever heard of your family, but I reckon from the name, it's a musical one." Ki Sing probably did not understand the tenor of Bradley's remark. "Is there any hotel round here, Mr. Sing?" asked Ben jocosely, "where two weary travelers can put up for the night?" "Nohotellee!" "Then where do you sleep?" "Me sleep on glound." "Your bed is a pretty large one, then," said Bradley. "The great objection to it is, that it is rather hard." Ki Sing's mind was evidently occupied by some engrossing thought, which prevented his paying much attention to Bradley's jocose observations. "Melican man wantee you," he said, in an excited manner. "What's that?" asked Bradley. "Melican man want me?" Ki Sing nodded. "Where is he?" Ki Sing turned, and pointed to a rude hut some half a mile away in a little mountain nook. "Melican man thele," he said. "Come along, Ben," said Bradley. "Let us see what this means. It may be some countryman of ours who is in need of help." The Chinaman trotted along in advance, and our two friends followed him. CHAPTER XXXII. THE MOUNTAIN CABIN. At length they reached the entrance to the cabin. It was a rough structure, built of logs, containing but one apartment. On a blanket in one corner of the hut lay a young man, looking pale and emaciated. His face was turned to the wall, so that, though he heard steps, he did not see who crossed the threshold. "Is that you, Ki Sing?" he asked, in a low voice. "But why need I ask? There is not likely to be any one else in this lonely spot." "That's where you're mistaken, my friend," said Bradley. "I met that Chinaman of yours half a mile away, and he brought me here. You're sick, I reckon?" The invalid started in surprise and evident joy when he heard Bradley's voice. "Thank Heaven!" he said, "for the sound of a countryman's voice," and he turned to look at his visitor. Now it was Bradley's turn to start and manifest surprise. "Why, it's Dick Dewey!" he exclaimed. "You know me?" said the sick man eagerly. "Of course I do. Didn't we work together at Murphy's, almost side by side?" "Jake Bradley!" exclaimed Dewey, recognizing him at last. "The same old coon! Now, Dewey, what's the matter with you?" "Nothing serious, but enough to lay me up for a time. A week since I slipped from a rock and sprained my ankle severely-so much so that I can't use it safely. I've often heard that a sprain is worse than a break, but I never realized it till now." "Has the Chinaman taken care of you?" inquired Bradley. "Yes; I don't know what I should have done without Ki Sing," said Dewey, with a grateful glance at the Chinaman. "Was he with you when the accident hapened?" "No; I lay helpless on the hillside for two hours, when, providentially, as I shall always consider it, my friend Ki Sing came along." The Chinaman usually impassive face seemed to light up with pleasure when Richard Dewey spoke of him as his friend. "I tell you what, Ki Sing," said Bradley, turning to the representative of China, "I never thought much of your people before, but I cheerfully admit that you're a brick." "A blick!" repeated the Mongolian, appearing more puzzled than complimented. "Yes, a brick-a real good fellow, and no mistake! Give us your hand! You're a gentleman!" Ki Sing readily yielded his hand to the grasp of the miner. He saw that Bradley meant to be friendly, though he did not altogether understand him. "Had you ever met Ki Sing, Dick?" asked Bradley. "Yes; on one occasion I had a chance to be of service to him, and he had not forgotten it. He has taken the best care of me, and supplied me with food, which I was unable to procure for myself. I think I should have starved but for him." "Ki Sing, I want to shake hands with you again," said Bradley, who seemed a good deal impressed by conduct which his prejudices would not have allowed him to expect from a heathen. Ki Sing winced beneath the strong pressure of the miner's grasp, and examined his long, slender fingers with some anxiety when he rescued them from the cordial, but rather uncomfortable pressure. "Melican man shakee too much!" he protested. Bradley did not hear him, for he had again resumed conversation with Dewey. "Is that your boy, Bradley?" asked the invalid, glaring at Ben, who modestly kept in the background. "No, it's a young friend of mine that I came across in 'Frisco. His name is Ben Stanton. I don't believe you can guess what brought us up here among the mountains." "Probably you came, like me, in search of gold." "That's where you're wrong. Leastways, that wasn't the principal object of our coming." "You're not traveling for pleasure, I should think," said Dewey, smiling. "Not much. Since our hosses have been stole, there's mighty little pleasure in clamberin' round on these hills. The fact is, we've been lookin' for you." "Looking for me!" exclaimed Dewey, in great surprise. "Yes, and no mistake. Isn't it so, Ben?" Ben nodded assent. "But what possible motive can you have in looking for me?" "I say, Dewey," proceeded Bradley, "did you ever hear of a young lady by the name of Florence Douglas?" The effect of the name was electric. Dewey sprang up in bed, and inquired eagerly. "Yes, yes, but what of her? Can you tell me anything of her?" "I can tell you as much as this: she is in 'Frisco, and has sent out Ben and me to hunt you up, and let you know where she is." "Is this true? How came she here? Is her guardian with her?" asked Dewey rapidly. "One question at a time, Dick. The fact is, she's given her guardian the slip, and came out to Californy in charge of my young friend, Ben. I hope you won't be jealous of him." "If she trusts him, I will also," said Dewey. "Tell me the whole story, my lad. If you have been her friend, you may depend on my gratitude." Ben told the story clearly and intelligibly, replying also to such questions as Richard Dewey was impelled to ask him, and his straightforwardness produced a very favorable impression on his new acquaintance. "I begin to see, that, young as you are, Florence didn't make a bad selection when she chose you as her escort." "Now, Dewey," said Bradley, "I've got some advice to give you. Get well as soon as you can, and go to 'Frisco yourself. I surmise Miss Douglas won't need Ben any longer when you are with her." "You forget this confounded sprain," said Dewey, looking ruefully at his ankle. "If I go you'll have to carry me." "Then get well as soon as you can. We'll stay with you till you're ready. If there was only a claim round here that Ben and I could work while we are waitin', it would make the time pass pleasanter." "There is," said Dewey. "A month since I made a very valuable discovery, and had got out nearly a thousand dollars' worth of gold, when I was taken down. You two are welcome to work it, for as soon as I am in condition, I shall go back to San Francisco." "We'll give you a share of what we find, Dick." "No, you won't. The news you have brought me is worth the claim many times over. I shall give Ki Sing half of what I have in the cabin here as a recompense for his faithful service." Ki Sing looked well content, as he heard this promise, and his smile became even more "childlike and bland" than usual, as he bustled about to prepare the evening meal. "I'll tell you what, Ben," said Bradley, "we'll pay Ki Sing something besides, and he shall be our cook and steward, and see that we have three square meals a day." "I agree to that," said Ben. When Ki Sing was made to comprehend the proposal, he, too, agreed, and the little household was organized. The next day Ben and Bradley went to work at Dewey's claim, which they found unexpectedly rich, while the Chinaman undertook the duties assigned him. Four weeks elapsed before Richard Dewey was in a condition to leave the cabin for San Francisco. Then he and Ben returned, Ki Sing accompanying them as a servant, while Bradley remained behind to guard Dewey's claim and work it during Ben's absence. THE END. 
33725	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 33725-h.htm or 33725-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33725/33725-h/33725-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33725/33725-h.zip) UNEXPLORED By ALLEN CHAFFEE Author of "Lost River, the Adventures of Two Boys in the Big Woods," "The Travels of Honk-a-Tonk," "Twinkly Eyes" (3 vols.), "Fleet-Foot," "Trail and Tree Top," and "Fuzzy Wuzz, the Little Brown Bear of the Sierras." Illustrated by William Van Dresser [Illustration: Spitfire began to double in his best bucking form. --Page 15] Milton Bradley Company Springfield, Massachusetts 1922 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, 1922 By Milton Bradley Company Springfield, Massachusetts Bradley Quality Books Printed in United States of America ----------------------------------------------------------------------- TO H. F. B., Who would still be a boy, Were he a thousand years of age. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- INTRODUCTION A pack-burro camping trip in an unexplored region of the high Sierras results in a series of adventures for three boys in the late teens, a young Geological Survey man and the old prospector who guides them. They meet bears and catch rainbow trout, are carried to fight fire by the Forest Service Air Patrol, and trail the incendiaries through a labyrinthian limestone cave. They ride in a lumber camp rodeo and experience earthquakes and avalanches. And in the glacier-gouged canyons, the giant Sequoias, and sulphur springs, they trace the story of the geological formation of the earth, and its evolution from the days of dinosaurs. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I The Rodeo 1 II The Camping Trip 31 III Living off the Wilderness 58 IV With the Air Patrol 84 V A Daring Feat 95 VI The Incendiaries 110 VII The Cave 134 VIII The Snow-Slide 154 IX Ted's Fossil Dinosaur 163 X How the Earth Was Made 176 XI The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes 201 XII Gold! 226 Glossary and Pronouncing Dictionary of Geological Terms Used and Key to Geologic Time 263 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- UNEXPLORED CHAPTER I THE RODEO Ted Smith, flinging his long legs off a frisky bay, grinned delightedly as his eye caught a flag-decked touring car. "Are you riding?" called the boy at the wheel. "Sure AM!" drawled the ranch boy. "How about yourself?" "Betcher life, Old Kid!" Ace King flung himself to the ground, disclosing the fact of his new leather chaps--a contrast to Ted's overalls. Greetings followed between Ted and Senator King in the back seat, and Pedro Martinez, a black-eyed young fellow who sat a pinto pony alongside. The slanting rays of California sunshine were fanned by a breeze from Huntington Lake, as the crowd sifted about the corral fence at Cedar Crest. The prevailing khaki of the dusty onlookers gave way at intervals to a splash of color. An Indian in a purple shirt was borrowing the orange chaps of another broncho-buster; he had drawn number two from the hat. Most of the cowmen offset their "two-quart" sombreros with brilliant-hued bandannas knotted loosely at their throats. A few wore chaparreras in stamped leather, and a few in goatskin--red or black or tan--though most let it go at plain blue overalls. One of the machines drawn up beside the soda-pop stand fluttered a flag on its nose. For the Fourth was to be marked by a reading of the Declaration of Independence before the rodeo and barbecue. (The day had begun with a Parade of Horribles, in which every last lumberman took part, chanting the marching song to an accompaniment of well-belabored frying-pans.) Unbidden, a band of unspeakably unwashed Digger Indians, attired in gay and ill-assorted rags, appeared, and seated themselves on the opposite hillside, beaming vacuously as the ox was put in the pit to roast (together with two smaller carcasses that the camp cook winkingly designated as wild mutton, though he was careful to bury the antlers against the possible advent of the Forest Ranger). The rodeo master, a megaphone-voiced blond giant, in high-heeled riding boots and spurs that made him limp when he walked, careened up and down the dusty field on a high-stepping bay, while two lasso men in steel-studded belts and leather cuffs helped round the range stock into the adjoining small corral. An unbroken two-year-old with wild, rolling eyes tried to climb the fence when the rope tightened on his throat, and a sleek mule kicked out in a way that left a red mark on the flank of a lean white mare. Then one of the bulls in a separate corral shoved his head under the lower of the two log bars that fenced him in and lifted--lifted,--but could not break through. "Riding, old Scout?" Ted asked the young Spanish-Californian. "'Fraid I'd ride the ground," admitted Pedro, with a gesture of his plump, manicured hands. "Yeh!--Saw-horse's HIS mount!" jollied Ace, though the pinto looked by no means spiritless. (And to himself he added: "Likely promised his mother not to. Gee! I'd like to cut him loose from her apron strings for about three months and see how he'd pan out!") "_He's_ got too much sense to risk his bones," championed the Senator, (a heavy, florid man with a leonine mass of white curly hair and Ace's daring black eyes). Just then a petite young woman rode up, her bobbed curly hair and sun-flushed cheeks topping a red silk blouse joined to her khaki riding breeches by a fringed sash that reached half way to her elkskin boots. "I say, Rosa, are you riding?" greeted Ace. The girl shook her head merrily. "Dad, that's Pierre La Coste's sister,--you know, he's fire-lookout on Red Top. Used to be one of our Scouts when we lived in Peach Cove." "Yeh, we used to call him Pur-r-r," supplemented the ranch boy. "And that's the horse Ranger Radcliffe's been trying to give her," added Ace, sotto voce. "Isn't he a beauty?" "And she won't have him?" laughed the Senator. "Won't have man or beast." Ace, now studying geology at the University of California, though he had traveled widely since the old ranch days, still counted Ted, sandy haired, thin and freckled, struggling to make his mother's fruit ranch a go, his chum. Pedro, a neighbor of the old days, was his roommate in the fraternity house at Berkeley. All three ran to greet Norris, a young man in the uniform of the U. S. Geological Survey (son of the Forest Supervisor), who now appeared, galloping beside Ranger Radcliffe. For he was to pilot them on a camping trip into the high Sierras in a week or two. The first entry was just being led forth to be saddled as the fifth and final member of their expedition arrived on the scene, afoot,--Long Lester, a lanky, bewhiskered old prospector in soft felt hat, clean but collarless "b'iled shirt," vest, cartridge belt and corduroy "pants," thrust into the tops of ordinary hob-nailed boots. "Well, you broncho-busters, out in the center!" megaphoned the man on the big bay. "Five more riders here!--Two-fifty to ride and seven-fifty more to go up!" Three men came forward. "We want two more entries. If you pull-leather or fall off, two-fifty. If a fellow rides a bull with one hand hold, he gets seven-fifty. Ten dollars if you go up!" Ace and Ted exchanged glances as they started forward. "You're sure courtin' trouble," called the Senator. "I reckon I am," grinned Ted, "but I'm broke." "You'll have to pay your winnings to get your bones mended." "I'll take a chance!" King laughed. Most of the horses he recognized as having been ridden before. But he was secretly resolved if Ace drew a bad one, to exercise his parental authority. The chums drew from the hat, Ace taking the last name. He started as he looked at his slip. "The white-faced bull," read Ted over his shoulder. "Gee! Don't tell Dad!" breathed Ace. "What's yours?" "Spitfire!" The older boy emitted a long-drawn whistle. "All right, broncho boys," megaphoned the starter. The first entry, rearing and snorting, with two lassos about his neck, had finally been blind-folded and caparisoned. "Johnny White from Fresno, on Old Ned from Northfork," rang the announcement. An Indian in overalls swung himself into the saddle simultaneously with the snatching away of lassos and blinders. The horse tucked his head almost between his knees, and leaped into the air, bowing his back and grunting with each jump, while the dust rose till no one could tell whether the rider was on or off. Then the horse galloped to the opposite side of the corral and his unwelcome incumbent was perceived picking himself sheepishly out of the dust. "Henry Clark from Table Mountain, on the pinto from Cascada," the next entry was shortly announced. The Indian in the purple shirt stepped forward, gorgeous in his borrowed chaps. "Some buckaroo!" grinned Ted. The pony, not quite so thin as most of the range stock, blinked startled eyes, and the fireworks began. The gorgeous one, barely surviving the first buck, and seeing himself riding for a fall in all his finery, leapt nimbly to the ground while the pony went on bucking. He landed right side up--with no damage to the purple shirt. A derisive jeer greeted this--fiasco. "He sure wasn't goin' to dust them ice-cream pants," laughed one of the crowd hanging over the fence. The Indian signified a desire to try again. After a couple more riders were called, he was given the same mount again. This time he saved his finery by grabbing hold with both hands. "Pulling leather only gets two-fifty," adjudged the megaphone man. "He sure had a good hand hold," gurgled Ted. "Pretty hard on the wrists, isn't it, Henry?" "Wait till we get you a medal!" boomed Ace. Next came a white rider, who won the nick-name "Easy Money" by riding a mule up with a surcingle, then another Indian,--they were mostly the youngsters working on local pack-trains,--who began by straddling the neck of his mount and ended by going over the animal's head, landing flat on his back. A momentary hush, and the fence lizards began collecting around the limp form. The Indian's round brown face had turned gray. "Stand back and give 'm air," megaphoned the starter, fanning him with his hat. Some one brought water, then the Indian opened his eyes, and presently signified a desire to get up. He was helped to his feet. "He's all right," was the final verdict as the little group led off the field. "Somebody give 'm a cigarette." The Indian leaned against the corral fence nonchalantly, lighting up, though with fingers that shook the flame out of several matches. "Gee!" nudged Ace. "Dad's motioning us, and if he knows I've drawn that bull, he'll sure----" "You're nineteen." "Aw, he's the Gov'ner, just the same. If you had one you'd see. Let's stick here behind this bunch till my turn comes 'round." "Sure you'd better try it?" Ted laid a hand on his chum's shoulder. "Sure thing! What's the use of living if you never take a chance? Besides, you've got a reg'lar rocking-horse yourself, huh?" he scoffed. "That's all right, I was born ridin'," Ted made light of it. It was now time for the bay bull. As a saddle swings around on anything but a horse, it is easier to ride bulls and mules with a surcingle. It took three men to get the bull into the saddling pen, two with lassos and one with a pole, but the strap was finally adjusted around his chest, and the mount made. One Shorty Somebody was the rider. And Shorty rode him,--stuck clear across the corral. But there the bull torpedoed the middle log of the fence and went straight through, scraping Shorty off. Straight into a startled ring of spectators plowed the enraged beast, sending horses whirling and pedestrians dodging for their lives. The petite Rosa's mount got to dancing, and finally staged a petite runaway on his own account, but Rosa kept her head and a tight rein. A small boy scrambled into a low-branching tree. But three lassos and a dozen mounted men finally headed off the bull and got him into a smaller corral. Ted looked inquiringly at Ace, but the Senator's son evidently had his blood up. The white-faced bull, meantime, was again trying to thrust his massive shoulders beneath the lower bar. Two mules came next on the program, one rider bringing his mount to terms so quickly that people were laying bets it was just a pack-mule, while the other stuck when his jumped the fence. Ranger Radcliffe, galloping back beside Rosa's now docile mount, waved a hand to the boys. Then a murmur rippled through the loungers that encircled the corral, as the white-faced bull was called for. Ace's nerves began to tingle. This bull had been kept in close confinement for several days past, and it had not improved his temper. They had to throw him to put on the straps. "Hold him!--Hold him!" at intervals percolated through the hum of voices, as the great brute lay panting in the saddling pen, his eyes ringed with infuriated white, his snorting breath--audible thirty feet away--sending spirals of dust scudding before his nose. "Well, what do you say? Say it quick! I'm betting on the bull," King was challenging the Ranger, little dreaming who the rider was to be. This bull was to be ridden with a saddle and one hand hold. The gate of the saddling pen cracked as its occupant tried to rise. "You folks around the fence, you had better look out!" megaphoned the starter. "This 'ere bull may not look where he's a-goin'!" The gate cracked again. A woman nearby screamed. Two men with lassos ready waited on either side, their mounts aquiver. Ace's ruddy face had grown strangely lined, but he stood his ground. "The fellow that rides that bull is sure foolhardy," the Senator was remarking, pulling his hat further over his iron-gray brows against the slant of the sun. Then the Ranger rode up with Rosa, and she was invited to a seat behind the fluttering flag. "Either that or almighty sandy," amended Radcliffe. Like a streak of lightning the bull arose, jaws slavering. One mighty crack and he had burst the gate, a plunge and he was plowing his way across the field, trailing a rope that still held his saddle horn. The starter raced after, his big bay holding back with all his might on the rope. The dust blew chokingly into the faces of those on the Senator's side of the corral. Then the bull caught sight of that fluttering red, white and blue. For one awful instant Rosa found those staring white-rimmed eyes glaring straight into her own. The bull's next leap would carry him over the fence and into the machine. She blanched, but sat silent. Pedro, drawn up beside her on his pinto, felt paralyzed. The Senator threw his engine on as if to back away. "Hold him!--HOLD him!" shrilled the starter, pounding back. The rope on the saddle horn--would it hold? Then a lasso was thrown, tightening neatly around the hind legs of the runaway. "Got him stretched now!" came the triumphant shout, as the bull went down with an infuriated snort, and lay there, chest heaving, while the vaqueros made him fast. "The ride's off,--nobody goin' to ride _him_ to-day!" decided the man on the bay. The bull was relieved of his saddle and headed protestingly back into the small corral. Ace King's face was set in deep lines. He had been all nerved up to his ride. Now that it was off, his knees felt shaky, and he climbed to a seat on the top rail. And Pedro flushed to hide his pallor. But Ted's time was yet to come. One rider in between, whose horse piled him on the ground, and the announcement came: "Ted Smith from Peach Cove, rides Spitfire from Huntington Lake." "I'm sorry for that kid," stated Long Lester, who leaned lankily over the gate, thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. "Want up, little miss?" and he helped a child to a vantage point beside him. "Go to it, old pal!" Ace thumped the contestant breath-takingly. "Spitfire! O-o-wah-hoo-o!" bellowed a group of cow-boys, in imitation of the falsetto Indian yell. "Oo-wah-hoo-oo-oo!" the Indians bettered them. Senator King honked in joyous abandon. Pedro's dark eyes flashed. "Spunky kid!" commented Radcliffe. "I'm betting he'll ride him straight up!" "He'll be killed!" Rosa shivered. "Not with those long legs to get a grip with," the Ranger reassured her. "Ain't that hoss a dinger!" admiringly Long Lester demanded of the assemblage, as Spitfire danced forth with three lassos trying to hold him for the blinders. Again he tried to climb the fence, eyes wide, nostrils quivering. "I'm just itchin' to ride him," Ted replied to Ace's questioning gaze. Every nerve in his wiry body was keyed electrically. Then the saddle was adjusted, Ted was in the stirrups, and the blinder was jerked free. "R-r-ready! Let 'er go!" was megaphoned. About that time things began to happen. Spitfire, as if feeling that his reputation needed demonstrating, began to double in his best bucking form. "_Ride_ him, Ted!" yelled Ace. "Hey, Ted rides him, eh?" "Scratch him!" contributed Long Lester, who believed in spurs. "Say, he's a-scratchin' him up and down!--Ya-hooooooo!" as Ted rode him up again and again, both arms free, slapping him hip and shoulder, hip and shoulder with his sombrero. Zip!--_Zip!_--ZOOM!--Around and around they went, the mustang snorting loudly with each bounce, lathering in his effort to unseat his rider. But Ted had grown to his back. The broncho stopped, exhausted, flanks heaving. "SOME riding!" gasped Pedro. Then a shout went up. Ted was champion rider of the rodeo! To the ranch boy's amazement, he now found his long legs dangling from a seat on the shoulders of his two college friends, while they marched about to the tune of "A Jolly Good Fellow,"--Norris himself laughingly joining in the chorus, and Long Lester thumping him breath-takingly between the shoulder blades. That was the day the camping trip had been planned. It was also the day Ace's little Spanish 'plane, wirelessed from its hanger in Burlingame,[1] had given them all a surprise, and a trial sail. The pilot arrived shivering in leather jacket and heavy cap, woolen muffler and goggles, with similar wraps for Ace, whose leather chaps now served a purpose. For the intense cold of the upper levels it was necessary for the pilot to lend his outer apparel, as each of the prospective camp mates in turn took the observer's seat, with Ace piloting. Ted was used to flying with him,--had, indeed, given him the nick-name which all had now adopted, as a compliment to his exploits as a birdman. But to the other three it was a new experience. He invited Norris first. Their route lay like a map below them, as they winged their way across the sky, steering first due South till the rim of King's River Canyon threatened to suck them down into its depths, then circling to the East till they could see Mt. Whitney rising snow-capped above the surrounding peaks, and back to the waiting boys. Long Lester ventured next, and as he afterwards expressed it, he thought he was riding on the back of his neck as they soared into the blue deeps above them, while the ocean of the atmosphere tossed them about capriciously. This time Ace, running her into the cold strait above the river, headed her down canyon to within a hundred feet of the forest top, his grit based on sound mechanical training; his daring counterbalanced by his cool headed precision. He tried no stunts, however, as he had promised his father to indulge in no aerial acrobatics under 1,000 feet. When they finally returned to terra firma, right side up with care, the old prospector expressed himself as nowise envious of Elijah. Pedro belted himself in with a lack of enthusiasm that Long Lester did not fail to note with sympathy, and away they soared, fearlessly on Ace's part, whose eyes, ears and lungs were in the pink of condition. But to the Spanish boy came first a dizzy, seasick feeling, coupled with a conviction that he could not draw breath against the head wind, then a chill that penetrated even the pilot's uniform, as he watched the earth recede beneath them. The motor purred as they gained momentum and the propellers whirred noisily, and the changing air pressures so affected the stability of the light craft that he felt half the time as if they were lying over on their side. He also reflected that, should the engine stall, their descent would be a matter of seconds only. In the dry heat they had been traveling with what seemed terrific speed. He protested once, but Ace did not hear him. Then in the cold of the higher altitude, their speed was reduced and traveling was smoother. When at last the great white bird dropped back almost on the spot from which they had started,--the distinguishing feat of the Spanish 'plane,--he was almost a convert, though as Lester said, "a little green about the gills." When later the opportunity came to try it again, he abdicated in favor of Ted. Norris assured them that there is air for 50 miles above the earth, and sometimes a tidal wave of atmosphere reaching as high as 200 miles, though after it gets about 190 degrees below zero, less is known about it. Its density is reduced fully half at 18,000 feet,--half a mile above the highest peaks, like Mt. Whitney, but though the air of high altitudes is more buoyant, the cold none the less reduces the speed of the air cruiser. While they were eating they discussed their itinerary. Norris had the large trail maps of both Sierra and Sequoia National Forests. These he laid out and pieced together into one big sheet ten feet long. On these maps were marked out the good camp grounds, and where bears, or deer, quail or grouse, might be found, where supplies were obtainable, or pack and saddle stock, guides and packers, or Forest ranger stations (little cabins flying a flag from their peaks, to make them show up on the map). There were the "roads passable for wagons," "trails passable for pack stock," and "routes passable for foot travel only." There were areas marked with varying tiny green tufts of grass labeled "meadows where stock grazing is permitted," and "meadows where it is not permitted," "meadows fenced for the free use of the traveling public" and "meadows fenced for the use of Forest Rangers only." Diminutive green pine trees indicated forest areas particularly interesting, striped red areas signalized National Forest timber sales, cut over or in operation, black triangles denoted Forest Service fire outlook stations, and a drawing that looked like a woodshed showed where Forest Service fire fighting tools had been cached in various out-of-the-way places. "TLP" indicated the free Government telephone boxes, red doughnutty-looking circles meant good mountains to climb, with some indication of the safest routes to the top, areas marked out in red diamonds were labeled as geographically interesting, and those in green as botanically of more than ordinary interest. A green feathery-looking line meant a canyon, a green triangle a waterfall, a plain green line a stream offering good fishing, and a broken green line a stream stocked with young fish, while an X meant a barrier impassable by fish, though what that meant, not one of them could say. There were various other marks, such as a hub surrounded by the spokes of a wheel (whatever it was intended for), the key to which explained that from that point a good view was to be obtained. But what most attracted their attention, all up and down the crest of the Sierra Nevada as it stretched from North, North-West to South, South-East, were the wide green areas "of special scenic interest," most of which was marked "UNEXPLORED!" in great warning red letters. It was this part of the map that most fascinated the little camping party. Why should they choose a route that was all cut and dried for them, as it were,--where each day they would know when they started out just about where night would find them and what they would meet with on the way? Who wanted their views labeled anyway? That was all very well, very thoughtful of the Forest Service, for inexperienced campers, who would probably never venture into the unknown. But to Ace, the airman, to Ted, with his experienced wild-craft, and to Pedro the romanticist, no less than to the young Yale man whose thirst for far places had led him into the U. S. Geological Survey, the Mystery of the Unexplored called, with a lure that was not to be denied. Long Lester, they knew, was game for anything,--for had he not prospected through these mountains all his life? There was practically no place the sure-footed burros could not go, and there was no danger they were not secretly and wickedly tingling to encounter. It was a wild region, as rough and as little known as anything from Hawaii to Alaska,--only different. The John Muir Trail, named for the explorer,--a "way through" rather than a trail,--stretched along the crest of the range, the roughest kind of going, (absolutely a horseback trip, it was generally pronounced), and from its glacier-capped peaks, from 14,500 foot Mt. Whitney, to the even more difficult though less lofty Lyell, ran the Kings' River, North, Middle, and canyoned South Forks, the Kern and the Kaweah, the Merced and the San Joaquin,--to name only the largest. Unlike the older Eastern ranges, the Sierra is laid out with remarkable regularity, the one great 12,000- to 14,000-foot divide, with its scarcely lower passes, giving off ridges on the Western slope like the teeth of a coarse granite comb. Between ridges, deep, glacier-cut canyons, "yo-semities," (to employ the Indian name), with their swift, cascading rivers make North to South travel difficult, though one can follow one side of the openly forested canyons to the very crest of the main ridge. Here and there was a grove of Big Trees, varying in size from the Giant Forest of Sequoia National Park to the few mediocre specimens at Dinkey Creek. But as a rule the hot, irrigated valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin gave way to patches of the small oaks and pines of the foothills, and these in turn, several thousand feet higher up the Western slopes, to yellow pine and incense cedar, Sequoias and giant sugar pines. Higher still came the silver fir belt, and after that, the twisted Tamaracks and dwarfed and storm-tossed mountain pines, reaching often in at least a decorative fringe along the rock cracks to the very peaks, all the way up to 12,000 feet. (Tree line in the White Mountains of New Hampshire comes soon after 5,000.) Above that, of course, only snow and ice could clothe the slopes. Hell-for-Sure Pass was one name that attracted Ace's eye on the map. He judged that it must mean stiff going,--but even had they actually planned to climb that way, he would have preferred to wait and discover for himself the reason for its nomenclature. There was also Deadman Pass, (another name to tickle the imagination), Electra Peak, Thousand Island Lake, The Devil's Post Pile, Volcanic Ridge, Crater Creek, Stairway Creek, Fawn Meadow,--and dangerously near, Bear Meadow,--Vermilion Cliffs, Piute Pass, Disappearing Creek, Lost Canyon, Table Mountain, (reminiscent of the Bret Harte days), Deadman Canyon, (flavoring more strongly of the gold days of '49), and Rattlesnake Creek, (doubtless deserving the title.)--To say nothing of such ordinary features as 13,500 foot University Peak, (a mere wave of the sea of peaks surrounding champions Lyell and Whitney), Diamond Peak, 13,000 feet, Mt. Baxter, likewise around 13,000, Mt. Pinchot, and a score of others (occurring at short intervals in a solid phalanx). Whoever wants to climb a mountain everybody climbs, seemed to be the final verdict of the party. There are other peaks almost as high as Whitney, (certainly quite high enough to suit the most fastidious sportsman), and probably even more difficult of ascent. Why not discover something new under the sun? In other words, why not strike off at random into the Unexplored? They would head right into the thick of the thickest green patch on the map, and wander as fancy dictated. If they felt like climbing, they would climb. If they felt like lazing, (as Pedro put it), they would laze. If they came to a river they could cross, all right. If they could not cross, why, all right, who cared? There was rumor of vast caves that riddled the back country. There were hot springs, soda springs,--who knew what? Good pasturage was never hard to find. The verdant meadows left by the glacier lakes could be counted on up to the very backs of the 9,000-foot ridges. Most of them were half to a mile wide, and at the head waters of the big rivers, they had heard, were meadows nearer ten miles in length. With one exception, every lake in the Sierras is a glacier lake (that exception being Huntington, a "made" lake four miles long that falls three thousand feet through a flume to add power to an electric plant). These lakes lie all the way up to as high as 8,000 feet above sea-level, Norris's theory being that in time they will be found higher still. The glaciers left by the last ice age naturally melted first in the lower reaches, and as those that now cap the peaks and flow down between ridges like the arms of a starfish, melt in their turn, they will leave their icy, green-blue crystal pools higher and higher up the mountainsides. Just North of Mt. Ritter, Norris told them, lies a glacier lake at an altitude of 12,000 feet, while the glaciers still to be found are slowly, slowly grinding out the basins of the lakes that will one day, (possibly centuries hence), lie where now linger these evidences of the last glacier epoch. Where these lakes have in their turn disappeared they have left these rich-soiled meadows. Where these level-lying meadows failed them pasturage for their burros, Norris guaranteed that there would be plenty of hanging meadows,--long, narrow, bowldery strips of weed enameled verdure slanting up and down the moraine-covered canyon sides, beginning away up at timber line, where springs the source of their life-giving moisture. Before the group broke up that day, word came that Rosa's brother had broken his leg, there at the fire outlook on Red Top. (A pack-mule had crowded his horse off the trail on the steep slope of an arroyo, and the horse had fallen, though breaking his otherwise sure descent into the creek below by coming sharply up against a tree trunk.) "The worst of it is," worried Radcliffe, "with men so scarce, I don't know who to send in his place. Besides, it's a week's horseback trip from here,--and fires breaking every day,--and he needs a doctor." It was not till the deed was done that Ace returned to announce, with the smile of the cat who has licked the cream, that Rosa had insisted on taking her brother's place. He, Ace, had found the spot from her sure knowledge of the topography of the place. (She had kept house there for her brother the summer before, in the wee, wind-swept cabin.) And leaving Rosa there, as she pluckily insisted, Ace brought her brother back, covering in minutes, as the bird flies, what it would have taken a week to traverse on horseback. Those mountain trails corkscrew up and down the canyon sides till instead of calling a certain distance a hundred miles according to the map, one states it, "a week into the back-country,"--or in the case of the trailless peaks, (among which Long Lester felt most at home), the same distance might be a matter of a four-weeks' camping trip, with no human habitation, and the likelihood of not even a ranch at which to purchase supplies, in between. Then the Senator sent the 'plane back to San Francisco, and its hangar in Burlingame, before--as he said--his young hopeful could start anything more. He himself was to spend the next month fishing around Kings' River Canyon, putting up at the canvas hotel. But he took as much interest in the camping trip as if he had been a member of it,--as, indeed, did Ranger Radcliffe, though word of a fresh forest fire breaking cut short his part in the powwow. The question now arose, should they go horseback, or afoot with pack-burros,--a string of which Long Lester yearned to pilot. True, a mountain-bred pony will hop and slide up and down mountain ledges that would make an Eastern horse's hair literally stand on end. They have been born and bred to it, physically and mentally. They have been known to sit back almost on their haunches and slide when they could get down no other way. Some of them will walk a log twenty feet above the surface of a stream. (The Eastern rider will find that hard to believe, until he recalls the feats of circus horses.) But not all horses are alike, any more than people. Why should the plains horse and the park horse and good old Dobbin, the farm horse, be equine mountaineers and prospectors? "Shank's horses" and the pack-burros won the final ballot,--to Pedro's open dismay. But they would first ride the well-defined two-days' horseback trail from Giant Forest to the Kings' River Canyon, and Giant Forest is an automobile stage ride from Fresno, which is another short day's ride from Huntington Lake. (Strange are the threads of destiny! Not one of that group so much as dreamed that they were embarking on anything but a five weeks' camping trip.) [Footnote 1: Pronounced Blingam.] CHAPTER II THE CAMPING TRIP A week later Norris and the boys arrived at the lumber camp on the Canyon rim, where they were to await Long Lester,--Ace in a piratical and plutocratic black Stetson sombrero, hiking boots and flannel shirt, a red bandanna at his throat, and to supplement his khaki riding breeches he had bestowed lovingly in his duffle bag the Mexican leather chaps. He also displayed the eight-inch leather belt of the cow country, and elbow length leather cuffs studded with silver nails. Ted let it go at his second best blue overalls and heavy shoes, a green plaid gingham shirt, with a brown one to change off and straw hat. Pedro lounged gracefully about in corduroy trousers and elkskin boots, (which Norris warned him would last about a week on such rough going), and a wool jersey in the same soft tan. He took their guying good naturedly, however, and in mockery of Ace's more picturesque accoutrement, gave a first class imitation of a motion picture director with the Senator's son for his prize Bad Man. Norris wore his second best uniform, and all had sweaters and a change of socks and things, to say nothing of an extra pair of shoes. When word came that the old guide had had "some investment business" come up to delay him, they decided to establish a make-shift camp. There was not one chance in a hundred of any rain, but they decided a lean-to would be convenient anyway. They got some shakes of an old lumberman whose function it was to split the giant shingles from three foot lengths of log. Four poles for corner-posts made a substantial beginning. Smaller ones morticed to lie crosswise gave something to which to nail the shakes, which were overlapped shingle-fashion on both sides and roof. The tarpaulins would make a curtain across the front. The floor was bedded down a foot deep with springy silver fir boughs, laid butts down and toward the foot. To this could be added fresh browse as it grew dry and harsh. Tables were made by borrowing a saw of the lumbermen and slicing a four foot log into eight inch slices, then gouging these out on the under side so that stout legs could be fitted in. Stools were made from short lengths of a smaller log, and behold! the open air dining-room and kitchen were furnished, at cost of a few hours' fun. Norris even made a sort of steamer chair of poles, using a double thickness of his tarp for the seat and back. Next came a stone fireplace, with an old piece of sheet iron across the top, and a great flat hearth-stone on which to warm the plates. Each tin can as it was opened had its top neatly removed and was washed and set aside as a chipmunk-proof container, and Pedro fashioned a refrigerator by replacing the two sides of a cracker box with screen wire, (bartered from the cook of the lumber camp), hinging the door with discarded shoe tongues. Cord was strung for clothes-line, and a supply of several kinds of fuel brought in. The down logs were simply run into the fireplace, butt ends first, and shoved closer as they burned. Ted devised a rake for gathering together the dry twigs and cones and bark with which the ground was strewn, by using nails for teeth, set in a small board fastened at an angle to the stick that served as handle. Following Norris's lead, each fellow heated water and took a sponge bath daily, (except Ace, who took a cold plunge in the glacier-cold stream), and afterwards washed out his change of socks and underwear and his towel. The dish-washers also laundered the dish towels after each meal. That way, everything was always ship-shape. And, be it noted, any cook who burned the nested aluminum pans and kettles had to clean them himself, and though Norris had made that easier by bringing along a box of fine steel-wool, it was amazing how few scorched dishes occurred! Of course where pots were used over the fire, the outsides got sooty, but after all, it was only the insides that affected one's health. The boys found that they slept warmer by doubling their blankets into sleeping bags, pinning them shut with horse-blanket safety-pins, with their tarps for a windproof outer layer. And many's the sleeping bag race they ran,--or rather, hopped, to the amazement, no doubt, of the wild folk who very likely watched from the shadows. Agile Ted won the grand prize at one of these stunts by hopping the full length of a fallen log in his bag, without once falling off. There were also pine-cone battles and bait-casting contests, Pedro excelling in the throw by reason of his big arm muscles. Thus day succeeded cool and perfect day, and night followed star-strewn night, for nearly a week. The tooth-brush brigade sallied forth as soon as the sun began slanting its long morning rays through the forest aisles, and the boys often began nodding at a ridiculously early hour around the bon-fire, tired from their strenuous day in the open. But each day found their spirits higher, their muscles harder, their eyes brighter,--and their appetites more insatiable. Ted was plumping up and Pedro trimming down on the self-same medicine. The chipmunks soon became so tame that they ran all over the place, over the boys' feet, on up to their shoulders, and into their pockets for the goodies they sometimes found. But they never ran under any one's palm. Pedro got one cornered and caught him with his bare hands, and put him on a leash, but the furry mite spent the next half hour straining to get away, too unhappy to eat,--cowering, trembling, when the boys stroked his orange striped back with a gentle finger,--and Pedro finally gave him back his freedom, (and a pyramid of peanuts). "Camp Chipmunk" it was finally voted to call the place, and the name was inscribed on the side of a huge fallen log with bits of yellow-green live moss. Though the chipmunks could easily have gone to the creek, as they must have before the boys came, they displayed a preference for drinking out of the same water pail the boys did, and they sometimes took an unexpected and unappreciated plunge bath. Besides the very tiny chipmunks, there were some of the ground-squirrel size with the same orange and black. They were duller of wit, and more timid, but they used to chase the little fellows to within an inch of their lives. One day a big Sayes chipmunk attempted to fish a cheese rind out of the fireplace. The ashes were still hot, and he plunged into the soft stuff over his head, he was out and away, with a piercing squeal, almost instantly, trailing white ash behind him. The boys used to bury nuts just to see how fast the littlest chipmunks would smell them out. After repeatedly finding the Dutch oven bread nibbled around the edges, Pedro hung the bread-bag from the clothes-line one night. He was awakened next morning by the shout Ted sent up when he found two chipmunks running down the string and squeezing their way delightedly into the bag. Some one always had to watch while the meal was being laid, for the mouselike villains would be right up on the table sampling the butter, if some one did not keep an eye out. Or they would climb up the leg of the table and peek over the edge with their beady eyes, wondering how far they dared approach without danger to their agile persons. But the funniest thing was when two chipmunks would quarrel,--as generally happened when one unearthed a nut that another had buried. Nickering in the angriest way imaginable, the two tiny things would come at each other with ears laid back, in what appeared for all the world like a head-butting contest. Around and around they would whirl in a spiral nebula, till one got a head start on a race for home and mother. Each morning they awoke to the hack-hack-hack of the sawyers and the steady grating of the log saw, the twitter of the donkey engine and the volcanic remarks with which the bull-puncher was urging his team forward. The yellow sunshine sifted aslant through the giant trees, birds sang, and chipmunks chattered. A water-packer passed them one day with his mule plodding along under 40 gallons disposed in canvas bags on a wooden frame, and beyond, across the singing creek, they could see the swampers burning the brush they had cut from the pathway of the tree next to fall. Breakfast dispatched, the boys hurried over to watch the two-bitted axe biting its huge kerf in the side of a ten-foot trunk. When it had eaten a third of the way through the giant trunk, the sawyers began on the opposite side, nearly as high as the top of the kerf, resting the long instrument on pegs driven into two holes that had been bored for the purpose. Iron wedges were driven after the saw. The instant the tree began to lean, the head chopper had driven a stake about 150 feet from the base on the side of the kerf, declaring that the falling tree would drive that stake into the ground, so accurately could they gauge the direction of its fall. The swampers had cleared the way between. Then came the cracking of neighboring branches, as the mammoth trunk swayed and toppled to the forest floor. There was a crash that shook the ground, which rebounded with a shower of chips and bark dust, and the stump gaped raw and red where for perhaps 2,000 years it had upborne the plumed Sequoia Gigantea. The boys, far above whose heads the fallen trunk towered, scrambled up the rough bark and raced each other up and down the novel roadway that it made. Then, the excitement over, they suddenly realized that they were hungry and ran another race back to camp. Later they watched as the donkey engine, stronger than ten oxen, was made fast to a stump and stoked till it could move itself into position to haul the log lengths to the waiting ox team. Peelers with axes and long steel bars had been peeling off the thick red bark, which the boys found could be whittled into odd shapes and rubbed velvety at the cut ends. The sawyers were sawing the trunk into lengths short enough to ride on box cars, and the chain tenders were driving the "dogs" or steel hooks into the forward segment preparatory to attaching the chain that was to draw the log after the panting donkey engine. The block shifter was ready with his pulley, and the gypsy tender was gathering down wood. Suddenly, just as the chain had stretched till the log began to move, some weak link snapped and with a rebound like that of a cannon it flashed over the hillside, catching one man and toppling him over with a broken leg. The camp cook, whose accomplishments varied from the ability to deliver an impromptu and usually unsolicited sermon to that of calling off the numbers at a stag dance, was summoned in haste and from a long black bag that went with the framed diploma that hung at the head of his bunk, this unusual individual administered surgical treatment. The injured man took it philosophically,--his out of door constitution would repair the damage with more than average speed,--and the work of getting out the big log proceeded as before. They also watched, fascinated, as the logs at a camp further back were sent down a crude slide that slanted sheer to a sizeable lake. Ace threatened to try riding a log some time, but Norris rendered one of his rare ultimatums on that score. "Let's take plenty to eat!" bargained Pedro, who was beginning to suspect it was no afternoon stroll he had embarked upon. "Hadn't we better 'phone old Lester to lay in some extra supplies?" "There is always fish," Norris reminded him. "One gets tired of fish. I say let's take plenty of grub, if we're going away off where for weeks we may not see a living soul to buy a pound of bacon of. Eating's half the fun of camping. And if we get up there on the John Muir Trail, we can't even catch fish, can we--always?" "That's the stuff!" seconded Ace. "If we aren't tied too tightly to the problem of rustling grub, we will be freer to roam where we please. But gosh! Won't it take a whole train-load of burros to pack enough stuff? Five men, three times a day, that's fifteen meals. And thirty days would make it 450 meals. Besides we'll eat just about double the normal number of calories,--the way I feel already. And twice 450 meals is 900." "Whoa, there!" begged Norris. "How much can a burro carry, anyway? We can't take all our food, or we'll have such a pack-train we won't have time for anything but donkey driving, and if we carry feed to keep them going on the trail, we'll have to take more burros to pack the feed, and they will have to have feed too, and--there's no end to it." "Well, of course we'll fish, when we can," amended Pedro. "And we can take compact rations, dried stuff, instead of watery canned goods. They're just as good, aren't they? Only the water's been taken out of them, and we can put it back in each night before we eat it. What's the use of packing tin cans that are mostly full of water?" "I wouldn't call canned peaches mostly water," retorted Ace, who though less dependent than the plumper Pedro on his three square meals per day, was even more particular what those three meals tasted like. "It isn't only the juice," said Pedro. "The peaches themselves are half water. Dried peaches are the same thing except for that, and two pounds of dried peaches will go a whole heap farther than a two-pound can, let me tell you!" "All right," said Ace. "Dried peaches! What else? Mr. Norris, you've had a lot of experience on these back-country trips." "H'm!" said the young Survey man, his eyes lighting reminiscently. "Did you ever eat black bean soup with salt pork and garlic to flavor it?" "I have," said Pedro. "It's a meal in itself, with black rye bread and dill pickle. And what about fried frogs' legs and watercress? Broiled mushrooms, stewed mushrooms and onions, and crayfish soup?" "Sounds good to me," Ace admitted. "But have we a mushroom expert in our midst? I'm not ready to commit suicide just yet." "Nor I," laughed Norris. "Nobody asked you to," Pedro looked aggrieved. "Goodness knows I'm no expert, but I do know a few kinds, and I know those few kinds for sure." "Hot dog!" commented the Senator's son. "Go to it, ol' boy!" "Then," Norris continued, "there've been times in my life when I didn't turn up my nose at corned beef hash browned." "And spuds!" Ace completed the recipe. "And onions." "Dehydrated," Norris admitted. "Can't carry potatoes for more than the first few days, and dried onion is just as flavorful as fresh." "An onion a day--" began Ace. "Keeps everybody away," finished the young Survey man laughingly. "And that reminds me of apples,--dried apple pie, apple pudding, apple dumplings, (baked or boiled), apple fritter, (made with pancake flour), and apple pan-dowdy with cinnamon." "Pan-dowdy!" queried both boys. "Yes, when the cook has to roll it out with a bottle, or an oar handle, or a smooth stone instead of a rolling pin, and perhaps bake it in the frying pan, and he hesitates to label the result, he terms it pan-dowdy, and then nobody has any kick coming if it isn't exactly flesh, fish or fowl, if you get me." "We get you!" grinned Ted, who had thus far been a silent partner to the plans. But as usually happened at such times, he had been doing a lot of thinking. He now added his contribution: "How about rainbow trout broiled with pork scraps, and served with horseradish? Let's take a bottle of horseradish." "Dried horseradish and a grater," amended Pedro. "All right. Then there's trout baked with tomato and onion sauce, trout baked in clay, trout boiled for a change, with lemon, (we could start the trip with a few), trout skewered, griddled, baked in ashes, baked on a stone, fried--of course, and roasted and stuffed with sage. Let's take sage. Then how about cold boiled trout salad with mustard dressing, and fish chowder a la canned milk, with dry-dated--what do you call it? Dehydrated potatoes and evaporated onions? Eh? And garlic isn't such a bad idea. It's the handiest little bit of flavoring I know of,--if we all go in for it alike." "We'll all go in for it good and strong," winked Ace. "Strong is the word," chuckled Norris. "Anyway," Ted defended his suggestion. "I've camped through the back-country a heap in my time, and I've generally found it isn't the sameness of the fish-three-times-a-day that lays you out, but the lack of flavorings. Now I even take caraway seed to give a different flavor to a batch of biscuit, and raisins, or some anise seed, or a little strong cheese, that you can grate into it or on it and then toast it till it melts. Then there's cinnamon and cheese toast for dessert, and plain cinnamon and sugar melted on white bread makes it just bully! And why do we have to eat white bread all the time anyway?" "Of course we'll have cornmeal and buckwheat in our pancake mixture," said Norris. "Bully! But why not take part rye flour too, and part oatmeal to mix in? It bakes fine and flaky. And there's oatmeal cookies mixed with peanut butter and sweetened!" "Good!" Norris pronounced. "Y'r _all right_, kid!" Ace thumped affectionately on his thin shoulder blade, "y'r all right," but at the threatened repetition of the bearlike caress, Ted dodged. "Another idea," Pedro broke in. "Why eat bread all the time anyway? Why not macaroni and cheese, and spaghetti and tomato paste?" "And garlic?" teased Ace. "Surest thing you know! And vermicelli, and noodles, and all those things. They're all made of flour, and they're different." "A little bulky," protested Norris. "Oh, well, for the start of the trip, then. They're not so heavy, parked up on top of a burro's regular pack." "Good!" agreed the leader of the expedition. "We may come to cattle ranches where we can get beef and mutton occasionally, though not after we get into the higher altitudes. And we can start off with a few fresh eggs, for compactness and safety broken a dozen at a time into glass jars. After that--I don't know whether you fellows would like scrambled eggs or not, made of egg powder. Personally I don't. Nor the famous erbswurst." "Aw!" drawled Ted, barely concealing his impatience. "The thing that stands by you best on a hard trip, after all, is jerky and pemmican. I think old Lester jerked some venison himself last fall, and he's probably got it yet. And he'll grind us some pemmican, if we get him word before he starts." "Gee Whiz! Those are emergency rations!" vetoed Ace. "We'll have to have a long distance conversation with him to-night," said Norris. "Meantime we mustn't forget pilot biscuit and peanut butter for a pocket lunch and shelled peanuts, of course, and rice, and tea and coffee, and sugar, and baking powder." "There are two things that can compactly," conceded the Castilian boy at this point. "The best grade of canned beets and spinach are pretty solid weight. I'll make no kick if we load on some of that until we get to the steeper grades." "Hey!" shouted Ace. "In all this time nobody's mentioned bacon." "We took that for granted," laughed Norris. "I'll bet Long Lester would never start out without it, whether we told him to or not. But I'm awfully afraid we'll use more tea than coffee. It's bulky, and worse, it loses flavor." "Oh," said Ted, "I know the answer to that. Powdered coffee isn't one quarter so bulky, and put up in little separate tins, we keep opening them fresh, don't you see?" "I've never yet seen a powdered coffee that could compare with the real thing," Ace complained. "Why couldn't Les buy the real thing and then get it powdered and sealed into little separate tins for us?" "He could," agreed Norris, "I suppose,--if we're going to be as fussy as all that." (Ace flushed.) "But with our woods' appetites----" "Oh, and citric acid tablets," the Senator's son hastened to change the subject. "For lemonade, you know." The discussion was cut short by Pedro's discovery that a bear had invaded the lean-to. The American black bear, and his California cousin whose coat has generally lightened to the cinnamon brown of the soil, is all but tame in the National Parks, where for years he has been unmolested. A friendly fellow even in the wild state,--for the most part,--he roams the Giant Forest as much a prized part of the landscape as the Big Trees themselves. He has learned to visit the garbage dump regularly every night, and it causes no sensation whatever to meet one on the trail. It was much the same about the lumber camp. But to have him visit uninvited, and serve his own refreshments from their selected stores, was a less attractive trick. Nor did he show the slightest inclination to take alarm and vacate when the boys returned. On the contrary, he snarled and showed his teeth when they would have driven him from the maple sugar can, and even Ace felt at the moment that discretion was in order. It was not till Old Shaggy-Sides had pretty well demolished everything in sight, and then carried the ham off under his arm, that he took a reluctant departure. This would never do. That night the unprotected edibles were hoisted just too high for a possible visitor to reach, on a rope slung over the limb of a tree. The boys still slept under the stars, for they knew enough about bears, (all but Pedro), not to be afraid. Pedro, however, got little sleep that night, though he would not have confessed to the fact for anything on earth. "There was one bear in Sequoia Park," remembered Ace, "who got too fresh, that way, and raided some one's tent, and they had to send for help to get him out. When it happened half a dozen times, he was ordered shot. But he was the only one I've ever heard of acting that way. Now I'll bet, if we'd inquire, we'd find this bear had been half tamed, and altogether spoiled by these lumbermen. "We were driving through Yellowstone last summer when one of those half tame bears came out to beg. We stopped the machine and I fed him some candy. Then we parked, and went up to the hotel for dinner. When we came back, we found he had mighty near clawed the back seat to pieces,--and why do you suppose?--To get at a side of bacon we had stowed away in there." "Did he find it?" "We never did." "That reminds me of something I heard," laughed Norris. "Some friends of mine in Sequoia left their lunch boxes in the machine while they went to climb Moro Rock. When they came back they found a cub calmly sitting up there behind the wheel, eating one lunch after another." Pedro was in for moving their headquarters to a great hollow Big Tree, the cavity in which was as large as a good sized room, with a Gothic sort of opening they could have made a door for. But the very next morning the old prospector arrived with the train of pack-burros, and they were off. "How do you explain the Sequoias, Mr. Norris? Will we find more of them?" asked Pedro, with a last wistful backward glance. "The Big Trees are by no means confined to Sequoia National Park and other well known groves," said the Survey man. "The Sequoia gigantea is to be found in scattered groves for a distance of 250 miles or more, up and down the West slope of the Sierras, at altitudes just lower than that of the belt of silver firs,--that is, anywhere from 5,000 to 8,000 feet above sea level. And in fact, south of Kings' River, the Sequoias stretch in an almost unbroken forest for seventy miles. Nor are they all of the proportions so often cited, where a man standing at their base looks like a fly on the wall by comparison with these prehistoric giants. Nor did they all get their start in life 4,000 years ago. There are young trees in plenty, saplings and seedlings, who will doubtless reach the patriarchal stage some 4,000 years hence. On what kind of earth will they look then? On what stage in the evolution of civilization? Will another ice age have re-carved these mountains? And how will man have learned to protect himself from the added severity of those winters?" "It certainly gives one something to think about," mused Pedro. "It is only in these younger specimens that you can see what a graceful tree it is!" He glanced from a feathery Big Tree youngster of perhaps 500 summers, with its slender branches drooping in blue-green plumes toward the base, with purple-barked limbs out-thrust on the horizontal half way up, and at the top reaching ardently heavenward. Near it stood a parent tree of perhaps middle age, born around the time of Christ, whose crown was still firmly rounded with the densely massed foliage, now yellow-brown, and the bark red-brown. The millions of two inch cones, surprisingly tiny for such a tree, hang heavy with seeds,--they counted 300 in a single green cone. "With such millions of seeds," puzzled Pedro, "I should think the trees would grow so thick that there would be no walking between them." "No," said Norris. "In the first place, remember that not one seed in a million escapes these busy Douglas squirrels and the big woodcocks that you hear drumming everywhere. Then even the millionth seed has to risk forest fires and snow-slides, lumbermen and lightning. But I'll tell you something funny about them. You'd naturally think, from the number of streams in these forests, that they required a lot of moisture. Well, they don't. Further South they grow and flourish on perfectly dry ground. But their roots retain so much rain and snow water that their tendency is to _make_ streams. The dense crown helps too, by preventing evaporation. You'll find Sequoias flourishing in a mere rift in a granite precipice. But wherever you find a dense growth, as you do here, there you will find their roots giving out the seepage that feeds a million streamlets, and these in turn feed the great rivers. "You see these trees _must_ be able to survive drouth or they could not have survived the changes of so many thousand years. Why, these Sequoias might have formed one continuous forest from the American River on South, if it had not been for the glaciers that swept down the great basins of the San Joaquin and Kings' River, the Tuolumne and the Stanislaus." "But why didn't the glaciers clean them off the basins of the Kaweah and the Tule Rivers, too?" "Ah! There the giant rock spurs of the canyons of the King and the Kern protected the Tule and the Kaweah, by shunting the ice off to right and left." "There's one thing more I'd like to know," said Pedro. "Where will we find the nut pines that have the pine nuts? Aren't they delicious?" "There are several kinds," said Norris. "There is a queer little one with cones growing like burrs on the trunk as well as on the limbs, but that is only found on burnt ground. Another, that forms a dietary staple with the Indians of Nevada, is to be found only on the East slope of the Sierra, and the little nut pine that our California Indians harvest is away down in the foothills among the white oaks and manzanitas, so I'm afraid whatever else we come across on this trip, we won't want to count on pine nuts." "What interests _me_ more," said Ted, "is whether we are going to come across any gold or not." "Now you're talking!" the old prospector suddenly spoke up. Ted's eyes shone. Ace had an experience about this time that flavored his nightmares for some time to come. Following a lumber chute, one of these three board affairs, up the side of a particularly steep slope one day, where at the time of the spring floods the yellow pine logs had been sent down to the river, he thought to try a little target shooting with Long Lester's rifle. But at the first shot a bunch of range cattle,--of whose presence he had not known,--began crowding curiously near. He fired again, and a cow with a calf took alarm and started to charge him, but was driven back with a few clods and a flourished stick. He fired again. This time, quite by accident, his bullet hit an old bull squarely on the horn. The shock at first stunned the animal, and he fell forward on his knees. Recovering in an instant, however, the enraged animal made for Ace. [Illustration: Leaping aboard a log he sent it shooting to the stream below.] The Senator's son had that day worn his heavy leather chaps. He had found them burdensome enough on his slow climb upward. They now impeded him till he could not have outrun the animal had he tried, nor was there any tree handy between him and it. Then a wild thought struck him. The log slide!--It was mighty risky, but then, so was the bull. Leaping aboard a log that still lay at the head of the slide, he pulled the lever and sent it shooting to the stream below, and the fallen pine needles flew out in a cloud before him, as the log hurled down the grade. His heavy leather chaps really helped him balance now, and his hob-nails helped him cling. The log came to a stand-still before it reached the river,--but Ace did not. And the bull was hopelessly out-distanced. CHAPTER III LIVING OFF THE WILDERNESS On every side stretched a sea of peaks. They might have been in mid-ocean, stranded on a desert island, had they not been on a mountain-top instead. For one glorious fortnight they had camped beside white cascading rivers, and along the singing streams that fed them, following their windings through flower perfumed forests and on up into the granite country where glacier lakes lay cupped between the peaks to unfathomable cobalt depths. They had seen deer by the dozen feeding in the brush of the lower country,--graceful, big-eyed creatures who allowed them to approach to within a stone's throw before they went bounding to cover. They had thrown crumbs to the grouse and quail that came hesitatingly to inspect their camp site, protected at this season by the game laws and so unaccustomed to human kind that they were all but tame. They had crossed and recrossed rivers not too deep to ford, and rivers not too swift to swim. They had scaled cliffs where nothing on hooves save a burro--or a Rocky Mountain goat--could have followed after. But always the shaggy gray donkeys had kept at their heels like dogs,--save when they got temperamental or went on strike,--waggling their long ears in a steady rhythm, exactly as if these appendages had been on ball bearings. The burros, five in number, had each his individuality. There was Pepper, the old prospector's own comrade of many a mountain trail, who, knowing his superior knowledge of the ways of slide rock and precipices, insisted always on being in the lead. This preference on his part he enforced with a pair of the swiftest heels the boys had ever seen. There was old Lazybones, as Pedro had named the one who, presenting the greatest girth, had to carry the largest pack. There was Trilby, of the dainty hooves, who never made a misstep. He--for the cognomen had been somewhat misplaced--was entrusted with the things they valued most, their personal kit and the trout rods. The Bird was the one who did the most singing,--though they all joined in on the chorus when they thought it was time for the table scraps to be apportioned. And finally there was Mephistopheles, whose disposition may have been soured under some previous ownership,--since the blame must be placed somewhere. Ace had added him to Long Lester's four when a lumberman had offered him for fifteen dollars. The name came afterwards. But though he sometimes held up operations on the trail, he was big enough to carry 150 pounds of "grub," and that meant a lot of good eating. Despite their hee-hawing, however, the diminutive pack animals did a deal of talking with their ears. When startled, these prominent members were laid forward to catch the sound. When displeased, the long ears were flattened along the backs of their necks. If browse was good, they remained in the home meadow,--after first circling it to make sure there was no foe in ambush. If not, they wandered till they found good feed,--and one night they wandered so many miles, hobbled as they were, that it took all of the next forenoon to find them and bring them back to camp. They could walk a log with their packs to cross a stream, or, packs removed and pullied across, they could swim it, if they were started up current and left to guide themselves. They would not slip on smooth rock ledges, they could hop up or down bowlders like so many bipeds. It was a constant marvel to Ace and Pedro what they could do. No lead ropes were necessary at all. Long Lester was meticulous in their care. Every afternoon when the packs were removed he sponged their backs with cold water. And though the party was on its way by seven every morning,--having risen with the first light of dawn,--and though by ten they would have covered half of their average twelve miles a day, the old guide never watered them till the sun was warm, which was generally not till after the middle of the forenoon. For a wilderness trip comes to grief when any one member, man or beast, gives out, as he knew from a lifetime of experience in that rugged and unpeopled region. They had figured on about three pounds of food per day per person, for the four weeks' trip. That loaded each burro with a grub list of ninety pounds, and about ten pounds of personal equipment, besides the axes and aluminums and such incidentals as soap and matches. Ease of packing was secured by slipping into each of the food kyacks a case such as those in which a pair of five gallon coal oil cans come. Their kit included neats' foot oil, (scrupulously packed), for the wearing qualities of their footwear along those stony trails depended in large degree on keeping the leather soft. No mosquito netting was necessary in the mountains,--it was too dry and cool for the insects,--but each member of the party had a pair of buckskin gloves, six good pairs of all wool socks,--worn two at a time to pad the feet against stone-bruise,--extra shoe laces, and a pair of sneakers to rest his feet around camp. Norris carried a pocket telescope, and Long Lester a hone made of the side of a cigar box with fine emery cloth pasted on one side, coarse on the other. They saved on blankets by doubling each into three crosswise,--except the old guide, who was too tall,--and on the higher, colder elevations they found that to wear a fresh wool union suit, and socks warm from the fire, to sleep in, was as good as an extra blanket, if not better. Everything was to be turn and turn about,--Ace had been the most insistent member of the party in not leaving Long Lester to do the lion's share,--they were obliged, each in turn, even Norris, to learn certain fundamental rules of cookery. Long Lester got it down to this formula: Put fresh vegetables into boiling salted water. Put dried vegetables (peas and beans) into cold, unsalted water. Soak dried fruit overnight. To fry, have the pan just barely smoking. To clean the frying pan, fill it with water and let it boil over, then hang it up to dry. Jab greasy knives into the ground,--provided it is not stony. You can fry more trout in a pan if you cut off their heads. As the boiling point drops one degree for every 800 foot rise, twenty hours' steady cooking will not boil beans in the higher altitudes unless you use soft water. They may be best cooked overnight in a hole lined with coals, if put in when boiling, with the lid of the Dutch oven covered with soil. Three aluminum pails, nested, provided dish pan and kettles for hot and cold water. Butter packed in pound tins kept fresh indefinitely in those cool heights, and salt and sugar traveled well in waterproof tent silk bags. Long Lester had figured on a minimum of a quarter of a pound each of sugar and bacon per day per person, three pounds of pepper and twenty-five of salt. Of course the one thing each member carried right on his person was a pepper tin of matches, made waterproof with a strip of adhesive tape. For the snow fields, they also had tinted spectacles, as a precaution against snow-blindness. Axmanship came to be the chief measure of their campcraft. Ace had wanted to bring one of the double-bitts he saw the lumbermen using, but the old guide vetoed it as more dangerous to the amateur than a butcher knife in the hands of a baby. The light weight single-bitt was the axe he had brought for the boys, reserving a heavier one for himself. These he had had ground thin, but so that the blade would be thickest in the center and not stick fast in the log. Both axe-heads wore riveted leather sheaths. They took turn and turn about getting in the night wood. Fortunately the boys, (Norris, too), had watched the lumbermen like lynxes, even Ted thinking to get a few points from them. They noted, for one thing, that the professional choppers struck rhythmically, landing each blow with precision on top of the other, working slowly and apparently at ease,--certainly untiringly,--and making no effort to sink the axe deeply. They had also noticed that a lumberman will clear away all brush and vines within axe reach before beginning, lest the instrument catch and deliver him a cut. They had learned, in logging up a down tree, not to notch it first on the top, then discover too late that they could not turn the thing over to get at the under side; but to stand on the log with feet as far apart as convenient, and nick it on first one side, then the other, with great nicks as wide as the log itself. Pedro had to be shown how to chop kindling, as his first attempt resulted in a black and blue streak across his cheek where a flying chip struck him. Long Lester had to show him how to lay his branches across a log. And the old man insisted on his so doing, every time, for, he said, he knew a man who had lost an eye by failing to observe this precaution. He also barely saved the boys' axe from being driven into the ground by the well-meaning tenderfoot and nicked on some buried stone. But when he found the Spanish boy starting to kerf a prostrate log that lay on stony ground, he expressed himself so fluently that Pedro never again, as long as he lived, forgot to place another log under the butt, or else clear the stones from the ground around it. The boys also learned to look for the hard yellow pine, when there was any to be found, for their back-log, but for a quick fire to select fir balsam, spruce or aspen. (Of course if they couldn't get these, they used whatever they could lay hands on.) Pedro made the mistake, about this time, of tying a burro to a tree with two half hitches, which, when the burro tugged, were all but impossible to undo. After that he used the regular hitching tie. As the burros were always turned out at night, without even a hobble save for the leader, it became necessary to be able to lasso them in the morning if they failed to come at call. There was also the diamond hitch that had to be acquired if each was to do his share with the pack-animals, all of which occupied fascinated hours around the night-fire. So much for the first two weeks. It was now time to circle around and start back--some other way. Ace had done the packing the day they climbed above timber line for an outlook. As Trilby had cut her foot, (or his foot, to be accurate), the boy had added her pack to that of broad-backed Mephistopheles, in whose kyacks he had--much against Long Lester's teachings--entrusted the entire remainder of their food. Pepper carried their personal equipment, and now that half their supplies were eaten, the Bird and Lazybones carried firewood for them from the wooded slopes below, that they might luxuriate beside a night fire. So far, so good. But the peak of their night's bivouac was flanked by higher peaks that cut off their anticipated view, and before the little party could scale these, they must descend the gorge of another leaping, singing stream that lay between. As the pack train followed nimbly down the glacier-smoothed slope, and along a ledge where the cliff rose sheer on one side, dropping as sheer on the other, Mephistopheles gave a sudden shrill squeal, and before any one knew what it was all about, went hurtling over the edge. The boys stared speechless as the luckless animal hit the cascades below and went tumbling through the rapids and over a waterfall, till the body was whirled to the bank and caught in a crevice of the rock. Here they were, ten days' hike from the nearest base of supplies, and the entire remainder of their food,--they did not mourn the burro--three thousand feet below, or more likely washed a mile down stream by this time, what had not sunk to the bottom. They might have been in mid-ocean, as Ted had remarked,--stranded on a desert island,--but for their trout rods, and one rifle. The game laws could be disregarded in their extremity. But they were days from the last deer they had sighted, and their main dependence must be on the fishing. Ahead, the trail wound down into a grove of rich tan trunks against the green of juniper. Gray granite worn into fantastic shapes,--castles and giant tables,--dwarfed and twisted trees rooted in rock crevices, white waters roaring against the canyon wall like a storm-wind in the tree-tops, fallen trunks, patches of flaming fire-weed. This was the wilderness against which they must pit their wild-craft if they would eat. By the time the sun slanted at five o'clock, Norris called a halt by the side of a moist green meadow where the burros would find browse, and all hands turning to and unpacking the kyacks, they hobbled the animals with a neat loop about their fore-legs. Then they cut, each of them, a good armful of browse for his bed. Long Lester strode off with his rifle in search of anything he might find for the pot, while Norris and the boys scrambled down to the river with their trout rods. He broke trail along a narrow ledge, just such a one as the luckless burro had gone hurtling over when his pack scraped the rising wall. Almost a sheer drop, and the rapids roared in torrents of white foam. Pedro clung to every root and every rock crack for fear of growing dizzy. "My fault entirely," Ace reproached himself, as he thought of the lost flour and bacon, rice, onions, cheese, smoked ham, dried fruit, coffee, canned beets and spinach, tinned jams, and other compact and rib-stretching items of their so lovingly planned duffle. "Never should have packed it all on one burro." The Senator's son had a dry fly outfit that was his treasure. Ted used the crudest kind of hook and line for bait casting. The subject was one of keen rivalry between them. "Dad always prayed: 'May the East wind never blow,' when we went fishing down in Maine," dogmatized Ace. "Well, Pop was born in Illinois, and he used to say, 'When the wind is in the South, it blows your bait into a fish's mouth.'" "Huh! That may be poetry, but we don't have much of any wind out here except the west wind. And if we wait for a cloudy day in this neck o' the world, we'll wait till September." "All the same," insisted Ted, "trout do bite best when it rains, because, don't you see, the big fellows lie on the bottom, just gobbling up the worms the rain washes down to them." "They won't rise to a fly in the rain." "Well, I dunno anything about dry flies, though I sh'd think they couldn't _see_ the fly up on the surface, with the water all r'iled the way it gets in a storm." "No more can they when the sun glares." "Well, then, you better choose the shady spots. I don't see sign n'r symptom of even a wind cloud to-day."--And yet, even as he gazed argumentatively at the horizon, a pink-white bank of cumulus began drifting into view in the niche between two distant peaks. "Gosh! It's sunset already," exclaimed Ted. "At half-past five!"--Ace peered at his wrist watch, then held it to his ear. "Besides, it's in the East----" "Looks more like a fire starting off there," contributed Norris. "Whew! See old Red Top, there?" "Red Top!--Where Rosa is?" "I think it must be." "Radcliffe's plumb worried, with the woods so dry, I'll bet," Ted surmised. "And short a coupla fire outlooks, at that, I heard there in the Canyon." At this point they reached the mouth of the creek that had wriggled down from some spring, and Ace elected to follow it upstream with his Brown Hackles, which he dropped on the water with the most delicate care lest their advent appear an unnatural performance to the wary troutlets watching from the shady pools. The slender stream raced dazzlingly in the reddening sunshine, as Ace tickled the placid surface of each pool, and the upstream side of each fallen log, careful lest his shadow fall betrayingly across his miniature hunting grounds. He kept a good ten feet from the bank. And before the red glow had started climbing the Western slope, he had a full string of little fellows,--the prettiest rainbow trout he had ever seen. Ted, sighting another creek, climbed back along the canyon wall to follow it down-stream with his bait can and his short, stiff willow rod, cut for the occasion with his good old jack-knife. His bait was the remnant of the ham sandwich he had saved that noon for the purpose,--though he had little dreamed at the time how much would depend on their next fishing jaunt. Keen to out-do his chum by back-country methods, he pushed through the brush that made the gully a streak of green against the granite, until he came to a bend. Here, he knew, there would likely be a pool. He approached warily from above, lengthening his line. He cast well above the bend, so that his bait would sink to the bottom. He was rewarded at once with a bite. With a quick flip, he drew the fish away, and began his string. For some time he followed down-stream before he saw another likely-looking place. An upturned stump awoke his sporting blood. Safe refuge for a trout in more ways than one, it offered a 50-50 chance of losing his hook. But Ted lifted skyward at the instant of the bite, and all was well. An eddy of foam, the shade of an overhanging bowlder, then another upturned stump, (on these wind-swept mountain sides there were many such), and Ted's spirits rose by degrees. Meantime Pedro passed the rapids, climbed to a point well above, and selected a smooth green stretch of river for his operations. It had meant stiff going, and would mean more before he made his way back up the canyon wall, but something about their present crisis had challenged his reserves. Pedro always used a spoon when he wasn't fishing for pure sport. On this sunny stretch, so clear in the red glow of approaching sunset that the bottom was plainly visible, he could see the fat old patriarchs lazing the late afternoon away. But he was soon rousing them to find out what that little shining thing could be that darted so rapidly through their habitat,--that tiny bit of metallic white so unlike anything their jaded appetites had yet negotiated. The bright silver blade, only a quarter inch in width, perhaps three times as long, spun against the current, cavorting along jerk by jerk, (with time between jerks for the scaly ones to think it over), soon began to get results. As the trout were all on the bottom resting till twilight should set in, Pedro craftily allowed the spinner to sink till it all but raked the bottom before beginning that tantalizing play. Norris, too, tried a spinner, though he chose rapid water. There was one great beauty, green above and orange beneath, that baited his fancy. For some time he dangled the lure before he felt the heavy fish. Then a long rush, that sent his line whistling out like lightning, a moment's quiet, followed by another rush, and he had landed a great beauty of a five-pounder with the hook hard fast in his jaws. After that Norris returned to camp, where Ace and Ted were already jubilantly comparing notes. Long Lester came in with a bag of birds and rabbits. Of course their catch had to be broiled. Pedro arrived in time to join them in "which will you have, or trout,"--for the game had been saved for breakfast. The boys ate with relish, though without salt, and later listened to Long Lester telling tales with his boots to the bon-fire, bronze faced, nonchalant. At 8,000 feet, the air grew noticeably cooler with the turning of the wind down-canyon, and the boys heaped down-wood liberally in a pyramid. The dry evergreens snapped in a shower of sparks as the full moon, silvering the snow-clad peaks, deepened the shadows under the trees. On the fragrance of crushed fir boughs they finally slept, all thought of the morrow drowned in dreams. Out of the painted sunsets and yellow sands of the Salton Sea, land of centipedes and cactus, blistering sun, and parching thirst, and all things cruel and ugly, had come Sanchez, a Mexican, with his son and an old man who had been his servant, to lay ties for the narrow gauge railway that was to zig-zag up the canyon walls for a lumber company. King's Lumber Company had fired them for reasons that will appear. Suffice it now that all their blistering bitterness and parching hate had focused on these forests. Rosa, alone on the Red Top fire outlook scaffold, had seen a pin-point of light the night before that she took for a camp-fire, but whose, she could not know. Breakfast, such as it was, disposed of, the four deceptively meek looking burros were lined up in the lupin perfumed meadow, in semblance of a pack-train, (the hundred pounds of duffle divided between them that they might make faster time, as well as a safe-guard against further accidents). A committee of the whole now decided they must catch more fish and dry them, then lead a forced march to Guadaloupe Rancho, and if they found range cattle, they would bring down a calf and square it later with the owner. For two days Norris, Ace and Ted caught fish, while Pedro dried them, and Long Lester scoured the woods for game birds, rabbits,--anything and everything he might find. Then came two strenuous days during which they bore in the general direction of Red Top. Without warning, they came to a sheer ledge fringed with minarets, and stared across a glacier-gouged canyon a mile wide. Progress in that direction was effectually checked. They found themselves with a view of such miles of snow-capped peaks that they stood speechless, with little thrills running up and down their spines at the sheer beauty of the scene. To the right, the way was clear across a rock-strewn elevation where the only trees were squat, twisted, with branches reaching along the ground as if for additional foothold against the never-ceasing trade winds. Again they were brought to a halt by a peak of granite blocks. "Do you know, fellows," said Norris, suddenly, "mountain-building is still going on, under our very feet." "Is there going to be an earthquake?" gasped Pedro. "There are likely to be slight earthquake shocks any time in this region. The last big 'quake, that caused any marked dislocation, was in 1872, though, so we have nothing to worry about. But I'm going to be able to show you some rock formations that will illustrate what I was telling you the other day." "You mean," brightened Ace, "showing how these 14,000-foot peaks attained their present height?--How there were two up-lifts?" "Yes, and we are standing, this very minute, on a basalt step that some earthquake has faulted from the main basalt-capped mass. Just see how the whole story is revealed right there in this gorge! You can see the streaks of basalt, which we know lie in horizontal layers, and rest on vertical strata of the Carboniferous and Triassic age." "Whoa--there!" groaned Long Lester. "Would you mind telling us that again, in words of one syllable? I calc'late it must be a mighty interesting yarn, from the hints you've let out now and ag'in, but how'n tarnation----" "Yes," grinned Ted, "do tell it, Mr. Norris, so's Les and I can get it too." "'Bout all I've got any strangle hold on," complained the old man, "so fur, is thet these yere valleys was gouged out by the glaciers, a good long spell ago. Now there's one thing I'm a-goin' to ask you, Mister, before we go any further. What did you mean by that there--coal age?" "That," vouched Norris, "was when most of the coal was formed, away back before man appeared on earth,--before there were any of the plants and animals as we know them to-day. "Picture a time when the water was covered with green scum, and the air was steamy, when the swampy forests were composed of giant ferns and club mosses and inhabited by giant newts and salamanders, dragon-flies and snakes." "How--how do you know all thet?" gasped Long Lester. "Partly by the fossils. It's a big study,--geology, we call it,--and the scientists who reason these things out use what has been discovered by astronomy and chemistry and a lot of other sciences. It's a long story." "But a _thriller_," Ace assured them, as Norris lighted his pipe on the lee of a bowlder. "Can't we rest here a few minutes, Mr. Norris? Those burros were about winded. Can't get 'em to budge yet. Come on, fellows, snuggle up," as Norris seated himself compliantly, back against the bowlder. They all crept close, for the wind was blowing hard. "Where did this earth come from in the first place?" asked Ted. "Well, of course you know that our sun is only one of millions of stars, and very far from being the largest, at that. Some larger star, in passing the sun, by the pull of its own greater gravity, separated some large fragments from that fiery, gaseous mass, and started our planetary system. We don't want to go too far into astronomy." "But astronomy shows you how they know all this," Ace assured the old man, who appeared divided between wide-eyed amazement and incredulity, (as, indeed, were Ted and Pedro). "Our earth, like the other planets, was one of the knots of denser matter on the two-armed luminous spiral which began circling the sun. There were smaller particles which were attracted to the earth by earth gravity and which increased the size of the earth till it was far larger than it is now. Ever since, the earth has been shrinking periodically, and when it shrinks, its surface becomes wrinkled, and these wrinkles we call mountain ranges." "Of course," interpolated Ace, shining eyed, "the crust of the earth got cooled, while the inside was still a mass of molten metal and gas, which kept boiling over on to the crust,--couldn't you say, Mr. Norris?" "You've got the idea." "I s'pose that's _the hot place!_" chuckled the old man. "Probably where they got the idea. In time the metals and heavier substances sank, while the lighter ones rose as granite rocks, till there was an outer shell miles thick. "The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes, in Alaska, is a volcanic region where the ground is hot and breaks through with one even now,--I was there several years ago,--but generally speaking, this earth has a crust 150 miles thick. "As I was saying, the continents are built of the lighter granite, chiefly, while the oceans lie on the heavier basalt." "But I thought you said we were on a chunk of basalt now," said Ted. "We are. You know the Pacific has flowed where now you see these peaks, as the high lands have been worn down between successive upbuildings." "But--where did the water in the ocean come from in the first place?" marveled the old prospector. "Out of the earth," smiled Norris. "Up through hot springs, geysers and volcanoes. The water vapor was always here, you know,--mixed with the molten rock and gases." "I swan!" ejaculated the old guide. "I thought I knew something about rocks, but--this beats anything in my kid's fairy books." "You bet!" Ace agreed. "You just wait till you hear----" "I expect we'd better start on now," Norris rose. "Do you chaps realize what a predicament we are in?" and shading his eyes with a lowered hat brim, he peered off across the hummocky granite slopes, which shone mirror-like in places under the noon-day sun. A moving speck in the sky to the North drew an exclamation from him. In another moment a sound that increased to a hum like that of a giant motor-boat descended from the skies, and the speck disclosed itself as a mammoth aeroplane. "Signal them!" cried Norris. "What can we signal them with? Get out your pocket mirrors, quick!" CHAPTER IV WITH THE AIR PATROL "Signal them!" chorused the three boys, acting on Norris's suggestion, (flashing their distress with their pocket mirrors), while Long Lester stood measuring the flight of the aeroplane. His practiced eye also detected a faint bluish haze that rose behind the ridge at the North,--a haze altogether unlike that which foretells a storm. In fact, the sun glinting from the wings of the giant wings and from the glacial-polished slopes beneath forbade that explanation. Like most backwoodsmen, the old prospector said the least when he felt the most. His lean body suddenly grew tense. "It's a fire," he told himself. "An everlastingly big one, too." "That's a DeHaviland," decided Ace, as the huge bombing-plane came nearer. "Must be the Fire Patrol!" A moment more and the buzzing apparatus began sinking into a "pancake" landing,--fortunately, just above the wide sweep of the granite butte. Could it be engine trouble, Norris wondered, or had it seen their signals? Lucky they were on an elevation. With the sound like a saw-mill in full blast, the great ship jolted to terra firma, within shouting distance,--and hardly had she come to a full stop than the boys had raced to her side. "I say!" exclaimed a familiar voice, as the observer climbed out. It was Ranger Radcliffe! "Where did _you_ folks drop from?" Norris explained the marooned camping expedition. Radcliffe's face was lined with fatigue and anxiety. "Big fire off there!" he motioned. "Been directing a hundred men. Broke out in three places, all within twenty-four hours, and not even an electric storm to account for it. Want to help?" And as the little party voiced unanimous consent, he proceeded to draft them in, at the Government nine dollars per day. He could have compelled their services, as he had that of a party of campers down towards Kings' River. In a few words, his voice vibrating to his high nervous tension, the young forest officer had them all thrilling with patriotic fervor. "Now get your things," he directed. "May have to fight it for a week! You can turn your burros out to forage for themselves, and I guess you'll find them again when this is over. If you don't the Government will probably square it with you." The chums swiftly retraced their steps to where the animals waited patiently, removing the packs and sending the little donkeys down the trail to better pasturage. They might wander, but they would be safe. With their swift heels they could defend themselves from even a mountain lion. And they were apt to keep to the mountain meadows, where was food and water. Their run at such an altitude had given Pedro a touch of mountain sickness, and he had to lie flat till his heart beat more normally and his nose stopped bleeding. The big 'plane carried a relay of provisions for the fire fighters already established, whom it had brought for the purpose from the Zuni Mine. As corned beef and hardtack were distributed, the hungry campers thought they had never tasted anything so good in their lives. Not even the Thanksgiving turkeys of later years were ever spiced with such appetites. This fire,--or rather, these three fires, so mysteriously concomitant, the Ranger explained when the boys returned, had broken so far from any ranch or work camp that they were hard pressed for men to fight it. "You fellows will have a mighty important part to play for the next few days," he assured them, "or I miss my guess." "Hurray!" shouted Ace. "Three cheers for the U. S. Airplane Patrol!" For he knew something of the work started at the close of the war. Following regular daily routes, this patrol not only detects fires and follows up campers or others who may have started them, (carelessly or otherwise), but in times of emergency carries the fire leader from one strategic point to another,--where as likely as not there are neither roads for him to go in his machine, nor even horseback trails,--till he has shown the volunteer firemen how to trench and back-fire. They needed some one, the Ranger said, to hold the top of the next ridge,--between which and the boys lay that inaccessible canyon it would have taken them days to have scaled afoot. By day they were merely to watch for flying brands. Their chief work would come at night, when the wind would turn and blow down canyon, and they might successfully back-fire. The fire had started in two places on the opposite bank of the Kawa, and in one place this side of the river, and was eating its way along the slopes with the wind which swept them by day. It certainly looked like the work of incendiaries. Ace begged permission to wireless for his little Spanish 'plane, in its hangar in Burlingame, that it might be employed in some volunteer capacity, and Radcliffe accepted his offer. The huge DeHaviland required all of the flat surface afforded by the butte, for its preliminary run. They were off with a roar. As they glided across to the flat-topped ridge on the other side of the canyon, they could see the ravenous flames climbing tall pines and firs, racing from limb to limb, through the forest roof, devouring the steeps, doubtless richly coated with underbrush and down-wood. The roar and crackle of it filled their ears sickeningly, as they thought of the naked mountainsides that would be left,--mere skeletons of barkless tree trunks, where they had camped on brown pine needles,--smooth, silent, inches deep, soft under their tired feet, dry as tinder and aromatic with Nature's finest perfume. How the devourer would relish the pitch and resin oozing from the juicy bark! How secure it must feel, on those slopes never climbed by man, with the autumn rains months away, and the fire fighters like so many ants trying with axe and shovel to mark off on the hot forest floor a boundary beyond which the fiery tongues must not lick. Had the wind not been in the other direction, they would have been overwhelmed with the smoke that billowed darkly till it could have been seen 50 miles away, the red sun scarcely lightening the gloom. Even where they landed, an occasional hot breath scorched their faces and set their eyes to smarting, while their winged ship nosed frantically up and away again before she should meet Icarus' fate. "Some day," Radcliffe had told them that day at the rodeo, "the Forest Service Air Patrol, which serves now to give warning of the tiniest smoke, and so saves men and millions where every minute counts, will fight with glass bombs of fire extinguisher, whose trajectory falling from a 'plane in rapid flight will have to be calculated to a nicety, but which, delivered while the fire is in its infancy, will do the work of many men." The worst difficulty would be at night, when though the fire shows plainer, the pilot would have to depend largely on his own sense of equilibrium to tell him at what angle his ship was inclined. True, acetylene gas lamps properly protected from the wind could be made to light up the ground below when alighting, but at an altitude of even a mile, little can be seen of the landscape to guide one on one's course. The 2,000-foot firs of the Sierra slopes appear but as green-black billows. As the great ship raced toward the flaming forest, their talk at the barbecue raced through the mind of the Senator's son. "Some day," Radcliffe had challenged them, "you want to see Glacier National Park, with its ice-capped peaks and its precipices thousands of feet deep, its glacier-fed lakes and Alpine scenery. And of course you must all see the geysers of the Yellowstone, its petrified forests and mud volcanoes." "And bears?" Ted had laughed with a glance at Pedro. "Yes, all sorts of wild animals. And some time you want to explore the cliff dwellings in Mesa Verde and the 14,000-foot peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park. By that time you will be ready to go to Southern Alaska and try Mt. McKinley, which is worth while not so much because it is the highest mountain in North America, (Mt. Whitney is nearly as high), but because it stands the highest above the surrounding country of any mountain in the world. Mt. Whitney is just an easy climb above a sea of surrounding peaks; you don't realize the height at all. "Then you know we have a National Park in Hawaii?--But Roosevelt,--or Greater Sequoia Park,--is going to remain an unspoiled wilderness for a good many years to come, with three great canyons larger than that of Yosemite itself." "Kings' River and the Kern," Ace had agreed, "but what is the third?" "Tehipite." "Oh, of course." "We wanted to go over the John Muir Trail right along the crest of the Sierras to Yosemite." "You've hundreds of miles of almost unexplored country! Enough vacation places to last a lifetime! Rivers alive with trout! Bears! Cougars!" the Ranger had commented. "And rattlers," Long Lester had added grimly. "And rattlers. And they're the only living thing we need fear." "Not excluding range cattle?" Pedro had wanted to be assured. "Not when you're all together. Of course if you were alone you might break a leg or something that would leave you helpless, and you'd sure be a long way from anything to eat unless you had it with you. "But unless we look alive the Big Interests are going to wrest away these beauty spots that we have set aside for our National playgrounds," Radcliffe had declared. "That's just what Dad says!" Ace had remembered. "And why? Not because they need the irrigation and water power of the big falls, for they can have it after the streams leave the parks, but because it would cost them a good deal less to secure these things of Uncle Sam than it would to build their projects outside Park limits. There isn't a beauty spot in the West that some commercial interest hasn't designs on." "That's one thing I mean to fight!" Ace squared his chin as the DeHaviland whisked them to their particular ridge, a table mountain, or butte, where half a dozen recruits had already been landed with tools and grub. "Sure seems as if these fires had been set," mused Long Lester, as Radcliffe bade them good-by,--for he had to be in a dozen places at once, that day. "But who did it?" demanded Ace fiercely. "No savvy dat kind feller," said a Canadian half breed, who was just starting off with a pick. "'E's bad feller, dat!" "Sure is!" agreed Ace. "I don't savvy him either,--any one who would deliberately burn--_that!_" with a wave of his arm toward the forested gorge, up which already rose a noticeable heat. The red tongues, racing through the spruce and cedar tops, shone through the smoke gloom, whence issued a distant roaring which was the wind created by the super-heated stretch of territory. To the left, a gleaming-eyed cougar crept through the shadows, himself a shadow. To the right, a huge, furry looking shadow ran clumsily, flat-footedly. A tiny shadow hopped from almost under their feet, and above their heads flapped a small covey of lighter shadows. Writhing above the dark tops of the doomed trees rose the yellow-gray smoke that was their departing shades. The faces of the fire-fighters were grimly blackened with smoke and grime, their shirts clung wet with perspiration to their swelling muscles, and their dry throats clacked when they tried to swallow. "I'd sure like to find the fellow that started _that!_" muttered Ace. CHAPTER V A DARING FEAT As sunset turned the wind down canyon, all hands made a sally down the mountain side in the hope of establishing a line of back-fire, but the ground soon became too hot for them, while the air was filled chokingly with ash and char-dust. They had to retreat to the ridge. It was a night never to be forgotten. When the wind turned at dawn,--with their line still intact,--the exhausted party took turn and turn about, snatching a few hours' sleep, wrapped in their blankets on the rocks, or making coffee. Ace had forgotten all about his wireless message when, shortly after noon, his own ship arrived. It had had a search for him, and had landed, apparently, on the very ledge of basalt where the DeHaviland had picked them up. The beauty of the Spanish ship was that it was built to land on a space no bigger than a house roof. It carried two propellers at the top. The pilot had only to start these and it sucked itself straight up into the air. Then he twirled the propeller on the front and sailed away, as easily as you please. He landed by reversing these operations. He could alight on a shed roof if he had to, (provided, of course, that the roof was flat). The only danger would be if the propellers should go on strike. "I've been getting a wireless message," said the pilot. "There! Better take it, Mr. King," to Ace. Ace's eyes grew dark as he interpreted the frantic ticking that his apparatus gave him. "Why--_Rosa's_ sending this!--She's marooned--there at the Red Top fire-outlook!--'Fire on three sides, on fourth, rapids of Kawa River Gorge. Send help--if you can,'" he translated, while the boys waited, breathless. "Three men where first-fire started--silver buttons--shining in the sun." "That sounds like Mexicans!" said Pedro. "Now what?" asked Norris. "Where's the Ranger, do you suppose?" But just then he saw a flaming branch blown across their line. Like tinder the dried firs burst into a shower of sparks, and with a call to the men, he darted after it. Ace remained behind to wireless, and Ted to quench their cook-fire, while Ace's pilot flung off his coat and ran after the fire fighters. Ace King did one thing supremely well. He knew his ship. He was born to fly. "Hey, Ted," he brought a certain line of reasoning to a head, "the Ranger can't _land_ with that DeHaviland, if he does go after Rosa. You know the layout on Red Top." (The boys had passed that way.) "Yeh,--Cæsar!--That's right. No place there half large enough for the bombing-plane!--That poor kid!" He shuddered. "What's the answer?" for he saw that Ace had some plan. "I'm with you!" "Just this. We can't leave her there to be burned alive. Radcliffe can't do any more than we can about it. Besides, he's got his hands full, wherever he is. But a forest guard was _killed_ last year directing fire fighters from a plane. Went into a tail spin and fell into the flames." "I know. It's mighty dangerous flying over a fire. Isn't there anything Rosa can do?" "That's just what----" Ace hesitated, deep in thought. "I've heard of people taking refuge in caves, but where would she find the cave?--'N' I've heard of 'em going to a rock-slide and piling up a barricade of stone and lying behind it while the fire swept that way. It cuts off some of the heat and flying sparks----" "Look here!" Ace vociferated with the suddenness of a machine gun. "I'm going for her." "What----!" "Yes, sir! I can land there, anyway. Then if it queers the machine, I'll take Rosa down to the rapids. I know a fellow that was in a big fire in Montana. When it cut them off, each man soaked his blanket and got under it in midstream while the fire jumped to the other bank. They made a sort of tepee around their heads, got clear under water, and just came up for an occasional breath. Gee! He says it roared like a thousand trains as it swept over them. So that's what we'll do--that is, unless we can get back in the ship." Unconsciously he patted his machine, and Ted knew what it would mean to him to lose it. "Perhaps--perhaps you _can_ bring it back," he ventured. "Sure thing!" Ace gave his spirits a toss. "Anyway, here goes!--Good-by." "What's the idea?" yelled Ted aggrievedly. "Going to leave your side-kick behind?" and he climbed into the observer's place. "Coming!" Ace wirelessed the girl. "Be on meadow--we'll pick you up." "If our propellers don't go on strike," he added to himself. Still he knew he could slow to 80 miles an hour and pancake down. He would first circle well away from the fire, with its super-heated air column, till they came to the gorge of the Kawa. There would be a narrow zone, he figured, of less destructive atmosphere, the air channel over the 2,000-foot canyon. With a peek at castor oil and gasoline, they started, looping and curving straight to 15,000 feet, then Westward, away from the fire zone. Though the day was fair, the spiral of hot air rising above the flaming forest kept them pitching and lurching in a short chop that made Ted look green, and gave even Ace a cold feeling at the pit of his stomach. The sea of snow-clad peaks slid by beneath them, the sun flashing from the granite slopes. Rising and falling, rising and falling in the rough, upper air, they felt as if they were in a swift elevator. A cloud to the West looked like a fleecy carpet beneath them. The West wind kept swinging the machine till Ace had continually to bring it back in line with the rapids of the Kawa which was his objective point. It took but instants, though it seemed ages to both boys. Now it was time to race quivering down the gorge of canyon-cooled air. Would they make it against the devastating breath of the flames!--Now they were looking straight down into that picture of red and--black. Rosa, watching frantically from the wee patch of green which was her mountain meadow, looked like a dot with waving arms. The air became a stretch of dizzy rapids. The combined roar of the flames and the river beneath nearly drowned the nearer sound of the descending 'plane. [Illustration: Raced quivering down the gorge of canyon-cooled air.] With heart that fluttered near to bursting, Ace accomplished the quick swoop, Ted snatched the girl aboard, and they were up again. The miracle had been accomplished!--The mountains lay like a relief map beneath them, greenest down the canyons that branches Westward from the gleaming crest of the main divide, the snow-capped peaks gleaming silver in the sunlight. The fire zone lay like a small inferno behind them. Back at fire-fighting headquarters, Ace's nerves took toll of him in trembling knees. He had been all steel. Now he literally dropped in his tracks, and in ten minutes was fast asleep. Rosa, now that the danger was all over, broke down and wept hysterically, to Ted's infinite embarrassment. Norris was just returning with the triumphant fire-fighters. They had actually not missed them. When, four hours later, Ace awoke and responded to Pedro's "Come and get it!" as he ladled out the ham and beans, he found himself a hero, and Ted his press agent. "This country would do well to emulate France," Norris was explaining. "France offers a government subsidy to encourage commercial aviation. Our Congress has thus far refused to realize the need of appropriations. For it is by trade that aviation will develop. "We need above all things more airplane fire patrols. We have the men, trained aviators left from the war,--we have the equipment, and the men could protect not only our National Forests, but at the same time keep a watchful eye on the millions of acres of state lands and timber privately owned, which lie adjacent to Government holdings. "Do you fellows realize that in five years, areas have been burned that would more than fill the state of Utah! At that rate how long will our forests last? And think what a paper famine alone would mean!" He paused for lack of breath to express the intensity of his feeling. "Hundreds of men have given up their lives in the service,--fighting fire." "Yes," said Ace, "but Dad says there's a bigger fight to put up in Congress for forestry appropriations." "Your father is doing good work," stated Norris. "He's trying to, you bet!" "These fire-fighting 'planes can sail over the highest peaks in the United States. They can travel 14 hours without a landing. They can communicate with those below by radio. And they don't have to have smooth landing places, merely ground that is free from stumps. We have over twenty million acres of National Forests alone, (not counting those in Alaska), and they are worth $220,000,000." "Gee! And there's just as much risk as in dodging enemy 'planes," Ted enthused, "flying over fires, and finding landing places when your motor goes on strike." His eyes glowed across at Ace. "Huh, you're safe enough above a thousand feet," minimized Ace, modestly. "These accidents practically all happen below a thousand feet." But by now supper was eaten, and it was time to get back to work. Norris, acting on Radcliffe's suggestion, had been stationing the men at intervals to back-fire as far down the ridge as they could stand the heat. If anything, the fire seemed bigger than it had the night before,--a maelstrom of the inferno. They worked in pairs, Ace being his, Norris's, right hand man. He now assorted the six miners along the slope, planning himself to take the extreme Western post, where the ridge ran lowest and where the rocky crest dwindled to a dangerous line of mountain pines. Ted and Pedro he directed to the opposite end of the ridge, where, like the tooth of a comb, it joined the main crest of the Sierra,--another strategic point. "If worst comes to worst," his final words were, "take refuge in some cave. This is a limestone region,--as you may have noticed,--and it's likely riddled with caves. Keep an eye out for indications of cave mouths. I saw one yesterday, somewhere down there, when I didn't have time to investigate." "All right," acquiesced the boys, though inwardly scorning the possibility. Rosa remained at camp to have food ready for the men on their return. She began by taking stock. There was flour and lard, but no bread. She would have to bake for eleven hungry men. There were rice, beans, onions and tomatoes, dried fruits and coffee, and fresh meat for one meal, and for the next, erbwurst and pickles, macaroni to be baked with cheese, and tea. She hoped--for more reasons than one--that the Ranger would bring more supplies. She got out the Dutch oven and the gallon coffee pot, and with the hatchet provided with the outfit, started getting in a supply of down-wood. As on the day of the rodeo, she was attired in trim khaki riding breeches and high-heeled moccasin boots,--good on horseback but mighty hard to walk in, where the ground was rough. Her bobbed curly hair, red silk blouse and fringed sash added a touch of the Rosa that underlay her gritty side. She would surprise Radcliffe with her ability to cook for a fire crew. The huge loaf safely ensconced in a Dutch oven buried in red coals, she sallied forth on a little exploring expedition. She wished she might find some fir sugar to cap the feast. She had, once, when camping in the Thompson River Valley. She had found the delectable sweet on a Douglas fir. Some of the dry white masses had been all of two inches long, though most of it had been in the form of mere white drops at the tips of the needles. There had also been a quantity of it in a semi-liquid condition on the ground underneath the tree, where some rain had dissolved it from the branches. Just where should she search? The Indians had told her that time to look on the dry Eastern slopes of the range, in open areas where the trees got lots of sunlight, but where the ground has not dried out too quickly after the spring rains, as moisture is necessary as well as sunlight,--(so long as it does not rain and melt off this excess of the tree's digested starch). She had a hunch that she could find some on the desert side of the Sierras, that being, of course, unattainable--unless Ace could take her over in his 'plane. It would do no harm to look on this side. Neither did it do any good. She returned to camp empty-handed save for some cones of the sugar pine, which she proceeded to roast that the nuts might fall out of the spiny masses. She found the deserted camp over-run with chipmunks. The little striped rascals had ravaged all the food supplies they could nibble into. She watched a couple of them actually shoving on the tin lid that she had left insecurely loose on the syrup can. Finally sending it clattering to the stony ground,--as she watched from behind two trees that grew close together,--the wee things sat up there on the edge of the can, dipping out its contents with their hand-like paws and licking them. Then one tried to reach down and drink it outright, at which he fell in, and Rosa felt impelled to fish him out and launder him,--to his terror,--before turning him loose, then put the syrup on the fire to sterilize. Meantime what of the fire fighters? Ted and Pedro, with their pick and shovel, had descended rapidly into that deathly silence of the doomed forest slopes, deserted alike by song birds and chipmunks, the hum of insects and sound of any living thing, save alone the never-ceasing roar of the ravenous flames. The fire had been eating slowly through a stretch of manzanita chaparral, whose hard stems resisted them as the evergreens could not. Though the wind still blew up-canyon, they approached the river gorge at right angles, and were able to make their way to the lower levels in the shelter of the East side of a dry creek bed, where the hot blast could not reach them. They were stooping to drink at a spring when the terrified neigh of a horse sounded from a clump of saplings almost behind them. In the same instant the stretch of seedling firs that clothed the creek bank, showering into sparks at the far end, shot toward them sky rockets of leaping flame. Turning in a panic to race out at right angles from this unexpected peril, they thought to make time on horseback. The animal was tied and hobbled with a rawhide lariat! Frantically the hobbled horse jerked at the rawhide. Pedro plucked Ted by the arm and tried to drag him on, for the fire was snapping through the underbrush at the speed of an express train. Its sound was that of many trains, and its wind hot as the breath of a blast furnace. But as Ted had stooped to cut the thongs, his parched nostrils had caught a cooler breath. It seemed to issue from a cranny in the rocks behind the clump of saplings. Then it was too late: The shooting tongues of red were upon them. Dragging Pedro down beside him,--for the roar drowned his voice,--he waited, reasoning that the two- or three-foot seedlings would go like tinder, leaving a strip of ground hot, to be sure, but no longer flaming. If they could but endure its passing! He turned to press his scorched face against the rock wall. To his amazement, he fell into a cave mouth, tripping Pedro, who stumbled after him. Quick as thought they dragged the horse in after them and held him, trembling and snorting, his eyes rolling wildly, during that blistering moment until the line of fire had passed them. "We're safer now than before," declared Ted. "This made a fine back-fire, didn't it?--Let's rest awhile." His nerves were taking toll of him. "Ground's too _hot yet_ anyway." For perhaps an hour they rested, flat on the floor of the cave,--after having tied the horse to a bowlder just outside. He was a fine animal, black as jet and as high-spirited as Spitfire himself. Ted appraised him with longing eyes, for he loved horses as Ace loved his ship. But who could he belong to, and how did he come to be there? His bridle was embellished with silver. "Mexican handiwork, that!" Pedro thought. But the mystery was no nearer solution. The answer came sooner than they expected. CHAPTER VI THE INCENDIARIES The red glow of the sun on the snow-clad peaks of the main ridge had begun glinting through the smoke gloom when voices seemed to echo from within the very rock against which they were leaning. The boys crept to look behind it. Then their eyes rounded in astonishment. As Ted would have spoken, Pedro clapped his hand over his mouth with a look that bade silence. Crouched motionless at the side of the cave mouth,--for a deep cave it now disclosed itself,--the two boys peered at the spectacle that greeted their eyes. Three Mexicans, aglitter with the silver buttons of their native costume, appeared suddenly from some black depth, carrying torches. With these one of their number kindled a bon-fire, whose flame revealed a couple of burros standing patiently under their packs, tied to a mammoth stalagmite. For the red flare behind the three figures of the Mexicans, showed a cave roofed with amber-tinted icicles of smoke-stained rock, beneath which up-rose for each a pyramid of the same formation. The Mexicans might have been father and son and old servant, from their general appearance and from the fact that most of the work of supper-getting was performed by the shabby, white-haired one, while the fat middle-aged one struck the younger a blow that was not reciprocated. They were talking in a tongue that Ted could not translate, though from the peppery tone of it, he judged they were quarreling. Pedro assured him later they were not. (He knew Mexican.) They were merely regretting that their horse had been burned. The fat one, evidently too fagged to move, was demanding that one of the others go see for sure, while they argued that it was no use, the animal could not have survived. They must have been exhausted, lame, besides, to judge from the creaky way they moved. The fat one poured some verbal vitriol on their heads for not having brought the horse inside, while the white haired one deprecated that they had not intended to be gone so long. "It's the fat one's, and now he'll have to hoof it like the others; he'd sure break the back of a burro," translated Pedro in huge enjoyment, to his mystified companion. "Wonder if they're the fire bugs Rosa saw?" "Let's listen and find out," said Ted. As the blaze by which they dried their mysteriously muddy feet died down to red coals, from the pack of one of the burros the old peon extracted some ready-made tamales and proceeded to add the heat of cooking to the hotter peppers within their enwrapping corn husks. This fiery mixture they quenched from a round-bellied bottle passed from lip to lip, though the fat one took his first and longest. "They're the fire bugs, all right," said Pedro softly into Ted's ear. And it was agreed that they might safely creep in along the shadows till Pedro could hear more plainly. Sanchez was the name of the fat leader, and his son and his servant the others proved to be. They had, it developed, a grouch against the lumber company down on the Kawa, (in which, as it happened, Ace's father had an interest). They had been fired from the crew, and no punishment was too great for a company that would do that to a workman who merely asked his accustomed afternoon siesta. "_Detestablemente!_" (And other remarks that sounded like fireworks.) The pigs of _Americanoes!_ Pedro convulsed Ted with his recital when they had crept back to the cave mouth, despite the seriousness of the situation. That they would start more fires at their first opportunity had also been established by their conversation. "We can't let 'em go," argued the ranch boy. "We can't capture them," the Castilian was as positive. "We are unarmed, and they have their daggers." Ted pondered, peered out at the still, smoking ground, soothed the nervous horse, then came to a conclusion, which he unfolded to his comrade. He must go for help. He would ride that horse, find Norris, get Ace to wireless Radcliffe, and summon help. But--he eyed Pedro doubtfully, knowing his uncourageous bearing at the rodeo. "But what?" insisted the Spanish boy. But had he not guessed it! Of course he would remain behind to keep track of the desperadoes. But how could Ted start with the ground so hot? He would have to wait awhile, then make up for lost time by break-neck riding. So be it. They were hungry now, and ate the ration of tinned corned beef and hardtack from their pockets. Ted also fed the horse some hardtack, and brought him several hatfuls of water from the spring,--scorching his soles as he crossed the charred ground. Pedro propped his tired body in a sitting posture with one ear cocked for the conversation within. Ted flung himself flat on his back in the smoky gloom, which obscured even the light of the moon. He was mentally exploring that cave,--remembering what Norris had once told them of the region and wondering into what limed recesses the Mexicans were likely to retire when capture threatened. That the cave had its depths he felt assured by their having so suddenly appeared with their torches. And what could Pedro do if they tried to leave before help came?--My, but he must ride! Three such incendiaries loose in those dry forests, and there would be no end to the harm they could do! The limestone of which these caves were formed,--sediment of the shells of myriads of sea creatures,--had been deposited in the primeval ocean that once flowed over that whole region from the Gulf of California. Uplifted by contractions of the earth crust, it had been cut as the surrounding granite could not have been by the percolating rains and streams, flowing along the cracks of the uplift. This cave was probably a network of water-worn passageways extending no telling how far underneath the ridge. There were reputed to be caves almost as large as Mammoth in these unexplored recesses of the Southern Sierras. Could this be one of them, or was it just a two- or three-cavern affair, he wondered? On that depended a very great deal of their success in the coming capture, for once entrenched within these labyrinthian caves, the Mexicans could hold them at bay until they had made good their get-away. It had been so, he had been told by military men, in chasing Mexicans over the border. Perhaps there were other caves in the region. Where, indeed, had these men secreted themselves while the fire had raged in a semi-circle about them? In a cave, the air would be damp and cool, no matter what was going on outside, and they could have been genuinely comfortable with the inferno raging over their very heads. Unless, of course, the smoke suffocated them! That would all depend on the air passages that fed their particular cavern. Some of those caves across the Mexican border were miles in extent, and had exits galore. Pondering the pendant stalactites that had gleamed like onyx in the firelight, he pictured the water percolating drop by drop through the limestone crevices, dissolving the lime and forming the stalactites a drop at a time through the years. How wonderful it was! He wished he too might study. Perhaps, if he could make a go of his mother's fruit ranch?--He was half asleep. He roused himself by trying to recall what it was that Norris had told them about stalactites. The rain water, charged with the carbonic acid gas of the atmosphere, seeps in from the surface and falls drop by drop. Each slow drop remains long enough upon the ceiling to deposit some of its dissolved lime in a ring to which the next succeeding drop adds another layer. In time this ring lengthens into a pipe-stem of soft lime. It fills and crystallizes, thickens and elongates, as the constant drip, evaporating from the outside, deposits more and more of the lime. Thus these stone icicles are formed, sometimes an inch a year. At the same time the drops that fall to the floor, solidifying one at a time, build up a slender pyramid beneath,--a stalagmite,--which reaches higher and higher as its stalactite hangs lower and lower. In time these two formations meet in a slender pillar, the pillar thickens through the same slow process and if the pillars stand close enough together,--as where the drip follows a long rock fissure,--the pillars will eventually join in a solid partition. This _dripstone_, as the material of the formation is termed, began as soft carbonate of lime; it hardens into _gypsum_ or, sometimes, alabaster, or calcite. The boy peered once more into the carved gallery, waiting till an up-flare of the dying fire again illumined the fantastic ceiling, whose fairy architecture gleamed opalescent in the orange glow. He thought of the old fairy tales of gnomes hammering on their golden anvils in their jeweled caves in the hearts of the mountains, and wondered if such lore had not arisen from the fact of just such cave formations, coupled with the echoes the slightest sound set to reverberating. After all, most folk tales had some foundation. Once these Mexicans were captured and the forest fire brought under control, he meant to ask Norris if their camping expedition might not include an exploration of some of the caves he had assured them honeycombed this part of the Sierra. He little dreamed in what fantastic fashion his wish was to come about, as he lay there waiting till he could start his ride for help! Nor did Pedro, drowsing, exhausted, beside him, dream of the test that was to be made of his courage while he remained behind. He seemed so fagged that Ted did not even wake him, when at last he deemed it time to sally forth. Ted loved nothing better than a good horse. The plainsman, he used to argue, may have his twin six, the airman his ship, but for the outdoor man, give him the comrade who can take the mountain trails, the needle carpeted forest floor, the unbridged streams, the glacier polished slopes. The black horse wore the high Visalia saddle, against which his rider could rest on steep grades. It would be more dangerous, should the animal throw him, though of course the high horn would help him to pull leather should need arise. He had lengthened the stirrups, Western fashion, till his long legs dangled easily and he could have raised himself scarce an inch above the saddle by standing in his stirrups. His long, lean legs would give him a good hold where the going was rough, and if he had only a quirt, or even a pair of drop-shank spurs, he would have felt confident of making time. (For he knew how to use the spurs so that they would not torture his animal.) He regretted that the mysterious owner had not fitted the poor brute with the old spade bit, for should the horse fall, on the uneven ground, it would be likely to cut his mouth badly. He had once seen an animal bleed to death from such a hurt. Well, they must not fall! Mechanically he opened the reins, as was his habit:--His own horse had been trained to hitch to the ground, and all he had to do when he dismounted in a hurry was to drop rein. He was glad to find that the saddle was rim fire, (or double-rigged), as it would stay in place, no matter what acrobatics they might be forced to perform. So far, so good! With right hand on the saddle horn, left grasping rein and mane, he swung up, and before ever he touched leather, they were off. Would his mount prove broncho? Had his probably Mexican owner uglied his disposition? That remained to be discovered. And on that detail would depend much of the success of his race for help. For with Norris at the far end of the ridge, there would be several hours of tough going, he surmised. "Yes, sir, you shore gotta _slope_ some!" he told the mustang, in imitation of the cowmen. "Or those Greasers will just naturally fade out of the landscape." As the night wind blew the smoke down canyon, he could very nearly tell his way, and the time as well, by the stars. Being early in July, he knew that in the constellation of Hercules, almost directly above, the hero's head pointed South. It was something Norris had told them one night when they had to travel late to find a fit camping spot. The crest of the ridge lay South, and along the crest he should find more open going. He would then have to veer to the West. As Venus rose brilliantly in the East, he knew he had now about two hours and a half till sunrise. Breasting the wind, he headed around the twisting stems of unyielding manzanita, then up, straight South, over slide rock and fallen tree trunks, turning aside for only the larger bowlders. The mountain-bred horse was lithe as a greyhound, as he alternately climbed and slid, or made wide leaps over the uneven slope. The ridge attained, however, he found it harder going than he had imagined, by reason of the broken shale, weathered by the frost of unnumbered winters. But just on the other side,--that furthest from the fire zone,--stretched a smooth granite slope, where the going would be unobstructed. But these smooth slopes, bed of that prehistoric river of ice, slanted slowly but surely to the cascading mountain stream whose roar now assailed his ears. One slip on that smooth surface and his horse would never stop till he had reached the rapids! The boy wondered if the animal were sufficiently sure-footed. The answer would mean, at the very least, the difference between a broken leg and a sound one, for the boy speeding to secure help in the capture of the fire bugs. But there seemed a fighting chance, and he would take it. At intervals the granite was blocked out by cracks, and he found the slight unevenness of a crack lent his mount a surer footing. At times it was fairly level and he ventured a gallop; again it was precarious even at a walk. Suddenly a monotonous "chick-chick-chick" buzzed beneath their feet. The horse leapt violently to one side,--just in time to evade the coiled spring of four feet of green-black rattlesnake, on whose sinister form he had all but trod. By that instant leap he had avoided the speedy death of the injected virus of the stroke. Ted's heart was in his mouth. On--on--on he urged the black. It became mechanical; he ceased to think. Exhausted alike by his long vigil and the strain he had been under, he now sat his horse in a daze, just keeping his nose generally Westward, while he skirted the crest of the ridge. He felt half numb as he rounded the end of the crest where Norris was to have been stationed. To his stupefaction, the fire fighters had completed their trench and gone! Where could they be? Probably back at the camp, which he had skirted by this detour, never dreaming he would find any one but Rosa there. Well,--he was "outa luck!" Back he went the way he had come, till he thought it time to climb the ridge. A flare of cook-fire through the graying dawn showed him where to head, and the huge sun was just slipping blood-red through the smoke gloom as he took the last log at a leap and dropped off beside the moving figures. The men were all there,--as was Ranger Radcliffe, whom the DeHaviland had evidently returned with fresh supplies. It took but few words to acquaint them with the situation. By the time Ted had drank a quart of coffee with his breakfast, he was able to pull himself together again and lead the possé to the hidden cave mouth. The Ranger would have to be the one to go, to make the arrest, and he deputized Ace to help him. That meant leaving Norris to head the firemen. (It never occurred to any of them that they would not be right back with Pedro and the Mexicans. The foam-flecked horse Ted left to Rosa's care.) The cave mouth accomplished, Radcliffe entered first, with revolver cocked, though Ace almost trod on his heels. Ted staggered after with a flaming pine knot flickering in his almost nerveless hand. The cavern was absolutely empty! To Pedro, left in the cave mouth to watch the Mexicans, the night had been the crucial test. He had been asleep when Ted departed, while the Mexicans had slept within the cave. He awoke to find the three dark visages bending over him, their verbal fireworks hissing about his ears. At first "caballo" was all he could make of it,--(the horse). Then as Sanchez the stout, soared rhetorically above the others, he gathered that they dared not leave him and they could not carry him. "El Diablo!" How much simpler to thrust a dagger between his ribs. "Muerte!--Presto!" But no, wait! For the time being he would walk between them carrying two extra torches. There must be another exit to the cave, but could the burros make it with the packs? Try it they must, for this way their choice lay between the fire fighters and the flames. The doomed forest still glowed red and black down canyon, and with the morning light, the wind veered till the smoke assailed them chokingly. There was no time to be lost. Never for an instant dreaming that Pedro understood, they gave him the torches he was to bear, and started into the depths of the cavern. And the boy? Too frightened at first to have spoken had he tried to, he had the wit to see that protest would be useless. They were three to one, armed, and desperate, and they counted him a likely witness to their incendiarism. Besides, now that the wind had changed, he could not have gone ten paces without having been blinded by the smoke till he could not see where he was heading. This side of the canyon was going to go like tinder, too. Besides,--this came later,--how could he allow the fire bugs to get away? His job was to keep tabs on them, and that he would now have an exceptional opportunity to do, he cheered himself. At first the flare of the torches revealed merely the cavern of onyx stalactites he had seen the night before. This formation wound in a narrowing labyrinth until they made a sharp turn to the left. Presently they came to a pit of inky water, around which they had to skirt on a sloping shelf. The burros could not make it and they left them there. Either, Pedro argued, they meant to return that way or else they had other supplies awaiting them. But now they could no longer smell the smoke. From somewhere came pure air, damp and refreshingly chilly. The sounds of the outer world were cut off completely. On and on they wandered as in a dream. Pedro began surreptitiously pinching himself to make sure he was not having some weird nightmare. They came to a grotto that might have been brown marble, whose curious carvings he had no time to study. From this they had to crawl on hands and knees through an opening into another twisting passageway, floored with muddy water and barely high enough for them to stand erect. Their voices echoed and reechoed. Then came arches of stalactites almost meeting the stalagmites beneath them, through which they edged their way as through a frozen forest. This opened into a vast cavern hung as with icicles of alabaster, which their torch light warmed to onyx. "If these fellows weren't so free with their knives," Pedro told himself, "it would be an adventure worth having. But they certainly have too much dynamite in their dispositions to suit me,"--for the Mexicans were now quarreling among themselves. The boy and the old man were for turning back before they lost themselves,--for at every turn there were branching ways. But Sanchez, the heavy-handed, was for going on,--and on they went, shivering in the unaccustomed chill. Pedro wondered what the rescue party would do when they found them gone. If only he could leave some sign of his whereabouts! Could he drop his handkerchief at one turning of the ways, his hat at another, without detection? Or was it already too late? Why had he not thought of that before?--Tucking one torch into the crook of the other elbow for a moment, he dropped his bandanna as again they took the left-hand of two turns. But now their little flare of light revealed a blind passageway. The water-worn rock had been hollowed out by some eddying pool, no doubt, while the main stream had flown on past. How he wished he knew more of cave formations! Should he find opportunity to escape, how would he ever find his way out again? Retracing their steps, they took the right hand turn. Here was another high roofed vault,--he could not see how high, he could only guess from the reverberation of their voices,--whose stalactites had become great pillars that gleamed yellowly. The floor sloped toward them till they had stiff climbing. On one wall was a limestone formation like a frozen cataract. And thrust into the wall beside it he saw a torch stick. Who had left it there, and what ages ago, he wondered? In this cavern some of the stalactites hung as huge as tree trunks, and had not Sanchez bade the others keep an extra eye on him, the lad might easily have hid behind one. Some of these huge pillars were cracked with age, and again the thought occurred to him that if only he might insert himself into one of the cracks,--a few were all of a foot in width,--he could easily escape detection in that uncertain light. But now he was under surveillance every instant. Besides, (tardy thought), was he not pledged to keep an eye on the villains? He smiled through his fears at the recollection that they, not he, were captive. Meantime Ace and Radcliffe, (leaving Ted to sleep off his exhaustion in the cave mouth), were examining the onyx cavern and the ground outside for some sign as to what had happened, and which way Pedro and the Mexicans had gone. Radcliffe had his electric flash, and at the turn of the winding passageway discovered scratches on the sandstone floor where the burros had left hoof marks. But had they taken the turn to the right or that to the left? There were hoof prints both going and coming, in each passageway. Which had been made the more recently? They could not tell. Ace hoped that the Ranger would propose each following a different direction, but instead, Radcliffe remarked that they ought to have brought a ball of twine to unwind as they went, as people had been known to get lost in unknown caves, and stay lost for days. The best alternative was to make a rough map of their turnings in his note-book. They advanced along the right hand passageway, whose breath seemed like that of another world from that of the parched mountain side,--cool and moist and wonderfully exhilarating. Had it not been for his uneasiness as to Pedro's whereabouts, Ace would have enjoyed this expedition into the unexplored. His was a nature that craved the tang of adventure, even more than most. It was one of the things that had led him to take up geology, for in the U. S. Geological Survey his life would lead him, likely, to far places. He wished, though, that Ted were with them. A good pal certainly doubles one's enjoyments. They had gone what seemed like miles, (though cave miles are deceptive, so completely is one cut off from space and time), bearing always to the right, when Radcliffe's light suddenly burned out, leaving them in primeval darkness. At first breath they tried to laugh at their predicament, then the utter blackness seemed to press upon them till it suffocated, and Ace suppressed a sudden desire to scream. His panic moment was dissipated by Radcliffe's discovery of a bit of candle. Ace had, of course, that most important part of a camper's equipment, a waterproof match-box, linked to his belt, and in it a few matches. But even then it meant going back the way they had come, for without a good light they could do nothing. Perhaps it was just as well, for they were bound on no hour's adventure, and should have brought food as well. How Radcliffe wished he had his acetylene lamp! To their surprise they found Norris at the cave mouth trying to arrange his coat under the sleeping Ted. And around him lay the coiled lariat he had taken from the saddle-horn of Ted's recent mount, also three canteens, some cooked food, and a supply of hard candles from the fire crew supplies. There were also the boys' sweaters,--Radcliffe, of course, had his woolen uniform,--and to cap the climax, a ball of twine and the Ranger's pet lamp, with its tin of carbide powder. To their amazed query Norris explained that he had explored dozens of caves in his time, including some hundreds of miles of that honeycomb formation that underlies a portion of Kentucky, to say nothing of the caverns of the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, the Black Hills of South Dakota, and the Ozarks. Of the caves of California, however, he as yet knew nothing. Had he not been needed to head the fire crew, he would have loved nothing better than to have gone with them. "I knew this was a cave region," he told them as they ate and refreshed themselves before going back into the black depths--for they had been gone several hours, it seemed. "Fissured limestone--I noticed it yesterday when we were down here trying to back-fire. Then what feeds the Kawa? Not these little flood creeks that dry up almost before the spring floods are over. Where does all that snow water go to? Some underground passageway, of course. It seeps through the porous rock to subterranean channels. By the way, I see there are tracks of muddy feet inside here, and _your_ feet are dry! The mud must have been left by the Mexicans." "That's a fact!" exclaimed Radcliffe. "Ace, did you notice any mud along that passageway? Then we surely took the wrong turn." "Not necessarily," said Norris. "They might have _come_ from some muddy cavern, but gone back another way. However, I was going to give you a little idea of the probable layout of a cave. This one, if--as I suspect--it feeds the Kawa--likely descends to other levels, till the lowest one is very nearly on that of the river. Seeping through, here and there, the rains and melting snows probably collect into a stream." "Wish you could go with us, old chap," said the Ranger. "But----" "You'll get along all right, with these things," sighed Norris, "and if you don't show up again within a few hours, we'll follow your twine," and he tied one end of the cord ball to a manzanita bush, handing the ball to Ace. At that moment Ted awoke and insisted that he join them. Norris reluctantly returned to the fire crew. CHAPTER VII THE CAVE Electing the turn to the left, Radcliffe led the way with his carbide lamp. Ace and Ted followed with their candles. This time their choice was quickly verified by the discovery of the burros, standing patiently with their packs before the pool. (That accounted for the muddy footprints.) Skirting this on the shelving ledge as had Pedro and the Mexicans, they traversed the winding passageway that led to the grotto of brown cauliflower-like encrustations. But here, when they found that the left-hand passageway meant going on hands and knees, they chose the other turn. (They came that near to catching up with the fugitives!) With the suddenness of events in a dream, they came into a vast chamber that at first glimpse, lighted as it was by the carbide lamp, gave the impression of a baronial ruin. The boys whistled simultaneously under their breath. At the far end stood a huge stone elephant,--or so it appeared at the first startled glance,--and beside him a gnome and several weird beasts vaguely reminiscent of the monsters of prehistoric times. When Ted could speak, he whispered, "What are they? Fossils?" Ace laughed. "I should say not. They're nothing but dripstone, can't you see?--They'd be 'some fossils'! Why, if we could find just one fossil as big as that, our fortunes would be made--absolutely." "Gee! Then I'm sure going to keep my eyes peeled." "I thought," put in Radcliffe, "that fossils were little stone worms. I've found those aplenty." "Fossils," explained Ace, (fresh from first-year geology), "are any remains of plants or animals that lived, either on land or in the sea, in ancient times. A lot of those we find to-day were shell-fish and other marine life." "Gee!" grinned Ted, "doesn't he talk like a professor? I'm going to call you professor after this, old Scout!" "Go on," the Ranger urged, ignoring this sally, "I'm interested." "So am I, honestly," amended Ted contritely. "There were land animals, too, that got buried in the accumulating sediments and fossilized. Times when the ocean over-ran the land, they got drifted into it, and sank, and got buried under the sands that made our sandstones----" "This floor is sandstone!" interpolated Ted. "Yes. Or they got buried in the ground-up shells that made our limestone,--like the walls of the cave,--or some of them were buried in mud." "I suppose," offered Ted facetiously, "that the mud made mudstones," and he laughed till his voice echoed and reëchoed startlingly. "Ha, ha! You're right!" Ace turned the laugh on him. "Go to the head of the class. I'll show you mudstone when we come to it." "Why, then," ventured the Ranger, "this must be a topping place to find fossils." "Provided," Ace admitted, "the cave is not of too recent formation. But as I was about to say," (seeing their undoubted interest), "geologists can just about piece together the history of the earth from the fossils that have been found, but no one locality gives it all. They have found part of the story in America and part in Africa, and parts in Europe and Asia. And from that series of fossils--and some other evidence--scientists have about agreed that since the earth was formed, about twenty whole mountain ranges, one after another, must have been formed and worn away almost to sea level." "How do they make that out?" Ted looked skeptical. "That's another long story. I'm no professor. But----" "You can't prove it." "Neither can you disprove it, any more than you can the conclusions on which astronomy, higher mathematics, any of the sciences--are based." "I suppose so! Gee, I'd like to study those things for myself!" sighed Ted, seating himself beside the others on a dry ledge while they ate their sandwiches. "Find a valuable fossil and you've earned a college education," Ace challenged him. "And you know, fossils are not necessarily fish or insects or skeletons or tree trunks that have been turned to stone." "To stone?" "By the removal of their own tissues and replacement by mineral matter. A fossil may be merely the print of a leaf of some prehistoric plant on sandstone, or the footprint of some antediluvian reptile. In the National Museum they have a cast of a prehistoric shad that shows the imprint of every bone and fin ray." "How on earth could that have been formed?" marveled Ted. "Why, it was simply buried in fine mud, which first protects it from the air, (and consequent immediate decay), then gradually fills every pore of every bone, till by the time the mud has turned to stone, the bones are ossified. Of course the animal matter has all dissolved away by this time. Now if this mud that filled the pores happened to be silica, (a sandy formation), it is possible to eat the surrounding limestone away with acids and uncover the silica formation, see, old kid?" "Aw, that stuff makes my head ache," protested Tim. "If I see any ossified bones lying around, or even a footprint or leaf print in the stone, I'll know I've found a fossil. But I thought we were chasing fire-bugs." "The impatience of youth!" Ace playfully squelched him, from the vantage point of his slight seniority. "What does the Bible say," laughed the Ranger, "about truth from the mouths of babes?" And he arose a bit stiffly,--for he had had a strenuous time of it the past few days, and the cave damp had set his tired limbs to aching. For upwards of an hour they followed dark and winding passageways, (rats and lizards and occasional colonies of bats fleeing before them), naturally without the slightest sign of the fugitives, when they came to another grotto, the loveliest they had yet seen. It might have been a fairy cavern, aglitter with pure crystal. The carved prisms shone dazzlingly in the light of the carbide lamp, and the boys stuffed their pockets with some of the jewel-like bits that had fallen to the floor. From this they presently entered into what seemed like a Gothic cathedral, with a dome whose highest point must have been several hundred feet above. The boys were fairly awed by its beauty, while the Ranger's eyes gleamed appreciatively. On the walls were what might have been carvings of flowers and lacework, creamy to smoke color, gypsum, Ace told them. "Are these fossils?" demanded Ted excitedly. "I should say not, you poor fish!--You ichthyosaurus," laughed Ace teasingly. "You what?" asked the Ranger. "That means ancient fish." "All right," grinned Ted. "If I'm an ich----" "Ich-thy-o-saur-us?" Radcliffe came to his rescue. "Then you're a dinosaur," grinned Ted. "Here, here, stop calling each other names!" commanded Radcliffe. "And perhaps Ace will tell us about this gypsum formation." "Thunder! Wish Norris was here! I tell you I'm no professor. But if you're after fossils, don't you remember what he told us, that day just before we lost the pack burro?--That in this part of California we have rock from the Cambrian era a mile thick, and I'll bet it's full of fossils of the fish age!" "Well," Radcliffe briskly interposed, as they came to another turn, "we'll never find those Mexicans unless we separate and hunt faster than we've been doing. Are you fellows game for taking one way while I go back to that last turn and try the left hand passageway? Of course the instant you get wind of them, report back to me." They signified their gameness by picking a precarious footing, (Ted first), along the slippery floor, their candles thrust in their hat bands. Above they came to another but a smaller forest of alabaster stalactites, shining like icicles or mosses, some white as snow, some yellow as gold, and some so like maple sugar in appearance that Ace actually tasted it. In one place there was a bit of what Ace said was needle gypsum, that hung as fine as fur. Radcliffe, retracing his steps, (with the aid of the twine ball), till he came to the cross roads, as it were, turned to the left and forged ahead with his carbide lamp, treading softly as a cougar, with revolver cocked in his right hand. Ever and anon he stopped breath-still to listen. Passing through the same alabaster cavern that had so impressed the Spanish boy, his eye caught the bandanna Pedro had dropped in the left-hand passageway. With an inward exclamation, he hurried on till he had reached the end of the blind. Stooping with his lamp, he could see the fresh scratches their feet had made. Darting back to the turn of the tunnel, where he had picked up the bandanna, he took the only choice left to him, the right hand way, with all the satisfaction of a hound on the scent. More scratches on the sandstone floor assured him that they had really gone this way, instead of turning back the way they had come, and presently he too was standing in the gallery of the sloping floor and yellowed pillars, at whose far end the dripstone cataract hung, turned to soundless stone. But of the three Mexicans and Pedro there was no trace. "I say, when do we eat?" Ace was just beginning, when the floor suddenly gave way beneath him, and he fell down a ten foot well, landing on all fours, in Stygian blackness. And no sooner had his bulk padded the stone beneath than Ted came, plunk! almost on top of him. At the moment both were slightly stunned. Their candle flames had of course been flicked out. Then Ted reached mechanically for his matches, by whose flare he found his hat, and still firmly stuffed into the band, his candles. The light disclosed a cavern with muddy walls dripping above them, and to their right, an inky pool of water. The air was all aflutter with the bats they had startled from their pendant slumbers, lizards scuttled away in all directions, and a fish flopped in the pool, with a splash that sounded out of all proportion to its exciting cause. Ted grinned as he saw Ace first pinch himself to see if he were dreaming, then slowly feel his joints to make sure none were seriously damaged. The fall had rather jolted his nerves, but otherwise he was unhurt, as was his chum. But how to return the way they had come they could not see, for the walls were too slippery to climb, there was not a spear of anything movable in sight on which they might gain a foothold, and when Ted tried it from Ace's shoulders, the rim of the well was too slippery with mud for him to gain a hand-hold. The bats, blind from their lightless lives, bumped against them and added the final touch of weirdness by their gnome-like faces. With the uncanny feeling that they ought to whisper, the shaking boys started to explore the cavern, which they found led off in three directions. It must be on the same level they had left when they said good-by to Radcliffe, but in their panic they were completely turned around, and they had not explored for ten minutes before they were so confused that they could not even have found their way back to the cavern of the pool. Now Ted had been lost before. He knew the panic feeling, the sudden sense of utter and helpless isolation, the absurd fearfulness, almost the temporary insanity of it. His scalp prickled,--as did Ace's,--and for a little while his wits seemed befogged. Then he remembered that bed-rock advice Long Lester had once given him. When you don't know which way to go, sit down and don't move one step for half an hour. And try to think out the way you got there, or some plan of campaign for finding yourself again. Ted had once been lost in the chaparral,--a thorny tangle of low growths that reached higher than his head. When he first discovered he was off the trail, he wandered about as in a mystic maze, till a shred of his own gingham shirt, (caught on a stub of manzanita), told him he had circled. He had had to spend the night there, but in the end he had stumbled upon the trail again, not ten feet from where he lost it. As Long Lester afterwards pointed out, had he but blazed his trail from the very first step, he could at least have back-tracked. Or better, if he had with his jack-knife made a blaze sufficiently high on some stunted tree to have seen it and come back to it, he might have circled, and in ever widening circles would surely, in time, have found the trail. Or, again, he might have--had he known--at least hacked a straight course by the stars, (always provided that he knew in which direction lay the way out). "Ace," he managed to steady his voice when they had been seated on a dry ledge for some little time, "your knowledge of cave formations might help us to find the way out of here. Gee! If this was only in the woods, or even on some mountain side above the clouds! But it's up to you now." "Well," Ace began, "the map of the typical cave, say like Mammoth, wiggles around a little like a river with its tributaries, though nothing like so regularly, with here and there a wider place, and----" "Here and there," contributed his chum, "a well to a lower level." "Yes. You see, the water that wears a cave out of the softer layers of rock seeps in along the fissures of the surface rock, and at first they make subterranean rivers. Where you find these big springs in the hillsides, they may be the outlets of these underground waterways." "I get that, all right," said Ted. "Well, then, sometimes these Stygian streams----" "Keep it up, Professor!" Ted clapped him on the shoulder. "Huh!--These rivers wear away the soft limestone layer,--if it is this kind of a cave,--'till they come to the harder sandstone. Then the first chance they find to get through the sandstone,--perhaps through a crack made by an earthquake or something,--they go down and wear away a deeper level. Mammoth Cave is on five levels. That leaves the upper galleries dry. Now the one we were on was dry except for the moisture that is always seeping into a cave, but I suspect now we're on a level with the river, it's so muddy, and we'll find it somewhere." "Then we'll find it somewhere!" brightened Ted. "And we can follow it. That's the plan of action!" and he jumped to his feet. "We'll follow it if we can. Thunder! I wish we had a boat." "So long as you're wishing, why don't you wish for a fat steak with onions?" "It has been some time since we ate." Ace tightened his belt. "Must be getting late in the day! Let's run!" And run they did, till they began slipping on a muddy slope. They had to place each foot with care now, and their progress was slow. At the same time their candles were nearly gone. "Now let's put out all but one," suggested Ted. "Just burn one at a time. What _would_ we do without any light?" But Ace did not know the answer. What of Pedro, meantime? At that particular instant he had just tried to make his get-away, with the result that three drawn daggers were being flourished threateningly and most unhealthily near his heart. He had overheard enough evidence to convict all three of the Mexicans, thanks to his knowledge of the parent language, but as the desperadoes pushed farther and farther into the labyrinth, he gathered that they would come out a good safe distance from where they had entered,--probably on the other side of the ridge. Had he known the Ranger's whereabouts at that precise moment, he would have felt very differently. Radcliffe, meantime, was staring into the dark recess of the cavern, but all he could see was the two shining eyes of whatever occupant was there. Was it bear or cougar? For both, he knew, took refuge in caves. The largeness of the eyes inclined him to the belief that it was a California mountain lion, and such it was part of his work to exterminate,--though the state also hires an official lion hunter. That the great cats are cowards he well knew. But this one was cornered, and might prove no mean antagonist. With revolver cocked in his right hand, his lamp in the other, he advanced toward those two shining fires. A faint scratching along the rocky floor warned him that the animal was gathering for a spring. He was still rather far for a revolver shot, but he aimed straight between the eyes. His shot reverberated with a thousand echoes. The sounds, ear-splitting in the smoke-filled gloom,--thundered like a thousand siege guns, it seemed to Radcliffe, stalactites tumbled about his ears like crockery, and more appalling than all the rest was the weird, almost human scream of the wounded animal, which likewise reëchoed for several minutes. The unwitting cause of all this turmoil was in a cold perspiration when things finally quieted down. But the puma, (for such it proved to be), lay dead at his feet. The three Mexicans likewise heard the racket, for they, as it happened, were not far away. The Ranger had very nearly trailed them. With rolling eyes and hands that mechanically traced the sign of the cross, they listened, while the thunders died away. Pedro, though his nerves were more than a little shaken, was quick to seize his opportunity. Slipping like an eel through a narrow opening between two columns, where the dripstone had all but closed the way into another chamber, he would have escaped observation entirely had it not been for his betraying torch-light. Sanchez darted after him. But remember, Sanchez was at least a hundred pounds heavier than even well-fed Pedro. The result might have been expected. He stuck mid-way! And there he dangled his fat legs in an endeavor to free himself, while Pedro doubled with laughter and the other Mexicans stared, too amazed to move. "Pull, can't you, pull!" was Pedro's expurgated version of Sanchez's reiterated discourse with his followers. And when no one came to his rescue, he nearly burst a blood vessel in his helpless wrath. Pedro, feeling safe from pursuit, with such a plug in the only approach to his sanctuary, now for the first time disclosed his knowledge of Mexican. Sanchez's astonishment was as huge as his attitude was undignified, and if words could have seared, Pedro would have been well scorched. But the boy only told him of an item he had read in the paper, where a fat man got stuck in a cave and had to fast for three days before his girth had diminished sufficiently that he could be extricated. With that, Pedro bade them a fond farewell, and departed along a labyrinthian way they could not follow. That some one was on their trail he suspected from the revolver shot, and the fire bugs would be nicely trapped. Now the Ranger reasoned that the lion's den would not be far from the outer world, and in that he was right, as he proved by following it to its end. The last lap of the way he had to wriggle along on hands and knees, but he could see the glow of the setting sun in a circle of light at the end, and in a very few minutes he had poked his head and shoulders beneath an overhanging bowlder on a rock ledge. It was the Southern slope of the spur, and after a little reconnoitering he discovered that it was the self-same spur on which fire-fighting headquarters had been established. The cave, then, pierced clear through the ridge, and he had been exactly all day in following its windings. Hiking wearily up the slope to the ridge, he could see the glow of the cook-fire perhaps a mile away, while down in the canyon on the other side the fire still glowed in red embers where it continued to devour the blackened tree trunks, though it was under far better control than it had been the day before. Rosa's solicitude at his haggard face and tattered, mud stained clothing restored him wonderfully. (After all, there were compensations in the scheme of things.) "We were just about to start a search party in there," said Norris. "I would have before, if it hadn't been for the fire. But where are the boys?" He paled in alarm. "I don't know," Radcliffe dragged from white lips. "Oh!" gasped Rosa, her eyes filling with tears which she promptly hid by turning her back. Without a word Long Lester gathered up the paraphernalia the Ranger now saw he had stacked and ready on the ground, and fitted it into a back-pack. There was food, rope, and candles, another tube of carbide for Radcliffe's lamp, a box of matches in a tight lidded tin, and even a short length of rustic ladder made for the occasion. Norris shouldered part of it as by previous agreement. Radcliffe explained the diagram he tore from his note-book, marking a black cross at the point where he had left the boys. "I dunno," said the old prospector, "but what we might as well go in one way as another. I reckon we can folly this yere map backwards as well as forrud, and we'll just hike down and go in the way you kem out." "That's a go," agreed Norris, striding after him. "Oh," yelled the Ranger after them. "Come back! I'll deputize you both. Here, Norris," and he gave the younger man his revolver and cartridge belt, with his official pronouncement. "I swan!" said Long Lester. "Here I were a-thinkin' so much about them boys I clean forgot the Mexicans," and he slung his rifle atop his pack. CHAPTER VIII THE SNOW-SLIDE "I'm glad they got in a few hours' sleep this noon," solicitized Rosa, placing homemade bread and coffee before the Ranger, then dipping up a bowl of soup. She looked fagged to death herself, and Radcliffe made her promise to roll up in a blanket on a browse bed. "Oh, if only it would rain!" she sighed, "and put out the fire!" "Sure wish it would!" he agreed. "Haven't had such a big one in years." "The DeHaviland was back with more supplies," one of the men reported. "It sure takes tons of grub to keep these firemen stoked," sighed Rosa drowsily from her blankets. "But they work like lumbermen, and I'd give every last man here a medal if I could." Norris and Long Lester skirted the South slope its whole length without finding the cave mouth from which Norris had exited. But by now it was dark, and the task doubly difficult. "If it wasn't for them boys being most likely just plumb panicky from being lost," said the old man, "I'd call it sense to camp for the night. Once it's sun-up, we'll find the place easy enough." But Norris was too uneasy to leave any stone unturned. What might not have happened in the hours since he had last seen his charges! His imagination, given free rein, pictured everything from murder to raving mania. As they neared the head of the gulch, they could see, on the side of the main ridge that towered above them, patches of snow that gleamed white in the star-light. The canyon here headed sharply to the left. The side they were on, the short side of the turn, was becoming impassable with rough bowlders and tangling underbrush. Of a sudden a low rumbling sounded faintly from seemingly beneath their feet. The ground wavered dizzily. Trees swayed, rocks started rolling down the canyon side, and the very bowlder they were on tilted till they had to make a quick leap for it. It was just one of the slight earthquake shocks to which all Californians are accustomed. But never before had either Norris or Long Lester been on such dangerous footing when one happened. Quick as thought, the old man went leaping up over the bowlders, yelling frantically to Norris to follow him. The geologist knew in a theoretical way what to do when a snow-slide threatened, and with that lightning speed with which our minds work in an emergency he had seen that the shock of the 'quake would precipitate snow-slides, and that they were directly in the path of one. He knew theoretically,--as the old prospector knew from observation of several tragedies,--that the river of snow and rock-slide would flood down canyon till it came to a turn, then hurtle off in fine spray--on the side of the curve! (It all happened in an instant.) Their one salvation lay in taking the _short_ side of the curve,--though the going was rougher. With the roar of an express train,--whose speed it emulated,--the oncoming slide tore down at them. Down 3,000 feet of canyon the crusted snows of what was still spring at that altitude rushed like a river at flood. The wind of its coming swayed tall trees. The two men escaped by the skin of their teeth! "It shore would'a scrambled us up somethin' turrible!" the old man kept exclaiming. Next day, he knew, they would find a clean swath cut down the mountainside,--tall pines swept away, root and branch. He had seen many of these scars, which in later years had become a garden of fire-weed and wild onion, a paradise for birds and squirrels and onion loving bears. He had seen steep mountains fairly striped by the paths of slides, the forest still growing between stripes. For the steeper the slope, the swifter the slide, as might be expected. Lucky for them this had been a Southwest slope; for on the North, away from the sun, a slide is even swifter! He had seen one man buried by crossing the head of a slide which gave way under his foot. Its roar had been heard for miles. Frost-cracked from the solid granite, the side rock that accompanied it had been weathered from the peak. Thus are high mountains worn away. For perhaps an hour after the near-catastrophe, the air was filled with blinding snow,--not that from the skies, but that of the snow dust raised by the slide. The circle of the rising moon threw a silver glamor over the scene. "What do you figure makes these 'quakes, anyway?" asked Long Lester. "The boys have asked that too, and I can't give it to you all in a breath. But I'll give you the story before we end this trip." At the moment of the earthquake, Ace and Ted, immured on a lower level of the cave, were following a subterranean river. They got well splashed by the waves set up, and worse scared, but it was all over in a minute and they were only a degree more uncomfortably damp than they had been before. Suddenly Ted gave an exclamation. A crag of drip-rock had been shaken from the roof, and there, imbedded in the limestone, lay the plain footprint of--it might have been a giant! The boys stared, marveling a moment, then Ted voiced his guess. The fossil of some giant of prehistoric ages! "A fossil, all right," Ace agreed. "But that isn't a human footprint, even if there had been men that size. That was made by some animal! If we ever get out of here, let's bring Norris and come back with picks and find out." "Then I can quarry this fossil out and sell it?" ventured Ted. "Right-o!" with a congratulatory slap that made Ted wince. But the inky stream had once more become placid, and skirting the muddy ledge alongside, they threaded their way through arches of varying height till finally the roof was so low that they had to go on hands and knees. Then the bank became so narrow that Ace slipped off into the unknown depths. To his surprise, his feet touched bottom. Moreover, the water was not so cold as he had imagined. (It was about the same temperature as the air). "Come on in, the water's fine!" he encouraged Ted. "Do you know, we could swim this if we had to, and don't you think it must lead out?" "Stands to reason. But how about our candles?" "Hold 'em in your teeth. Haven't you ever seen any one smoke a cigarette when he was in swimming? It's a stunt, but----" "Ever tried it?" "Sure. Have you?" "No." And the deepening water soon proved that he could not keep his candle going. But Ace managed it for a few strokes. Then they had to swim in darkness. An increasing roar told them that they were nearing white water, possibly the outlet, and just as the current from a branch stream would have caught them, they felt an overhanging ledge and scrambled up on it, Ace lending a hand to his less proficient chum. From the far end of the tunnel shone a faint glow, as through a sheet of water! They had reached a cave mouth. Creeping cautiously along the ledge, they approached the light. From its pallor and from the roaring of the rapids they at first thought they were behind a waterfall. But a closer approach showed them that it shone through leaves of plants that grew just outside, where they over-arched the escaping stream (gooseberries, they later found, and other vines that completely hid the exit of the stream). It was a ticklish proposition getting out along the rock ledge, which narrowed to a mere rough crack into which they could dig the sides of their soles. But by holding hands and clinging with all their might, while they propitiated the law of gravity by leaning their weight against the wall, they slowly scaled a way above the churning stream, and so to where they could cling to the thorny bushes. It was night. The light had been the moon shining straight into the cave mouth. But where they were, on what side of the ridge, they could not tell. They were safe, though! Saved from the blind horror of being lost in the cave! But wet and chilled to the marrow now in the night wind that blew down canyon, famished, footsore, and aching for sleep. Still how wonderfully fresh and perfumed everything smelled after the cave. "Got any matches in your waterproof match box?" asked Ted with chattering teeth, throwing himself flat on the up side of a rock that would keep him from rolling. "Why, this is funny!" for there was no sign of the stream a few yards beyond the cave mouth. They were at the head of some former rock slide, and the stream simply disappeared, percolating underneath it to its destination, (wherever that might be). But an exclamation from Ace caused him to look in the direction of his pointing arm. In the canyon below them a bon-fire burst into bloom. "The folks?" cried Ace joyously. "Maybe the Mexicans," Ted restrained him. "Let's slip up on them and find out," urged the other. "Thunder! Wouldn't it be great if it was our bunch?" "All the same, we gotta act just as if it was the Mexicans, till we know for sure." "They've sure got a good fire," Ace shivered. "Let's hurry." "All right, maybe it's Radcliffe come clear through the cave on a higher level, and maybe he's got the Mexicans." "And Pedro?" "And Pedro!" "Sure, who else could it be?" they cheered each other. But it was neither. CHAPTER IX TED'S FOSSIL DINOSAUR An hour later two famished and exhausted boys were peering at the huge bon-fire by which Norris and Long Lester had decided to camp till dawn. "Wal, durn yer hide, I'm that glad to see you I've a notion to wallop you," the old guide welcomed them. "But I'm not a-goin' to ask you a single word till you've et," and he proceeded to build up a brighter fire. "Peel off them duds, and roll up here in our blankets whilst we dry things for you." The bedraggled boys allowed Norris to help them out of their heavy, water-soaked clothing, for their hike down the mountainside in the night wind had fairly stiffened their joints. First Long Lester administered a quart apiece of scalding tea, then insisted that, fagged as they were, they bathe their feet. "A camper is as good as his feet," and Pedro had yet to be located. It was decided that, as they were all of them worn out, and Pedro, wherever he was, would likely sleep himself when night came, they would wait till dawn to search for him and the Mexicans. While it was a question as to whether they were still in the cave, it seemed best to search there first. At the moment of the earthquake, Pedro had been crawling through a narrow passageway, bed of some former watercourse, whose walls dripped black in the glow of his dying torch. Then came a crash before him!--A chunk of rock had fallen from the roof into the passageway. When the alarming swaying motion and the thunder of the bowlder's fall had subsided, and he had relighted the torch, (which had been extinguished), he found his forward progress effectually blocked. Behind were the Mexicans,--Sanchez possibly still plugging the opening into the passageway. He was a prisoner! He was entombed! At first, utter panic possessed him. In like situation, those of weak, nervous timbre have been known to go insane. Then he got a grip on himself and reasoned that Norris and the rest would not leave him to his fate. They would never give him up till they had searched the cave thoroughly, and had he not left his bandanna at one turn, his handkerchief at another, and the end of a freshly charred torch at a third? Besides, (he smiled grimly), if his own party did not find him, the Mexicans might. Or if they captured the Mexicans, they would wring from them a confession of his near whereabouts. (This time he laughed outright at thought of Sanchez the Stout still dangling his helpless legs when the Ranger found him. The sound echoed and reëchoed weirdly.) This experience had done much for Pedro's untried courage. For after all, is it not the unknown that terrifies us rather than the actual calamity to be faced? Another thing that helped the Spanish boy to be reasonably philosophical,--probably the biggest factor, after all,--was Nature's medicine, his extreme physical fatigue. Thrusting his hat through a narrow crevice so that it would be seen and recognized by any one coming that way, he stretched himself out flat on his back on a bit of smooth, dry rock, thriftily extinguished the remaining bit of torch, and was instantly asleep. He awoke, he knew not how much later,--but he felt refreshed,--to hear the sound of voices echoing and reëchoing faintly, far down the passageway. Fumbling frantically for a match, he yelled for help with all the power of his trained voice. (And the sound echoed back and forth.) At first Norris and the boys could not tell from which direction it came. Then Long Lester, who was in advance, saw the hat, and it but remained to remove the bowlder. Now it was that they had use for their ingenuity, for their combined efforts did not suffice to budge the fallen rock. The cavern in which Pedro had become immured was off a lateral passageway leading,--if he had taken the turn to the right instead of the one to the left,--to the very cave mouth by which the rescue party had reëntered; for Long Lester had found, not far from the waterway through which the two boys had come,--but on a higher level,--some scratches on the rocks and a heel print in the scanty soil that told the old mountaineer as plain as words that that was the way Radcliffe had come. Every heel in the party was different, one having Hungarian hob-nails set in a semi-circle, another a solid design in the same nails, a third the larger hobs, a fourth none. He knew the differences in size and the ones that were worn deeper on the inside of the foot. To him a footprint was as good as a signature, and better, for like an Indian, a "hill billy" can often read how fast you were going from a group of two or three footprints, how tired you were, and much besides. This knowledge had served them in good stead. He now hurried back to the cave mouth with Ace, found a down log that would serve as a lever, and they pried away the bowlder that kept Pedro a prisoner. Sign of the Mexicans they could not find, save that Sanchez had been removed from the crevice of the stalactites, (at least he was no longer there), but whether he had had to fast or not, they could not tell. The Mexicans evidently knew the cave and they had been near the southern end of it. Though Long Lester could find no trace of their footprints at either of the exits they knew, there were doubtless others, and it seemed the wisest course now to look for them outside. For the boys were still unwilling to give up the chase. Reporting back to Radcliffe, they learned, to their amazement, that the pack burros the Mexicans had left near the northern cave mouth had disappeared, but where, they could not tell from any sign left on the charred ground outside. The Ranger would start a search for them in the DeHaviland, once the fire was under better control. The Forest Service finds its air service as useful in keeping track of law breakers as of fires. It would be an extraordinary thing if the careless camper should escape detection, for the air men can spy them out as easily as anything. But the fire still ate angrily through the timber, and would spread in all directions if left to itself. Fire fighting is sometimes a matter of weeks. It was a dry summer, and all up and down the Sierras, the Rangers were kept busy fighting the fires that would break out from one cause or another. The Service 'planes were all busy. The five campers were back at fire-fighting headquarters,--and Norris too,--when Ace had an idea. He and Ted would go in search of the Mexicans in his little Spanish 'plane. Would Radcliffe let them off the fire-fighting? He would, though he could not give official sanction to their plan. It was enough. The two boys were off before he could change his mind,--to Norris's slight uneasiness and Pedro's envy. (But Pedro was subject to altitude sickness.) Sometime, Norris had promised Ted, they would go back into the cave and look for his fossil. But that could wait. All that afternoon the two boys curveted over the surrounding scenery,--careful to keep their distance from the whirlwind of fire-heated air, for they were flying low. The most minute search failed to reveal the fire setters, but Ace only set his jaw the more determinedly. They returned to sleep twelve hours at a stretch. Aviation is the best cure yet for insomnia, and neither Ace nor Ted had ever been troubled with that malady. The next day they flew farther, carrying with them an emergency camp kit. They landed about every two hours, rested awhile, and finally went into camp about four in the afternoon, intending to take a look in the night to see if the fugitives would betray themselves by a bon-fire. They camped in a meadow where they had seen something like smoke arising. This proved to be steam from a hot spring, and they thought with longing how fine their chilled bones would feel in a good hot bath. But the spring water came too hot. (If they had had eggs, they could have cooked them in it.) Then it occurred to them to dig a little trench, line it with stones, and carry the spring water by the folding canvas pailful to fill it. It would quickly cool to the right temperature. The scheme worked wonderfully. The water had a strong mineral taste, not altogether agreeable, but its effect on aching bones was wonderful. A flint arrowhead buried in the soil they excavated told its tale of Indians, who must have valued the spring and fought for its possession against covetous tribes. "What makes these hot springs, anyway?" asked Ted. "Have you had that yet in your geology?" "Yes, but you'll understand better when Norris tells us the story he's promised about the formation of the earth. I'm no professor." And he turned a former laugh on Ted. "Tell you what, Old Top, once we get these fire bugs located for our Uncle Sammy, what say we fly up and have a look at Lassen volcano before I send the 'plane back?" "Bully! I'd like to fly over a glacier, too, and see what it looks like. Can you go that high?" "I--guess so. Never tried it! We will, though!" "Gee! Wouldn't this be a great way to teach geography--from an aeroplane!" "Sure would!--Great way to go camping, too." "'S right, only--it would be if there was just the two of us," sighed Ted ungrammatically. "Could you carry enough grub?" "We could get fresh supplies every few days, from some ranch." The next day they went back for the rest of the party and showed them Ted's fossil, entering the cave the way Radcliffe had left it. Norris had spent one summer with fossil hunters in the dry gullies of the Southern end of California, he told them, where through scorching days and thirsty nights they had searched for any bit of bone that might lie amid the shale or imbedded in strata the edges of which might be seen on the face of a sun-baked bluff. The summer before, a group of geology men from a rival University had actually camped within a hundred yards of what was later discovered to be a deposit of rare fossils. It was therefore with heightened satisfaction that their reconnaissance had resulted in the discovery and excavation, bone by bone, of the complete skeleton of several most interesting prehistoric monsters that had lain all these ages embedded in the shale. One bone four feet long, he told them, and weighing several hundred pounds, had been found in fragments in the shale, but it had been fitted together again, done up in plaster bandages and braced with splints, quite as a surgeon treats a broken leg. Another, found embedded in solid rock, had to be shipped in the rock, each piece being numbered as it was removed from the cliff as an aid to fitting it together again. Then with hammer and chisel the delicate feat of cutting away the rock and leaving the bone exposed was slowly and painstakingly accomplished. Thus have the bones buried before ever man trod the earth been made to tell their story. Often it takes more than a single specimen to reconstruct for the scientist the whole of the creature, but relics of fully thirty Triceratops have been discovered in different parts of the world, and where one skull has a broken nose, another shows it intact, and so on through its entire anatomy. Its habits may in part be reasoned out, as for instance, if its hind legs are disproportionately long, it likely walked erect at least sometimes. "That, as it happens, was not the case with Triceratops," he added. "There was only a slight difference between his fore and hind legs. Triceratops had teeth made for browsing, not for rending flesh; his single claw, round and blunt, does not indicate any pugnacious tendency on his part, and the solidity of his bones are found to-day in either a very sluggish animal or a partially aquatic one. The shape and rapid taper of the tail vertebræ indicates a rather short tail, round rather than flat,--ill adapted for swimming,--and so following through the list, till we have a Triceratops elephantine in general build, though more like a rhinoceros in face with a horn over his nose and two over his eyes, a horn-supported neck ruff, and a generally sluggish mode of life. "In the coal fields complete imprints of Ichthyosauria have been found, doubtless due to the carbonization of the animal matter. And impressions have been left in stone of the very feathers worn by some of the now fossilized creatures." It was by comparison of fossil remains that the well known evolution of the horse from a little fellow the size of a fox was learned. Ted often thought of that three-toed Miocene horse, and the giant monsters of his time,--of the upthrust of the Rocky Mountains, cutting off the moist sea breeze from the marshy country to the Eastward and making desert of it. This made life too hard for the heavy, slow-witted creatures, and they failed to survive the change. But the nimble footed little horse trotted long distances with ease, to find food and water. Norris convulsed them by describing the creature on which he declared the aeroplane was modeled,--the pteranodon, that giant lizard, largest of flying creatures even in Mesozoic age, whose bat-like wings reached 20 feet from tip to tip,--as the fossil skeletons plainly prove. This interesting specimen was a link in the chain between the birds of to-day and their ancestral archeopteryx, no larger than a crow whose front legs metamorphosed to short wings, whose skeletons have been found perfectly preserved in the limestone. Ted was frantic for fear they would not find the place again, then could hardly wait to hear the Geological Survey man's pronouncement on his find. Norris chipped and chipped, with knife and hammer, till he had uncovered the impress of a great, membranous wing. It was a fossil dinosaur,--a pterodactyl! Ted's college education was secure! CHAPTER X HOW THE EARTH WAS MADE Ted's fossil would have to wait to be exhumed. In fact, Norris told him, he could sell it as it stood, and let the purchaser do the work. Then it occurred to him to wonder if Ted would not have first to take up a claim,--for it was Government land. Anyway, he would see to it that the boy was rewarded for his find. The fire now being extinguished, Radcliffe had flown to other battle lines, first taking Rosa--as she insisted--back to her fire outlook. The plan was for the two boys to keep on hunting for the Mexicans, (as the harried Ranger now counted on their doing), joining the rest of the camping party every night, at points they would agree upon. But first, Ace had made a flight to Fresno for supplies and to start his pilot home by train. He then carried them one at a time to where the burros had been left,--and where the lazy rascals still browsed on the rich mountain meadows. For a day or two, all the boys could talk, think or dream about was the adventures they had just been through. But at last they had relieved their minds to some extent, and one evening around the fire, Norris gave them his long promised explanation of some of the natural wonders they had seen. "I have already told you," began Norris, "how the earth probably originated. That much the astronomer has given us. And before the geologist can begin to interpret the evolution of our earth, he has to know what scientists have established in the fields of chemistry, mechanics and geodesy,--the study of the curvature and elevation of the earth's surface. He then proceeds to theorize, hand in hand with the paleontologist, or student of ancient life. The newest theory is in line with what I learned in 1917 at Yale." "It's all theory, then?" asked Ted. "Just as all sciences are, to some extent. Did I tell you that when our planetary system was disrupted from the sun, it was less than a hundredth part of the parent body? And our earth is a good deal less than a millionth of the size of our sun, and our sun is among the smaller of the stars of the firmament." "Phew!" whistled Long Lester, round eyed, while Ted and Pedro sat motionless. "Picture the earth and moon, revolving about the sun, gathering by force of their own gravity-pull the tiny planetesimals nearest them, these bodies hurling themselves into the earth mass at the rate of perhaps ten miles a second!----" "It shore must have het things up some," said Long Lester. "It did! Literally melted the rocks. On top of that, this original earth mass, composed of molten rock and gases and water vapor, was condensing. Probably by the time it had engulfed all the stray planetesimals it could, it was anywhere from 200 to 400 times as large as it is now. It has been shrinking ever since." "Is it still shrinking?" gasped the old prospector. "Sure thing! But not so fast that you will ever know the difference in _your_ lifetime. It only shrinks at times; then the earth's surface wrinkles into mountain ranges." "How many times has that been, sixteen?" suggested Ace. "We'll come to that. As I was going to say, while the earth was so hot, it kept boiling, as it were, inside, and the molten matter kept breaking through the cold outer shell in volcanoes, as the heat rose to the surface." "Thet sure must have been hell," laughed the old man. "As the cold crust was churned into the hot interior, of course it melted and expanded, and that caused more volcanoes, and so on in a vicious circle, till finally, by the end of the Formative Era, so called, the rock that contained more heavy minerals sank to the lower levels, while the lighter ones rose as granite." "Gee!" said Ted, "I'd have called granite heavy." "Not so heavy as the specimens of basic rock we'll find. Well, in this Formative Era our atmosphere, and the hydrosphere or oceanic areas were being formed, along with the granite continents. But while we are on the subject, I hope you boys will some day see The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes, in Alaska, where the earth is still boiling so close to the surface that you have to watch your step or you'll break through into----" "The Hot Place?" laughed Pedro. "Literally, yes." "Oh, tell us about that!" "Some time!--The interior of the earth is still hot, but the rock crust allows very little of it to rise to the surface. After the Formative Era came the Archeozoic Era, when life began in the form of amoebas or some simple form of protoplasm. For with the formation of the gases of the earth mass into an envelope of air, to moderate the sun's warmth by day and retain some of it by night,--life became possible." "But where did those first creatures come from?" Ted could not restrain himself from asking. "According to one theory, the first germs of life flew here from some other planet, and not necessarily one of those revolving around our own sun, for space is full of suns and planetary systems. But that theory can neither be proved nor disproved. When I was a student, Osborn's theory was the latest. That was in 1916. Without going into it too deeply, it had to do with the electric energy of the chemical elements that compose protoplasm, and these always had been latent in the earth mass." "Then they must have been latent in the sun, too," marveled Ted. "And in other suns and their planets too." "Very likely," assented the Geological Survey man. "Now of course the ocean waters collected in the depressed areas over the heavier rock bottoms, the basalt. You remember just after we lost the burro we were on a basalt formation----" "Then that was formerly a part of the ocean floor?" asked Ted. "Either that or volcanic lava." "But how did it----" "Just a minute. Of course land masses have gone down as well as up, but the general trend has been decidedly upward, while the trend of the ocean floor has been downward. At that, the shell of the earth--so to speak--is only about 150 miles thick or a fiftieth of the earth's present diameter." "Then I should think the oceans would be growing deeper," ventured Pedro. "Right again. When this earth reaches its old age,--speaking in terms of centuries,--it will likely be all ocean. And there used to be far more land, in proportion, than there is now. There was less ocean water then because of all that is continually pouring through hot springs. "Of course the land is slowly being washed back into the ocean. And the higher the mountains, the steeper the stream beds, and hence the faster the streams, and the faster they erode the high elevations, till finally all is reduced to sea level again." "Then how do the mountains get rebuilt?" Pedro testified his interest. "The earth has, as I think I said before, shrunk between 200 and 400 miles in diameter,--since the beginning,--'when the earth was unformed and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep.' It is still shrinking. And this internal movement is felt on the surface in differences that generally amount to only a few hundred feet. I can show you places over there on the East wall of the Sierras where the mountains have been upthrust that way. "Then, every now and again, the interior activities fairly break the rocky earth shell or lithosphere, and whole mountain ranges are raised. There have been at least eight such minor breaks in the earth crust in North America alone, and each time ranges perhaps a thousand miles long, or more, have been raised near one end of the continent or the other. In addition, there have been major readjustments that thrust whole continents higher and ocean beds lower. Geologists find evidence of at least six of these major breaks in the earth crust,--marking the beginnings of the Archeozoic Era, when _life_ originated, the Proterozoic Era, or age of _invertebrates_, the Paleozoic Era or age of _fish_ dominance, the Mesozoic Era or age of _reptile_ dominance, the Cenozoic Era or age of _mammal_ dominance, and the present Psychozoic Era or age of _man_." "Phew!" whistled Long Lester again. "Don't tell me this earth used to be all fish." "It did, though. We'll go into that some other time. I'll just finish about continent building now, and then we'll turn in. At these times when the lands are at their highest and the oceans are smallest in breadth, (because greatest in depth), the continents are united by land-bridges such as those we have now uniting North and South America." "And Alaska and Asia?" suggested Ted. "Practically, yes. And probably, at one time, South America and Australia. These land-bridges changed the direction of the ocean streams. You know in the age of reptiles there was nothing to divide the Atlantic from the Pacific. Added to that, the high mountain ranges took the moisture out of the winds from the oceans, as the Rockies now do the Pacific trade winds, so that by the time they reach Nevada there is no moisture left in them to form clouds and fall in rain, and we have desert. "Of course the animals that lived on the earth in its flatter, more temperate stage now have to adapt themselves to life on high, cold elevations, or in dry, hot desert areas, or to migrate via the land-bridges to more favorable climates. Those unable to do this perished. "For instance, take the age of reptile dominance, (the Mesozoic Era), which was in turn divided into four periods, those of dinosaurs, (the Triassic period, a rock from which I showed you, if you remember), the Jurassic period, which gave rise to flying reptiles, from which our first birds were derived; the Comanchean period, which gave rise to flowering plants and the higher insects, and the Cretaceous period, when our most primitive mammal forms evolved. "At first the earth was peopled with dinosaurs and flying dragons, and the seas by squid-like mollusks. In those days all the earth was level, swampy, tropic and overgrown with giant tree ferns and a primitive conifer. "As the high mountain ranges arose and deserts were made, these forms gradually gave way to flowers and hardwood forests, peopled with insects and mammals. Only the most intelligent forms survived, and the struggle itself developed a higher degree of intelligence." "What in tarnation were _dinosaurs_?" asked Long Lester. "Oh, haven't you ever seen pictures of them?" laughed Ace. "Picture a giant lizard, perhaps 40 feet long----" "Here, here," protested the old man. "I don't bite." "It is perfectly true," said Norris soberly. "Honest Injun!" vowed Ace. "One of these fellows was a sort of cross between a crocodile and a kangaroo, what with his long hind legs that he could walk half erect on. There were some as small as eight or ten inches, too, and some so large that you wouldn't have come to his knee. His big toe was as long as your arm." "And how do you know all that?" protested the old prospector feebly. "By their bones,--fossils. Why, there have been fossil bones of a dinosaur found right in the Connecticut Valley! There was one found a hundred years ago in Oxford, England. We have heaps of fossils of them out West here. In fact, this part of the world used to be their stamping ground, though fossils of them have been found as far away as New Zealand." "Did they eat people?" gasped Lester. "There weren't any people in those days to eat, but some of them preyed on other animals, and some browsed on the herbage of the swamps. They didn't have much of any brains, the Triceratops, dinosaurs twice as heavy as elephants, that looked like horned toads, didn't have two pounds of brains apiece, or so we infer from the size of their skulls. They knew just about enough to eat when they were hungry, and not enough to migrate when things got unlivable for them, and so they perished off the face of the earth." "I'm shore glad of that," the old man heaved a sigh of relief. "I'd shore hate to 've met up with one of them fellows." "And next time I want to cast aspersions on any one's intelligence," shouted Pedro, "I'm going to call him a--what was it?" "_Triceratops_," said Norris. "Some dinosaurs,--in fact, most of them,--lived in the swamps, and had long, snakelike necks and flat, apparently earless heads, and long tails. But Triceratops had a three-horned face, one horn over each eye to protect it in battle and one over the nose. Of course he was the largest animal of his time, but he probably fought rival swains for his lady love. We have a pair of Triceratops horns in the National Museum. One is broken, and it must have been broken during life, for the stump is healed over. There were many other kinds of dinosaurs. If we come to any fossil remains, I'll tell you more about them. But," (stifling a yawn), "I guess you fellows have had about all you can stand for to-night." The boys protested to the contrary, but Norris promised the rest of the story their next evening together around a bon-fire. In the middle of the night the boys were awakened by a terrific racket. Long Lester was yelling for all he was worth. Every one started wide awake, and Norris threw a handful of browse on the fire to light the scene. Then the old man managed to articulate: "Gosh A'mighty!--I sure thought the Dinosaurs were arter me!" "You've been dreaming," Norris laughed, while the boys fairly rolled over one another in their enjoyment. Ace and Ted now made two flights daily in search of the Mexicans, or the smoke of their cook-fire. Next day they came to a canyon that filled the Geological Survey man with profound enthusiasm, for, he said, it illustrated both the last glacial period and the last period of volcanic mountain building. First they noted that the little mountain stream had worn its torrential way through the basalt or volcanic rock in a narrow canyon perhaps 200 feet deep. A flow of molten basalt, accompanied by cinders, had been erupted from the 8,000-foot peak at the upper end of the canyon, and had flowed down in a layer 200 feet thick when it hardened. It had flowed,--as the underlying rock still showed in places,--over a lateral moraine or rock débris left by a glacier as it flowed down that way. And from the weathered condition of this rock débris, Norris said, it must have been a glacier, not of the last ice age, but of the one preceding,--for of the four glacier periods generally recognized by geologists to-day, evidences of the last two can be seen in the Sierras. What made this little canyon even more of a find, (from the point of view of what he wanted to show the boys), was that on top of the volcanic rock lay the deposit from another glacier, one that flowed in the last ice age, as the condition of the rock débris plainly showed the expert. The boys tucked a few rock specimens into their packs and launched an avalanche of questions. But he made them wait till they had established all snug for the night beside a stretch of rapids, where they could look forward to catching trout for breakfast. Then, lighting his pipe, and stretching his feet to the bon-fire,--for the night wind swept cool upon them,--Norris began with Ted's question as to glaciers and volcanoes. "During the times I spoke of last night, when the earth crust is breaking, the molten rock and gases and water vapor in the interior of the planet rise in the hearts of the mountain ranges, and often break through as active volcanoes, pouring their lava and ash over the underlying granite, and building it still higher. "These heightened mountain ranges bring about the glacial climates. For the snows on their cold peaks do not melt when summer comes, and consequently they accumulate, and accumulate, till their own weight presses them down as hard as ice,--that is, makes glaciers of them. I am going to be on the look-out for a glacier, for you will have a good chance to see them in this region. At the same time, during these glacial periods, the astronomer could explain how it is that the temperature is from ten to twenty degrees colder in both winter and summer than it is now, so that helps the ice to accumulate. Then the glacier, flowing slowly, slowly, (a river of ice), down the mountainsides, carries with it quantities of the underlying rocks, till it reaches a lower level where the ice melts and it becomes a river and carries those rocks and soil to the sea. That way, the mountains are gradually worn down to sea level and the whole cycle is ready to start over again." "I see," said the ranch boy. "How long ago did you say the last glacier period came?" "Probably not since the time of the first men,--perhaps 30,000 years ago." "And those glacial deposits you showed us to-day are 30,000 years old?" the boy breathed. "Yes, and the deposits from the glacial period before that are older still,--a souvenir from the age of reptile dominance." "Then when did the other ice ages come? Did you say there were five?" "I did, but only four great ones. There were two away back in the age of invertebrates." "Then has the climate been the same since the last ice age?" "Not at all. The change is gradual, and geologists naturally conclude that some time we will have another ice age. We'll hope man has found a better way to keep warm by that time. Our climate, with all its ups and downs, is little by little, through the centuries, growing colder!" "And how do you know about all these ups and downs of climate?" challenged Long Lester. "Why, for one thing,--we don't have to read it all from the rocks,--there is a plain story in the rings of growth in the Big Trees. Don't you remember those cut stumps, and the thousands of rings we counted, one for a year? And some were wider than others, because in those years there had been more rainfall." "Well, I never!" was all the old prospector could articulate, as all hands once more called it a day. Next day Ace searched in concentric circles, but without finding a trace of Mexicans, or, indeed, of any one. The next night found the little party encamped an eight hours' hike up the side of another glacial-polished slope. The trail,--that is to say the way they picked to go,--led first to the upper end of the canyon and over the rocks that bordered a green-white waterfall. The wind blowing the spray in first one direction and then another, they got well wetted, though the clear California sunshine soon dried them again. But the most curious part of their climb past the falls was the rainbow that persisted in following them till they seemed to be at the hub of a huge semi-circle of opalescent tints. Above, (perhaps eight hundred feet higher than their camp at the hot spring), they came to where the river slid green and transparent over granite slopes just bordered by a fringe of pine. The water ran deep and swift, though, and as Ted stooped to drink, he found that, rhythmically, a larger swell, (call it a wave), would slap him in the face, till once, blinded by the unexpected onslaught, he all but lost his balance. It would have been inevitable, had he done so, that he should almost instantly go hurtling over that eight hundred foot drop, whose waters roared till the boys had to shout at each other to be heard even a few paces away. But the water was deliciously icy, from its fountain-head in the glacier above. Wide slopes just steep enough to make climbing demand considerable sure-footedness widened this hanging valley on either side, with no greenery save the picturesque bits that grew along the weathered cracks. Beyond this, the canyon walls continued to rise abruptly. Trailing along beside the river till it had widened out and quieted its song, they found one of the typically open, parklike, forests of silver firs, jeweled with occasional emerald meadows fragrant with purple lupin and gay with crimson columbine and golden buttercups. Under foot were white violets and wee, monkey-faced mimulus, with occasionally a rare scarlet monkey-flower. They passed one of the tributaries of the river, crossed it on a log, and paused to drink deep of its sweet fluid. They found a huge fallen log with a mushroom growth that Pedro pronounced edible and which they found not unlike cooked crab meat. They crossed other brooklets, paused at noon to eat a dry lunch, and to their amazement spied a doe and her half-grown fawn in the edge of the clearing watching them wistfully as they threw their scraps away. Pedro, approaching softly, and casting peace offerings before him, was able to approach to within several paces of the mother, though her young hopeful was less trustful. Having probably never seen a biped before, both animals were consumed with curiosity and comparatively unafraid. The old prospector suggested with a wink that a little "wild mutton" would not go amiss, the game laws being adaptable to the needs of those in extremity, but Norris reminded him that they were no longer in extremity, and the boys voted unanimously not to betray the trust of this wild mother. Now came a stiff climb around a rocky shoulder of the mountain, and along the cracks of the smooth rock slopes, as once more they traversed the path of an ancient glacier. The opening here between the two folds of mountains again disclosed their river, now smaller, but if anything even noisier, by reason of its race over a series of cascades. They had left the silver fir belt and were in the region of dwarfed mountain pines. They estimated that they must be about 8,000 feet high. Ace joined them with still no news of the fugitive fire setters. It was mysterious. It being Ted's and Pedro's turn to make camp that night, they dropped the packs under a gnarled old juniper whose trunk had been split by lightning into seven splinters that curved out over a little hollow, making an ideal shelter, with its fubsy foliage, its storm-twisted limbs making natural seats, and a flat-topped rock a table. They had to carry pine boughs some distance for their beds, as they did wood and water. Then they sallied forth for a string of fish. All this gave Ace, Norris and Long Lester time to climb the short remaining distance to the top of the ridge, where they could gaze across at snow-capped peaks on which the alpine glow of approaching sunset had spread a luscious rose. While they were reclining in quiet enjoyment around the supper fire,--the last flutter of the breeze fanning their faces,--a tawny, catlike form suddenly came tip-toeing out from behind an edge of rock. It was an animal possibly a hundred pounds in weight,--the California mountain lion is not a heavy animal,--and for all its wide, heavy looking feet it trod with lithe grace. (Those paws, so well adapted to travel over deep snow, would enable it to seek its prey when white winter shut down over all its hunting grounds.) [Illustration: It was a rare treat to see a lion so close.] Now it was to all of them a rare treat to see a lion so close to. Of all the denizens of the wild, none are so shy of human kind, in regions where they are hunted,--none so thoroughly nocturnal. The three men fairly held their breaths to watch. First the animal leapt to a branch of a wind-beaten tree and crouched along its limb, lying so still that, had they not seen it move, they might have glanced squarely in that direction and never noticed. And there it lay, sharpening its claws, cat fashion. Suddenly it began narrowing its yellow eyes at what must have been a movement behind the rock whence it had emerged. Gathering its feet for a spring, it laid its ears back, and the great muscles rippling beneath its skin, leapt at a second lion whose head could now be seen peering around the rock. But did they fight? Not a bit of it! With hiss and arching back, and all claws out like the picture of a witch cat, the young cougar challenged his playfellow, then retreated as the other would have given him a swipe of his paw. Back to his tree he raced, the other after him. But no sooner had he reached the vantage point of his horizontal branch than he turned and chased the other back. This play was repeated several times, while the three men watched to the windward, silent and motionless, and hence unseen by the near-sighted animals. A small rock had been loosened by their scramble, and as it went rolling over the granite slope, the first cat pounced after it playfully, finally catching the rolling stone and leaping about it as a cat does a mouse. Then he retired to his tree. Norris, reflecting that the near presence of two such animals would stampede the burros, picked up a stone and threw it at the lion, intending, not to hit it, but to chase it away. To the surprise of the onlookers, the huge cat pounced on the stone as playfully as before. Ace now hurled a small rock so that it just escaped the tawny flank, but again she pounced, as playful as a kitten, at each missile, and it was not till the three men rose and shouted that the lion took alarm and raced away. "I declare!" exclaimed Pedro, when he heard about it, "I'd never have believed it!" "I was out in Devil's Gulch one day," remarked Long Lester, "with a coupla dogs. It's all granite,--hard for the dogs to get a scent, but there's lots of lions there, in among the rocks. Finally, though, they got one into a little Digger Pine. I took a shot at her, and out she tumbled." "Dead?" asked Norris. "Yes. The dogs found her den, and dragged out three cubs." "How large?" "About the size of house cats, that's all." "Then what?" "Oh, I put 'em into my shirt and tuk 'em home. I sold 'em afterwards to a circus man." "Well, do lions always act the way this one did to-night?" "I heard tell of a boy that was out with an old three dollar Winchester 22, and a dog that had lost a leg in a bear trap. Pretty soon he barked 'treed.' He had a lion up in a scrub oak. It came down fighting, so the boy had to circle around trying to find a chance to shoot. Then it jumped up into a pine tree and lay with its head over the limb looking down at him. He shot at it, but I guess it didn't hit, for it ran again, and by jings, it finally got clean away!" "Don't they ever fight?" marveled Pedro. "They'll fight a dog if they come down wounded, but the big cats are mostly cowards." "But bears are not?" "Bears? No, nothing cowardly about them. They're more lazy'n anything else." CHAPTER XI THE VALLEY OF TEN THOUSAND SMOKES The next morning they had a good look around before deciding which way to go. On one side pointed firs in patches on the canyon walls contrasted with the snow in the ravines. There was a brook that divided, then reunited in white strands, only to spread out into a smooth, glistening sheet, golden in the sunlight, to join the green river. The notches between two rounding, glacier-smoothed granite masses disclosed distant peaks, snow-capped, their jagged ledges thrusting through the mantling white, dazzling in the sunshine like a mirror,--now gray under a hazing sky, now dappled under a passing shower cloud. They finally decided to wind through the gap, and Pedro, Norris and Long Lester started on with the burros, while Ace and Ted started fine-combing the map beneath them for the elusive Mexicans. Very probably, they thought, they had been hiding in some of the caves that honeycombed the region, and sooner or later they would have to reappear. Their supplies could not hold out forever. All along the Western flank of the Sierra, (as both Norris and Long Lester were able to assure them), from the McCloud River in the North to the Kaweah,--a distance of at least 400 miles,--stretched a belt of metamorphic limestone, reaching up to as high as 7,000 feet, and it was fairly riddled with caves. But again the day went by without success. Ace only squared his chin. Ted offered to abdicate his observer's seat in favor of any one of the party, but Pedro and Long Lester preferred terra firma, and even Norris found more to interest him in the rocks beneath their feet. Once a little spiral of smoke drew them to a canyon head where they found three fishermen with a pack train of seven horses,--but no Mexicans. They searched Southward along the John Muir trail, returning along the Eastern flank,--but to no purpose, so far as the fugitives were concerned. As no one had had time to fish, they dined on tinned corned beef, which Ace, the cook for the day, made the mistake of salting. (After that he had to make tea twice.) "One thing I'd like fer to ask you, Mr. Norris," said Long Lester that night around the bon-fire, "is where does the salt in the ocean come from? I don't see for the life of me, from what you've told us----" "The salt was originally in the rock of the earth's crust," Norris explained with a pleased smile at the old man's interest. "As this igneous rock weathered with time, the rain and the streams washed it into the ocean. Then when the sea water evaporates----" "To make clouds, to make more rain?" Long Lester recited. "Yes,--the salt of course remained behind, so that the oceans have been growing constantly saltier since the earth began. Yet even now sea water must be nine-tenths evaporated before the sodium begins to precipitate, as we say." "So there is room for a lot more." "Especially as the oceans are growing larger all the time." "But doesn't the ocean give it back to the land when it leaves these sediments along the shore?" "Not to any extent, speaking comparatively. But one of the interesting things about the salt in the sea is this: Chemists and geologists estimate that, for the amount of salt in the sea, enough of the original earth crust must have been weathered away to have covered the continents over 6,000 feet high. And that calculation just about fits what we believe to have happened. "The United States Geological Survey gave out an official statement in 1912 that this country is annually being washed back into the ocean at the rate of two hundred and seventy million tons of matter dissolved in the streams and five hundred and thirteen millions of tons of matter held in suspension in the same streams. That is to say, the oceans every year receive from the surface of the United States seven hundred and eighty-three millions of tons of rock materials. "That means that, here in this part of the country at least, one hundred and seventy-seven tons per square mile are being washed back each year." "Gee!" said Ted. "I should think, at that rate, that the continents would have been all washed away long ago." "Yes, there have been, since geological history began, at least twenty whole mountain ranges as high as the Rockies worn to sea level. Of course the oceans have periodically flooded the margins of the continents at such times, in long troughs where now stand our Appalachian and Rocky Mountain ranges, leaving their deposits. "In the Rockies there are coarse sediments miles deep, together with limestone formed of the ground-up shells of marine animals of the earlier times. Now think of this! "If all that stands above sea level in the United States to-day were to be washed into the sea, as it undoubtedly will be, in time,--(but not in our time), the level of the oceans will rise, (just as the level of a half glass of water rises if you drop in a handful of sand), until--it has been estimated--everything under six hundred and fifty feet above sea level will be inundated. That means that probably half of the continent would be under water. It has been so in times past, and it will be again. In fact, in the age of reptile dominance, (the Cretaceous Period), when the earth was just beginning to be peopled with birds and flying reptiles, and the first, primitive mammals,--the Atlantic flowed straight from what is now the Gulf of Mexico, through what is now the Rocky Mountain Region, and through the Eastern part of Alaska, to the Arctic. That left one strip of land that reached along what is now the Pacific Coast, clear from the Isthmus of Panama to the Aleutian Islands and straight across to Siberia. The Northern part of the Atlantic Coast formed another land area, broken by the fresh water bodies of America and Canada and in one with a strip of land that extended across Greenland to Europe. "It is pretty well established, in fact, that the United States has been more or less flooded by warm, shallow marine waters at least sixteen times since the age of fish dominance began. But not since the age of man!" he hastened to assure the old prospector, who was beginning to look uneasy. "Of course these flood times brought a moist, warm climate to the land areas, and life was easy for the then existing animal forms. Then when readjustments in the earth's crust again raised up mountain ranges and the climate became colder and drier, the struggle for existence became more intense, the process of evolution was stimulated, and new forms originated. "We are living in one of those periods now. The organic world is being stimulated to develop even better bodies, endowed with even more alert brains. "Life is easiest of all for the inhabitants of the ocean. That is why they have developed so little intelligence." "Is that why it's such an insult to call any one a poor fish?" grinned Ted. "An ichthyosaurus?" supplemented Ace. "As has been said before," Norris took up the thread of his talk, "with a drier climate and soil, comes the need of developing a faster mode of locomotion, for food no longer lies or swims everywhere about, as it did in the ocean, and in the swamps, and tropic humidity. Food and water are scarce, and it is the speediest animal that fulfills his needs. This speediness on his part means that he uses up more energy, and hence needs more food, and he needs to assimilate it faster. In other words, it means increased metabolism. This in turn means that he keeps his body at a higher temperature. He needs it too, now, with the increased cold. This results in the development of warm blood, by which the animal can maintain his body warmth regardless of winter cold. If it had not been for conditions that forced certain reptiles to develop warm-bloodedness, we would have no birds or mammals to-day, for as you doubtless know, birds and mammals both were evolved from reptiles." "I swan!" was all the old prospector could say. "Yes, the first mammals developed from a reptile known as the cynodont. Many of these reptiles had long legs and could travel with the body well off the ground. Birds originated from the same reptilian stock as did the dinosaurs. First their hind-legs grew long so that they could run on them,--and you will notice at the Museum how the legs of a dinosaur are joined to the body exactly like a bird's,--then their scales gradually evolved into feathers. "There is a lot more to it than I can tell you now, but after various ups and downs, dinosaurs became extinct and Nature tried out several kinds of warm-blooded, furry mammals, some of them herbivorous and built for speed to run away from their enemies, some of them swamp-dwelling monsters with heavy legs and small brains, who, slow of movement, relied on horns and other armor and sharp teeth for their defense. "But there is no end to this subject. I only mean to make the point that it was geological changes that drove the fish to land, and the land animal to higher forms, till finally other geological changes drove man's ancestors down out of the trees." The boys, no less than the old prospector, testifying their interest in the last named operation, he continued. "When the Alps, the Andes and the Himalayas arose, man's ancestors still lived in trees. But high mountains hold a large part of the moisture of the atmosphere in the form of snow and ice, and at the same time the decreased oceanic areas offer less surface for evaporation. Not only does that mean a drier climate, but the sun's rays pass more freely through dry air, and the days are hotter, and the heat passing freely back through the same dry air at night, the nights are colder. Seasons are more extreme, and ice accumulates on the mountain tops and around the polar region, precursor of a glacier period. The aridity decreases the amount of forest, and the manlike tree dweller had to descend to the ground to get his living. That necessitated the development of his hind legs for speed, and that speed necessitated his assuming a wholly erect posture. That in turn freed his hands, and he, or the man descended from him, could defend himself by throwing stones at the huge beasts who then peopled the earth. The cold winters necessitated the use of the skins of beasts for clothing, and so on through the list. It was geological necessity that drove man into his higher development. "Changes of climate and environment, however, are stimulating, even to-day. Statistics show that stormy weather actually increases people's energy." The next day they passed a long crack in a rock slope, which Norris felt sure had been made by an earthquake, perhaps as recent as that of 1906, to judge from the cleanness and newness of it. The crack was no more than a foot or two in width, but in places eight feet deep, they estimated, and along the Western side of it stood a fault scarp, in this case a wall of granite bowlders of various sizes up to four or five feet in height. "This," pronounced the geology man, "is evidently a region overlying subterranean volcanoes, which might even yet build the range higher. I'll bet that kind of mountain building may still be going on around here." Again and again Norris, or even Ace, had been able to point out, in the record of the rocks, the evidences of the two glacier periods that had helped shape the Sierra Nevada, the earlier one much larger, and enduring longer, as shown by the moraines (or deposits) left behind. The lower end of a canyon would be no wider than the stream that incised it, but the upper portion would have been smoothed into grassy parks or lakelets on each tread of a giant stairway to the summit of the range. Rounded water-worn pebbles and cobblestones among a mass of angular bowlders, left behind by glacier streams, together with an occasional striated pebble, were "sermons in stones" to the geologist. "Hey, Ted," his chum had challenged him that day, "did you ever see a pirate?" "Don't know as I did," admitted the ranch boy. "Then I'll show you one. Climb in," and he prepared to search once more for the Mexicans. "Show me one! You speak as if they kept them in museums." "This pirate will be a river. A river pirate,--I mean a pirate river! If I could find the divide just North of Muah Mountain I'd show you where streams are being captured this minute. Cottonwood Creek has already captured one of the tributaries of Mulkey Creek, I hear, and diverted it into an eastward flow, and further captures are likely to be pulled off any time. Isn't it a scandal?" "I say, Ace," protested his chum, "I've swallowed a lot since we started on this trip, but I'm not so gullible as you seem to think." "Look here, old kid," said Ace seriously. "It's a fact. Along a divide, a stream flowing one way will divert one flowing the other way into its own channel." They found a pirate river,--but still no trace of the incendiaries. However, that merely determined the Senator's son the more. That night Norris told them the long promised tale of his Alaskan trip. "Nothing like the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes has ever been seen by the eye of man," he declared. "If we could take all the other volcanic regions of the world to-day and set them down side by side, they would present less of a spectacle, except, of course, at the time of a dangerous eruption. There has been nothing like it in the memory of man,--though geologists can read from the rocks that such conditions must have existed in past ages. The Mt. Katmai eruption of 1912, one of the most dangerous in history, first attracted attention to this region, and the National Geographic Society has since sent various expeditions to Alaska. It was that way that the Valley came to be discovered, in 1916. "I happened to be a member of the last expedition." "Honestly!" the boys exclaimed. "Yes, and I tell you, boys, when I first looked through Katmai Pass, it just looked as if the whole valley were full of smoke. Of course it was steam." "Weren't you afraid of another volcano?" asked the boys, snuggling down ready for a real story. "No, because with all those vents letting off steam, it must relieve the pressure from below, like so many safety-valves. Two black, glassy looking lava mountains guard the pass. The wind on the side of Observation Mountain was blowing so hard it honestly lifted us off our feet at times, and it blew a hail of pumice stone in our faces that literally cut the flesh. Of course we wore goggles. "Once in the valley, there were certainly all of ten thousand smokes rising from the ground. We were simply speechless, it was such an awesome spectacle." "I'll bet you were!" breathed Ted. "Personally, I consider it more wonderful than either the Grand Canyon or the geysers of the Yellowstone. As far as we could see in any direction,--and there seemed to be three arms to the valley,--the white vapor was steaming out of the ground until it mingled with a great cloud that hung between the mountain walls. And we later camped in places where we could keep our food in a hollow of a glacier while we boiled our breakfast in a steam hole, and the ground was almost too warm for comfort." "Must have been an ideal camping place," said Ace. "Far from that. Too much danger of breaking through. And then of course there wasn't a tree or a grass blade anywhere, much less a stick of firewood. But we sure had steam heat at night, and we cooked, in the milder of the fumaroles." "Wasn't there a lot of gas coming up with the steam?" asked Ace. "Yes, but it didn't taint our food any. It was an ideal steam cooker. Farther down the valley were some vents hot enough to fry bacon." "I should think it would have steamed it," said Ted. "No, we found one vent where the steam came so hot that it didn't condense for several feet above ground; the only trouble was that the frying pan had a tendency to go flying up in the air and the cook had to have a strong arm to hold it down." At the picture his memory evoked, Norris burst into hearty chuckles. "As the bacon got crisp, of course it didn't weigh so heavy, and there always came a point where it began to fly out of the pan. Then we'd all stand around, and it was the liveliest man that caught the most breakfast. "There was another camp convenience, too, there in Hades, as the valley has been named." "Thar, didn't I tell you so?" triumphed Long Lester. "And they named the river Lethe. A river that ran down from the melting glaciers,--though it almost all goes up in smoke, as it were,--in steam, before it gets out of the hot part. This river whirls along, and in places the steam actually boils up through the ice water, or along the banks. I used to think it was an awful pity there were no fish in that stream, because we could have cooked them without taking them off the hook." "Huh!" The old prospector shook his head. "I've thought all along this here was a fish story." "But it's gospel truth," Norris assured him. "I mean about the valley. I _said_ there were no fish. Everything we ate, by the way, had to be packed in on our backs. It was no place for horses, where in places the ground fairly shook beneath our feet, and if it were to give way, we'd find ourselves sure enough in hot water." "It must have been almighty dangerous," gasped Ted. "Well, not after we learned the ropes. Sometimes we accidentally put a foot through a thin place and steam came through. I assure you we stepped lively then. At other times our feet sank into the soft, hot mud. "By the way, there is a mountain across the head of the valley that looks like a crouching dog, and it has been named Cerberus." "Were those geysers, those ten thousand smokes?" asked the old prospector. "No, a geyser comes after volcanic activity, while here something is still likely to happen. A geyser begins as a column of steam and hot water, which erupts as often as the water gets to the boiling point. It follows that the water must accumulate in rock not so hot that it would instantly vaporize it. But the rock underlying this valley is so hot that no water can accumulate." "How large are the vents through which the steam comes?" asked Ted. "All sizes down to nothing at all. There are even a few craters 100 feet across, that have been produced by volcanic explosions. You will find these craters, generally, along a large fissure, just the way you find the Aleutian chain of volcanoes along a fissure in the earth's crust several hundred miles in length. "There are fissures all along the margins of the valley, besides those in the center, and many of these have one side standing higher than the other, showing them to be earthquake faults,--the same sort of thing we see here in the rocks of the Sierras. And you should hear the hissing and roaring of the steam as it forces its way up through these fissures from the hot depths beneath. Sometimes it looks like blue smoke, it is so full of gases, especially sulphur dioxide, the gas that is given off by burning sulphur. So the popular notion of Hades isn't so far off after all, eh?" "Could you smell the sulphur fumes?" "Sometimes, yes,--when the other gases did not overwhelm the odor. But the weirdest part of all is the incrustations along the borders of the vents. All colors of the rainbows--shapes as fantastic as anything in fairyland. Lots of yellow, of course, from the sulphur,--crystals of it, some of them neighbor to an orange tinted crystal, lying in the blue mud. It was a beautiful color combination. Then there were green and gray alum crystals which looked like growing lichens. There were also deep green algæ actually growing. Strange how certain designs are used over and over again in nature! In other places the mud is actually burned brick red, especially where the fumaroles are burnt out. This shades to purple, and in other places to pink. But the most surprising, perhaps, were the white vents just tinted with a delicate pink or cream. "The largest fissure of all, one lying at the foot of Mt. Mageik, is filled with the clear green water of a melted glacier. And above, the mountain smokes away into the clouds!" "It must be a marvelous place!" said Ace. "I suppose it was regular ice water." Norris laughed. "That is the funny part of it. It's not. The water is actually warm, or rather, tepid, in places, on account of the heat from below." "So you had good swimming even in Alaska." "We might have had. And then I must tell you about Novarupta. That's the largest vent in the valley, and it is something you won't see very many places in the world, a new volcano. It was only formed at the time of the eruption of 1912, and it is one of the largest volcanoes in the world to-day,--with a crater much larger than that of Vesuvius." "But Mr. Norris, do y' mind my asking," Pedro hesitated, "but how do you know it is a new volcano? Don't volcanoes sometimes burst forth again after many years of quiet?" "They do, but there is where the rocks tell the story again. Instead of bursting forth from a mountain top, through igneous rock, (left from the time when the earth-crust was molten), this one erupted in the valley, in sandstone. On a still day, the smoke will rise as high as ten thousand feet." Norris, then a student, had been one of the first to view Lassen Volcano when, in 1914, it broke its slumber of 200 years. Indeed, he had had a real adventure, as the second outburst had caught him within half a mile of the crater and he had barely escaped with his life. Of course the boys had to hear all about it. While the Sierra south of Lassen has been built more through uplift than volcanic activity, at least since the Tertiary period, he explained, the Cascades and indeed, the whole range to the northward through Oregon and Washington, is a product of lava flow. Happening to be about to start on a camping trip in the Feather River region at the time of the first eruption, he and his companion had hastened immediately to the scene of so much geological history making. The smoke and ashes that billowed forth had been visible for fifty miles, and the accompanying earthquake shocks had been accompanied by a downpour of rain. Climbing the path of a recent snow-slide, which had cleared a narrow path in the fifteen-foot drifts, they could smell sulphur strongly from near the South base onward. Veering around to the East, past half a dozen cinder cones, they finally reached a narrow ridge leading directly to, as yet unoccupied, the fire outlook station. Clambering over crags so steep, finally, that they could not see ahead, they came to the little square building, now tattered by the stones that had fallen through its roof, tethered to the few feet of space available by wire cables that seemed to hold it down in the teeth of the winds. Suddenly below them lay the bowl of the ancient crater, bordered by snow fields now gray with ash. That the ash had not been hot they judged from the fact that it had nowise melted the snow, but lay on its surface. From the ragged edge of the steaming basin, yellow with sulphur, rose the oppressive fumes they had been getting more and more strongly. How deep was this funnel to the interior of the earth? To their amazement it appeared to be only about 80 feet deep. That, they decided,--coupled with the fact that the ash and rocks exploded had not been hot, but cold, must be because the sides of the crater, as they gradually caved in, must have choked the neck of the crater with débris, which had been expelled when the smoke and gases had been exploded. There had been no lava flow, then! They had retraced their steps to perhaps half a mile's distance when of a sudden the earth beneath their feet began to heave and rumble thunderously. Ashes and rocks, some the size of flour sacks, some huge bowlders, began shooting into the air,--observers at a distance assuring them afterwards that the smoke must have risen 3,000 feet above the peak. It grew black as midnight, the smoke stung their eyes and lungs and whiffs of sulphur nearly overwhelmed them. It was a position of deadly peril. Quick as thought, they ran, Norris dragging his companion after him, beneath the shelter of an overhanging ledge, where at least the rocks could not fall on them, and there they buried their faces in the snow and waited. What seemed hours was later pronounced to have been but fifteen minutes, though with the roaring as of mighty winds, and the subterranean grumblings and sudden inky night, the crashing of stones and thundering of rolling bowlders, it seemed like the end of the world. Norris's companion had suffered a blow that dislocated his shoulder, but otherwise they emerged unhurt. They afterwards found several areas on the sides of Lassen where sulphurous gases were escaping from pools of hot mud or boiling water. They also visited a lake that had been formed at the time of the lava flow of 200 years ago, (now a matter of legend among the Pitt River Indians), this lava having formed a dam across a little valley which later filled from the melting snows. The stumps of the inundated trees could still be seen. A geyser, said the Geological Survey man, is just like a volcano, only it expels steam and boiling water from the interior. There is a line of volcanic activity up and down the Pacific Coast, from Alaska to Central America, though Lassen is the only active peak in California, Shasta having become quiescent save for the hot spring that steams through the snow near its summit. The North half of the range, he added, is covered with floods of glassy black lava and dotted with extinct craters, whereas the Southern half is almost solid granite, though there are plenty of volcanic rocks to be found among its wild gorges. The rocks around Lassen tell a vivid story of the chain of fire mountains that must have again and again blazed into geysers of molten rock, till the whole smoking range was quenched beneath the ice of that last glacier period, which through the ages has been sculpturing new lake and river beds, and grinding soil for the rebirth of the mighty forests. The boys drowsed off that night to dream of fire mountains and explorations in the nether regions. The next day they planned to bi-plane up and down the John Muir trail again and see if the Mexicans could have crossed to the Eastern side of the range. They might have made their way through some pass, traveling after nightfall and hiding by day, and once on the desert around Mono Lake they would be easy to locate. For it seemed ridiculous that they could actually make a get-away. CHAPTER XII GOLD! In the pass between two appalling peaks the two boys sighted the smoke of a cook-fire, and without once reflecting that they were unarmed, pan-caked down for a closer inspection. But there was no need to land. It was a band of Indians. And though they searched till they were ready to drop with fatigue,--and all but frozen stiff in those high altitudes,--not the sign of a Mexican did they sight after that. They returned utterly discouraged. "What kind of Indians were they?" asked Long Lester. "Oh, just Indians," said the ranch boy. "That is like saying, oh, just whites," said Norris. "Indians differ more than you would ever imagine." "Why is that, Mr. Norris?" Ted wanted to know. "They're mostly mighty good for nothing specimens, to judge from our Diggers." "I'll tell you after supper," Norris promised them. Pedro had been out with his trout rod. Descending to the river, which here circled around a huge bowlder from which he thought he could cast, he had a string in no time. Now Pedro was thoroughly well liked, with his Castilian courtesy and his ever ready song. The lack of physical courage had been his greatest drawback. Always had the fear been secret within him that at some crucial moment he might show the white feather. His experience with the Mexicans had removed that, but he was still mortally afraid of three things,--bears, rattlesnakes, and thunder storms,--that is, real wild bears, not the half tame kind that haunt the Parks. Still, he had not noticed the furry form that stood neck-deep in the riffles, fishing with his great, barbed paw,--so perfectly did he blend into the background. The shadow of the canyon wall had made twilight while yet the sun sent orange shafts through the trees on the canyon rim. Suddenly around the turn of the trail rose a huge brown form that gave a startled grunt, rising inquiringly on its shaggy hind legs and swinging its long head from side to side. Pedro's heart began beating like a trip-hammer. (He wondered if the bear could hear it). He wanted to run, to scream,--a course that would have been most ill-advised, for the bear might then have given chase. As it was, the boy remembered that the animal was probably more afraid than he,--or more likely merely curious at this biped invasion of his wilderness,--and would not harm him if no hostile move were made. The cinnamon bear of the Sierras, like his blood brother, the New England black bear, is a good-natured fellow. With an iron grip on his nerves, he forced himself to stand stock-still, then back--ever so amenably--off the trail. The bear, finding no hostility intended, turned and lumbered up the mountainside. "'Minds me of one time,' said Long Lester, when he heard the story, 'I was down to the crick once when I was a shaver, and along came a big brown bear. The bear, he stood up on his haunches, surprised like, and just gave one 'woof.' About that time I decided to take to the tall timber." (At this, Pedro looked singularly gratified.) "Well, that bear, he took to the same tree I did, and I kept right on a-climbin' so high that I get clear to the top,--it were a slim kind of a tree,--and the top bends and draps me off in the water!" [Illustration: Around the turn of the trail rose a huge brown form.] "What became of the bear?" Pedro demanded. "I dunno. I didn't wait to see. But Mr. Norris here were a-sayin' there's nothin' in the back country a-goin' to hurt you unless'n it's rattlesnakes. Now when I was a-prospectin' I allus used to carry a hair rope along, and make a good big circle around my bed with it. The rattler won't crawl over the hair rope." The boys thought he was joshing them, but Long Lester was telling the literal truth. "Once I was just a-crawlin' into bed," he went on, "when I heard a rattle," and with the aid of a dry leaf he gave a faint imitation of the buzzing "chick-chick-chick-chick-chick" that sounds so ominous when you know it and so harmless when you don't. "I flung back the covers with one jerk, and jumped back myself out of the way. There was a snake down at the foot of my blankets. They are always trying to crawl into a warm place." "Then what?" breathed three round eyed boys. "First I put on my shoes and made up a fire so's I could see, 'n' then I take a forked stick and get him by the neck, and smash his head with a stone." "And yet I've heard of making pets of them," said Norris. "They do. Some do. But I wouldn't," stated Long Lester emphatically. "Ner I wouldn't advise any one to trust 'em too fur, neither." "They say a rattler has one rattle on his tail for every year of his age," ventured Pedro. "A young snake," spoke up Ted, "has a soft button on its tail. And then the rattle grows at the rate of three joints a year, and you can't tell a thing about its age, because by the time there are about ten of them, it snaps off when it rattles." "Down in San Antonio," said Ace, "we had an hour between trains once, and we went into a billiard parlor where they had a collection of rattlesnakes, stuffed. And they showed some rattles with 30 or 40 joints to them." "Huh!" laughed Ted. "That's easy! You can snap the rattles of several snakes together any time you want to give some tourist a thrill." "You seem to know all about it," gibed Ace. "They had 13 species of rattlesnakes down in this--it used to be a saloon. And ten of them Western. They had a huge seven foot diamond back, and they had yellow ones and gray ones and black ones and some that were almost pink. I mean, they had their skins. All colors----" "To match their habitat," supplemented Norris. "Our California rattler is a gray or pale brown where it's dry summers, and in the Oregon woods where it's moist, and the foliage deeper colored, it's green-black all but the spots. _I've_ seen them tamed. There was one guide up there who kept one in a cage, and it would take a mouse from his fingers." "I wouldn't chance it," shivered Ted. "Oh, this one would glide up flat on the floor of the cage. They can't strike unless they're coiled." "I suppose he caught it before it was old enough to be poison," said Pedro. "A rattlesnake can strike from the moment it's born. It's perfectly independent a few hours after birth." "Ugh! Bet I dream of them now." But such was their healthy out-of-door fatigue that they all slept like logs. It was only the next day, however, that the two boys, Ace and Ted, poking exploratively into a deep cleft in a rock ledge, were startled by an abrupt, ominous rattle, and beheld in their path the symmetrical coils of the sinister one. The inflated neck was arched from the center of the coil and the heart-shaped head, with red tongue out-thrust, waved slowly as the upthrust tail vibrated angrily. A flash of that swift head would inject the deadly virus into the leg of one of the intruders. Yet Ted knew the reptile would never advance to the attack. Dragging Ace back with him, he instantly placed at least six feet between them, so that, should the snake charge, it could not reach them. But with the enemy obviously on the retreat, the snake glided to cover in a tumbled mass of rocks at one side. "Gee! We nearly stepped on him!" the ranch boy exclaimed, with a voice that was not quite steady. "Next time we go poking into a place like that, let's poke in a stick first, or throw a stone, to make sure there's 'nobody home.'" "Wish I'd a brought a hair rope," mused Ace. "We might have had one that would go clear around all our sleeping bags. First chance we get, I'm going to buy one." "Naw! We won't need one. Did you ever see a rattler catch a rabbit?" asked his chum. "No, d'you?" "Once I was going along when I noticed the trail of some sort of snake going across the road. Next thing I heard a rabbit squeal, and by the time I spotted the snake it had a hump half way down its throat, and it was swallowing and swallowing trying to get that rabbit down whole." "I consider the possibility of rattlesnake bite the one biggest danger in the whole Sierra," declared Norris, one night, lighting each step carefully over the rocks. "And he does his hunting by night." "Considerate of him!" laughed Ace, "seeing that campers do most of theirs by day. But why is it such a danger? I've heard opinions pro and con." "Rattlesnake venom disintegrates the blood vessels, makes the blood thin and unable to clot. I knew a man who was struck in the ankle, and they had to amputate the leg, and the very bones of that leg were saturated with the blood that had seeped through the weakened walls of the blood vessels." "How does it feel to be struck, I wonder?" the boy shuddered. "This man's ankle became discolored practically immediately and began to swell. Of course the bite was through his sock, which must have kept a little of the poison out of it, and it fortunately did not happen to penetrate an artery. We could have cut and kneaded the wound instantly to clear out as much as possible of the venom before it had time to enter the blood system, but the fellow refused such heroic measures. We should have taken him by force; it would have saved his leg, likely, for ordinarily this, and a ligature, will do the work. "Or we could have burned it clean, or injected the serum if we'd had it. But as I was about to explain, he soon became dull and languid, breathing noisily, for the poison affected heart and lungs. It was then that he let us get to work,--almost too late,--or rather, that he ceased his protest. His whole leg swelled and turned black, clear up, he got feverish and nauseated, and for hours he kept swooning off, while we worked over him, almost giving up hope, and one of our men had gone post-haste for an old guide who made the serum,--anti-venom serum." "Did he finally pull through?" "With the loss of a leg. If he hadn't had that off pronto, gangrene would likely have set in and he'd have gone." "But this serum--where do you get it?" "I don't know. We got it of a man who made it. First he injected into a mule a tiny drop of the venom." "How did he get the venom?" "Killed a snake. You know the poison is in a tiny sac at the root of each fang. Well, after he had given the mule the first dose and he had recovered, he tried a larger one, then a still larger one, and so on, every few weeks for a year or more, until the mule's blood serum had developed enough anti-toxin to make him immune to rattlesnake bite." "But then what?" "He let some of the mule's blood, separated the serum, sterilized it, and put it up in sealed tubes, which he kept in the cellar. This serum is injected into the victim's blood with a hypodermic syringe, and if it is used before he has collapsed, it will cure him every time. We really ought to have brought some along, just in case of extreme emergency. I have, however, a bottle of permanganate of potash crystals," and he showed a little hard rubber tube two and a half inches long, one end of which contained the crystals and the other a well sharpened lancet, as the stuff has to be put right into the wound. This outfit, he explained, had only cost a dollar, and was so tiny it could be carried right on the person when in danger of being snake bitten. However, it has to be used instantly, (within three or four minutes at the outside), "if it is to neutralize the corroding acid of the poison and do any good." That night a bon-fire built up into a log cabin with a tepee of pine fringed poles atop sent the sparks flying, but was not uncomfortably hot except on their faces. These they shaded with their hat brims. "I wonder why there is so much difference in Indians," mused Ace. "When Dad and I visited the Hopis, there, on our way to the Grand Canyon, we were impressed by their high degree of civilization. Like all the Pueblos, they raised good crops, had a regular government, and even an art. And look at these Digger Indians, filthy, thieving creatures, grubbing for roots like wild animals, eating slugs and lizards, because they are too lazy to cultivate a piece of ground!" "I remember," said Norris, "one of my favorite professors at Yale always said that civilization was largely dependent upon civilization," and he pointed out the Indians as an illustration. Of course he gave due credit to what he termed inherent mental capacity. But to climate he laid the energy with which that capacity is developed,--always provided there were sufficient material resources. That is to say, even white men with fine brains could not evolve as high a degree of civilization in the Arctic Circle as they can where they have the material resources necessary to supply the physical needs. "But I should think the material resources of the Arctic Circle were a result of the climate." "In large part, they are. That just strengthens the point that climate has had a lot to do with civilization, and incidentally with the differences between different tribes of Indians. I wonder if I can give his theory straight! Well, anyway, here's the general idea. It applies quite as much to all nationalities as it does to Indians in particular. "What is our conception of The Noble Red Man? He is observant, he has unlimited physical endurance, but he does not adapt himself to our civilization, nor does he work out new methods for himself, as we have done since America was settled. He is conservative, in other words,--lacking in originality and inventiveness. "Of course they came at some stage of their evolution from the primitive home of man in Asia. So also did the Scandinavians,--so also did the Japanese. But while both of these finally located in cold but not too cold climates, nor steadily cold, they were merely stimulated. The Indian, though,--the American Indian,--likely migrated by way of Bering Strait, and passing generations in the Esquimo lands, where it is about all they can manage to keep alive at all during the long, dark winters. The result? Those who were high strung nervously went insane,--just as many an Esquimo and many a white man does to-day, under the necessity of idling in a stuffy hut in the cold and darkness. It was only the mentally lazy who could survive that phase of their evolution. That accounts for certain differences between all Indians and all white men. "Remember, it wasn't the sheer cold so much as the monotony of the unbroken cold and darkness. The negroes of Africa also failed to progress, but in their case it was the energy-inhibiting equatorial climate, and especially the monotony of unbroken equatorial conditions. The European Nordics,--remember, of ancestral stock originating in that same Asiatic cradle,--had severe cold, and in summer, often, extreme heat,--but there was no monotony. "The too active Hottentot soon killed himself off, and only the indolent survived. The races that have had long sojourns, in the course of their racial wanderings, under desert conditions, where patient endurance is an asset, also suffered a decimation of their more alert members. The stolid were the more fit to survive desert conditions. You will find races now dwelling in favorable climates who may exhibit these unprogressive qualities, but back of them is a history of some experience that has weeded out the more active individuals. "But am I getting too long-winded?" "You haven't told us yet why one tribe of Indians will be so different from another, if they both came here via the Arctic Circle," urged Ace. "Well, there is where another factor comes in,--that of material resources. What could an Arab have accomplished with nothing but desert sands to work with? What can the Esquimos accomplish with little but ice to grow crops? They must secure their food by hunting, and hunters must be nomadic. Nomads cannot carry many creature comforts with them, nor can scattered groups be much mental stimulus to one another. Nor can the arts develop when the mere struggle for animal existence demands one's whole energy. "These Digger Indians came from the as yet unirrigated deserts around Los Angeles, with its long dry season, whereas Hopis and other Pueblos around Santa Fe, though up against as dry a climate, taking it in actual number of inches rainfall per year, have enough of their rain during the summer months to enable them to raise crops, and hence to establish permanent habitats, and hence to work out a form of government, a social system, an art and an organized religion." "But the Utes around Salt Lake City, who were living on grasshoppers when the Pueblos were eating squash and beans,--utter savages,--didn't they have much the same climate as the Pueblos?" "What I said of the Diggers of Los Angeles applies to them. Their rainfall did not come at the right time of year to raise crops, and of course in such desert conditions there were practically no wild fruits. "The Indians of the more fertile parts of North America, like the early people of Europe, had wild vegetation to supply the means of subsistence. And the wild vegetation also gave wild game a means of subsistence, to say nothing of the means for clothing and shelter. Of course that is not the whole of the story. There is, for instance, coal and iron, but iron has to be smelted where there is forestation, and we come right back to climate, as one of the principal factors in civilization. "There is also energy,--zeal, determination. But what about the effect of proper food and shelter on those qualities? And more important, what about the effect of climate? "Elaborate tests have been made. Without going into all that, perhaps you will take my word for it. But the best climate for either physical or mental efficiency is one that is variable,--for change is stimulating,--and that goes to no unlivable extreme, but offers the cold, dry winter and the warm, slightly rainy summer of, say, for instance, the Eastern United States, or Central Europe, Italy, or Japan." "But why does a winter in Southern California do an invalid so much good?" "The change. The beneficial effects wear off with time. "And just one word more, while we are on the subject. I'd hardly do my old professor justice unless I mentioned that he lays that third factor in civilization, inherent mental capacity, to the climatic conditions, not of the present, but of the ancestral history of the past. But remember, the climate of, say, Greece, has not always been what it is to-day. Our Big Trees show, by an examination of their annual rings, the same story that the rocks tell,--and that history tells,--that there have been constant fluctuations of climate, within certain limitations. The records of geology lead us to believe that California and the Mediterranean countries have undergone the same climatic variations." The next day the boys were so tired of sleuthing for the fire-bugs that they decided to join the others in a holiday and explore one of the neighboring peaks, leaving the burros and outfit at their camp of the night before. About noon, the trail ended abruptly at a peak of granite blocks each no larger than a footstool. Off to the left they could see a peak higher than the one immediately before them. It seemed to be a ridge of three peaks, theirs the middle one, and once on the ridge, they could pick a course along the crest. A little further on, the trail narrowed till they could see a tiny lake on either side, and a stone's throw below, pools as clear as mirrors reflecting the twisted growth about their brims. Then Ace gave a shout, for down a hollow between two ridges to the north lay a patch of snow. Sliding,--on their feet if they could manage it,--and snow-balling, the boys were surprised to find how short of breath they were at this elevation, a trifle over ten thousand feet, Norris estimated,--for on their steady upward plod they had not particularly noticed it, or had not attributed their slightly unusual heaviness to altitude. They were therefore willing enough to rest on top, though even at noon the wind blew cold upon them. Stretching almost north and south before them rose the main crest of the Sierras,--peak after peak that they could name from the map. They could see for at least a hundred miles. First the wild green gorges that made the peaks seem higher, then snow-capped and glacier-streaked altitudes rising one above another till they faded into purple nothingness. They did their climbing single file, with arms free, having disposed of their lunch at timberline. But where Norris had led the way up, Pedro was the first to start back. "Come on, why not take a short cut?" he shouted in competition with the wind. "All right." Norris stepped on a rock at that moment that turned with him, barely escaping a wrenched ankle. He kept his eyes on his footing for some moments after that. It was therefore not surprising that he did not notice where Pedro was leading, till the latter called: "Why, there's our lake, isn't it?" The way began to be all bowlders, larger and larger ones. "Here, that isn't the way we came," cautioned Norris. "I know it," Pedro assured him, "but see, Mr. Norris, we're just going around this middle peak instead of over it." "Better not try any stunts," warned the Geological Survey man. Had he been by himself, he would have gone straight back till he came to the way they had gone up. But the boys were tired, and he hated to ask them to retrace their steps. Besides, he did not want to discourage initiative in the Spanish boy. But soon they found themselves scrambling over slabs so high that they had to take them on all fours, clambering over one as high as their heads, then letting themselves down into the cranny between that and the next. "We sure never came over anything like this!" the rest of the party began complaining. But on they scuttled, leapt and sprawled, no one finding any better way. "Hurry, there's our lake!" shouted Pedro finally. "I'll bet if I could throw a stone hard enough, it would scare the fish." But Norris spoke in alarm: "We couldn't see any lake on the trail going up. On the contrary, we saw the peak to our left. Don't you remember? Now see! That peak is on our _right_!" "Fellows, we are on the wrong side of this ridge," he decided. "And what is more, instead of going back down the middle crest, we have gone clear on to the third peak." (For the ridge was a three peaked affair, the middle being the lowest.) "The best thing now is to circle around as near the top as we can go, till we strike the trail. If we keep circling, we are bound to strike it sooner or later. But let's not all go together, or we might start a rock-slide. Let's 'watch our step!' What would we do if one of you put his ankle out of commission?" The boys had little breath to waste on comment. Probably none but Norris had any vivid realization of the danger they were in, but each fellow had a keen eye to keeping his footing. Rock-slides the three boys had never seen, but a sprained knee or a crushed foot was something they could understand. Pedro also had a weather eye out for rattlesnakes, to whom these rocks would have been paradise if it had not been such a chill elevation. As the sun sank lower and lower, they began secretly to wonder what it would be to have to spend the night on this windy peak, without even an emergency ration,--unpardonable over-thought! They circled steadily, Norris now in the lead, the boys spreading out fan-wise as they followed, Pedro even getting clear to the foot of the granite where he thought he would have easier going through the woods, though he would also have a larger arc to traverse. He felt safer on solid ground, though had he measured, he might have seen that he had climbed as far in going down as did the others in circling around. Once a huge bowlder that overhung a precipice rocked under Ted, and it was only by a swift spring that he saved himself. Many of the smaller rocks tipped warningly, and he frequently stumbled. How slow their progress seemed! How fast the sun was sinking in the west! And how astoundingly their shoes were wearing through! It was three hours later that Pedro, down in the edge of the woods, gave a shout and began waving his arms in the wildest manner. Then along the way that he picked in coming to meet them, Norris with his glasses could just make out the brown ribbon of the trail. Fifteen minutes more and they were lined up ready for the homeward march, cured once and for all of short-cuts, and divided only as to whether it would be better to run, at the risk of a turned ankle, while there was light to see their footing, or walk, and have to go the last half of the way in darkness. They finally did some of both, running where the trail lay free from stones, and eventually having to make their way by the feel of the ground under the feet, and the memory of the mountain meadows whose perfume they passed, and the sound of the creek to their right. The stars were out, giving a faint but welcome light that served as guide when finally they stumbled into camp, bone-weary but safe, and nothing loth to set all hands for a square meal before tumbling in. Throwing some of their reserve supply of fuel on the fireplace, they soon had the home fires burning cheerily, and Pedro was demonstrating his can-opener cookery. Next day a glitter from beneath the water of a rivulet high on the mountainside, caught Ted's eye. Dipping with his tin cup, he brought up a specimen of sand and water. Could it be only mica that glistened so? Saying nothing to Ace, (for he remembered Long Lester's tale of salting a mine once when "the boys" wanted some one of their number to stand treat by way of celebration of his new-found riches), he slyly slipped an aluminum plate from out the pack and began that primitive operation that used to be known as pan and knife working. Falling a little behind, he kept at it until he had separated out some heavy yellow grains that proved malleable when he set his teeth on them. It was coarse gold! It was now time to announce his find, which he did to the amazement of all but the old prospector. A more careful inspection of the bend where he had found it proved it to be only the tiniest of pockets, though under their combined efforts that day it yielded what the old man pronounced to be about a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of dust. Still, even that was not to be sneezed at, as Long Lester put it, in terms of Ted's college fund,--for they all insisted on contributing their labor to his find. Ted, though, insisted equally that it be their stake for another camping trip. Later that same day they came to the remains of an old hut, now overgrown inside and out with vines and underbrush. In one corner the old man unearthed what he pronounced to be the rusted mining tools of the early days. A fallen tree that lay across the doorway had to be chopped through and cleared away before they could enter, and on stripping a bit of the dry bark away for firewood, Pedro was puzzled to find what appeared like hieroglyphics on its nether side. He showed Norris, but what it could be he could not imagine, till Norris happened to try his pocket shaving mirror on it. Then, clear as carving, only inverted, they spelled out the legend: "CLAME NOTISE--JUMPERS WILL BE SHOT." These were evidently the letters that had been carved on the tree trunk--as they judged, about six feet above its base, and though the sap had long since obliterated the original, the bark still told the story where it had grown over the wound. By chopping through the log at that point and making a rough count of the annual rings of growth, they estimated that all this had happened forty years ago. What had become of the old miner? For such his tools acclaimed him. Why had he never come back? Had he been overtaken by bandits, robbed of his buckskin bag of dust, and murdered? Or had he struck a richer claim elsewhere? They dug beneath what once had been his crude stone hearth, in the hope of buried treasure, but no such luck rewarded them, and finally they moved on up the mountainside, past vistas of green-black firs and yellow-green alders. As usual in these dry altitudes, the fiery sun of noon-day had grown chill at sunset, the wind stopped singing through the pines, and the weird bark of a coyote seemed to accentuate the loneliness that the wilderness knows most of all when some abandoned human habitation brings it home to one. But a heaped up bon-fire and a singing kettle soon drove the shadows from the circling mountain meadow that was to be their home for the night. "Thet there cabin," drawled Lester, "sure made me feel as if I were back on my old stamping grounds. 'Minds me of the place where I once found a chunk o' glassy white quartz half the size of my head with flakes of color in it that netted me $200. I spent quite consid'able time hunting for the vein that came from, but I never did, nohow." Norris explained to Ted and Pedro that a quartz bowlder will often be washed along a river. * * * * * They were awakened by the usual concert of hee-haws, as the burros, who followed at their heels all day like dogs, (except when they got contrary), woke the echoes with their loneliness. That day led them over another of the parallel ridges that comb the West flank of the Sierra, and into a precipitous canyon, over red sandstones and green shales, and slates of Tertiary formation, till they came to another hot spring and decided to pitch camp and all hands make use of the hot water. A natural bath tub and a smaller wash tub were found hollowed out of the stony banks, doubtless carved by whirling bowlders from the spring floods, and with the joy known only to the weary camper they performed their ablutions, filling the tubs, each in turn, by means of the nested pails. What grinding and whirling it must have taken, they reflected, as they felt the smoothness of their symmetrical bowls, to have hollowed these from the solid rock! With accompaniment of drift logs tumbling end for end, as the river rose and foamed beneath the thousand trickles of melting snow! "Ever been up here in winter?" Ace asked the old prospector. "Not exactly here, but I been places almighty like it." The old prospector told them how, in the days of the 49ers, (vivid recollections of which his father had collated to his youthful ears), the Mexicans had been treated in a way they had practically never forgiven. The land was free. Discovery and appropriation of a mining claim gave title, provided it was staked out and a notice scratched on a tin plate affixed to the claim stake, and likewise provided that the size of the claim accorded with the crude ruling for that region. Fifty feet was generally allowed along a river, or even a hundred where the claim was uncommonly poor and inaccessible, though where it was uncommonly rich, miners were sometimes restricted to ten square feet apiece. But Mexicans were generally refused the benefits of the gold claims, the "greasers" often being ejected by force of arms from the more valuable claims. Sometimes they were given three hours' grace for their get-away. More within the letter of the law, a tax was imposed on alien claim holders, but at first such a heavy one that it was practically prohibitive. This resulted in border warfare, and to many of the Mexicans originally on the land, abject poverty. At the Mexican dry diggings, which, with their bull rings and fandangoes, had sprung up here and there in the foothills, there was bloody defiance of the tax collector. Other groups became highwaymen, who robbed and murdered the blond race whom they felt had cheated and maltreated them, stabbing from ambush, or organizing into bands of road agents, who systematically robbed miners of their dust and stage drivers of their express boxes, and as often murdering their victims. There was Rattlesnake Dick, among other desperadoes, who with two gangsters, Alverez and Garcia, had terrorized the gold diggings till, five years after the gold rush, he had been killed by a rival bad man. Ace was so tired, he rested again that day, merely bringing his bi-plane in to the new camp site. As Long Lester drawled over the camp fire, the drowsy boys lived again in the days when a pinch of gold dust in a buckskin bag was currency, and red shirted miners gambled away their gains or drank it up, in a land of hot sunshine and hard toil, where a tin cup and a frying pan largely comprised their bachelor housekeeping apparatus, their provender such as could be brought in on jingle belled mule teams, their chief diversions the occasional open air meeting or the lynchings of their necessarily rough and ready justice. The more adventurous always abandoned a moderate prospect for a gold rush. Some of them made rich strikes; others ended their days in poverty, after all. The fire drowsed to a bed of red coals and the old man's chin was sunk in his whiskers, but still he talked on, almost as if in his sleep, and still the boys propped their eyes open while they stowed away in their memories pictures of the pony express riders, of the horse thieves branded--in this land of horseback distances--by having their ears cut off, and of the unshaven miners, sashes bound Mexican fashion around the tops of their pantaloons, the bottoms thrust into their boots, slouch hats shading their unshaven faces, as they panned the glittering sediments or built their sluices, with rocks for retaining the heavy particles of gold washed over them. Gold had been found in a belt 500 miles long by 50 wide,--and it was a cherished myth that somewhere along the crest of the range lay a mother lode. But that, Norris told them, was not the way of the precious metal. The "mother lode" was a myth. The next day the two boys started once again to look for the incendiaries, for when Ace set out to do a thing, it was do or die. Pedro had now overcome his fear for bears, Mexicans, and getting lost, but the too-gently reared youth had never conquered his nervousness at thunder storms. He meant to, though, for he had come to consider useless fears as so much surplus luggage. Just as when he was a small boy he had overcome his fear of the dark by going right out into it and wandering around in it till he felt at home in it, so now he meant to go right out into the next thunder storm that came, becoming its familiar, till he knew the worst, and no longer felt this unreasoning fear. It was therefore with a certain satisfaction, (though coupled with an equally certain inward shrinking), that as he scanned the skies for some sign of the returning bi-plane, he noticed, rising above a green fringe of silver firs across the canyon, the snowy cumulus of a cloud. This was about an hour before meridian, the time the usual five minute daily noon thunder storm began to gather. But to-day he noted with surprise, not unmixed with alarm, that beyond this one small mountain of the upper air,--so like the glacier-polished granite slopes beneath that it might have been a fairy mountain, swelling visibly as it rose higher and higher above the canyon wall,--beyond this for as far as he could see were other domes and up-boiling vapor mountains. What did it betoken? A cloud-burst?--For Sierra weather is not like that in the Eastern mountain ranges, and such an assemblage sweeping along the slopes and flying just above the green firs of the lower forests must mean something beyond ordinary in the line of weather. Had he known more of Sierra weather, he would that instant have given up his plan of being out in this specimen, but his new-born resolution was still strong within him, and--he did not know. One above another for as far as he could see the pearl-tinted billows rose from among the neighboring peaks, swelling visibly as it rose higher and higher. Then they began floating together, the cloud canyons taking on grayer tints, then deep purplish shadows, and their bases darkened with the weight of their vapory waters. With the sudden reverberation of a cannon shot, the first thunderbolt crashed just ahead of a blinding zig-zag of lightning, and echoing and reëchoing from peak to granite peak, with ear-splitting, metallic clearness, it rang its way down the canyon walls, till the echoes died away. Soon the big drops began spattering loudly on the granite slopes, till the drenched boy, bending his hat-brim to the onslaught, lost his footing in the new slipperiness of the smooth, sloping rocks, down which a solid sheet of water now raced, dimpling silver to the pelt of each additional drop. Before he could collect his scattered wits, another thunder peal came cannonading at the mountain mass, and almost behind him a solitary old fir tree shook the ground with its fall. Another fir was slivered into huge splinters that flew--fortunately for Pedro--just too far away to hit him. Then loosened rocks and bowlders began bounding and re-bounding down the cliffs till their thunder seemed as loud as that from the heavens. The lightning struck now here, now there, among the peaks, attracted by veins of mineral. Uneasy on account of the flying stones and falling tree trunks, Pedro was about to take shelter by crawling under a shelving rock when the rock itself was dislodged by a flash of lightning, and went pommeling to the slide-rock on the slope below. Seemingly all in the same breath, the rock-slide started, with a roar as of fifty express trains, as it seemed to Pedro's long-suffering ears. An electric storm always does start snow and rock slides. As if that had been the grand climax, the storm ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. By his watch it had not been an hour, but from the amount of damage done to both the geography and Pedro's feelings, it might have been a year, or a century. "But here we are, safe still," he told himself in surprise. "After this experience, I don't believe there is anything worse anywhere to look forward to. So what's the use of worrying about anything any more? Ever!"--The experience had been worth while. Just how he was to make his way back to camp was another question. [Illustration: Loosened rocks and bowlders began bounding down the cliffs.] With the mountainside a choice between slippery, dripping rock slopes and sliding mud, fallen tree trunks and soggy forest floor, it was no mean test he had to meet. But as the irrepressible California sun once more burst forth in golden glory, the clean-washed air was all balsamic fragrance, every leaf and fir needle held at its tip a drop of opal, and the birds,--emerging from the holes in which they had safely hidden, those who survived,--burst into happy gratitude. As luck would have it, an hour before the storm broke, the two boys had sighted the smoke of a camp-fire hidden away down in the bottom of a gulch, with slide rock to cut off any approach from the main ridge. Flying low, they could actually identify fat Sanchez and his two companions, who had their pack burros with them. It seemed too good to be true! But before they could decide whether to sail down and try to capture them themselves, or to go for Long Lester, the oncoming storm began to set them careening, and they had to fly out of the elements at right angles to the storm's approach. Returning three hours later with the old ex-deputy sheriff,--it was a spot not to be mistaken,--Ace gazed in complete stupefaction at the gulch where the Mexicans had been encamped. For there was now nothing there but slide-rock! The dust that still grayed the atmosphere spoke clearly of the catastrophe. And there would not have been one chance in a million of their escaping. That they had not done so, their non-appearance anywhere in the neighborhood bore abundant testimony. The Mexicans had been captured by those same natural forces they had tampered with when they set the forest fires. The little camping party was free to return as soon as their time was up. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Transcriber's Note: Each term described in the glossary originally had a pronunciation key in parenthesis. This key contained letters that are not available in any modern font, including UTF-8, and therefore is not displayable. Images of the original pronunciation keys are provided in the HTML version. Pronunciation keys are omitted in this text version.] GLOSSARY Archeopteryx, a fossil bird that had teeth and whose spinal column extended into the tail. Archeozoic, the era in which the simplest forms of life originated. Basalt, a dark brown or black igneous rock. Calcite, calcium carbonate, a rock that includes limestone and marble. Cambrian, the first period of the Paleozoic era,--that of the first abundance of marine animals. Carboniferous, producing or containing coal. Cenozoic, the age of mammal dominance. It included the last great ice age, the time of the transformation of apes into man, and the rise of the higher mammals. Comanchian, that period of the Mesozoic era that gave rise to flowers and the higher insects. Cretaceous, that period of the Mesozoic era that gave rise to the primitive mammals. Dinosaur, an order of extinct reptiles, of which there were a dozen varieties, mostly lizardlike and of huge size. Exhume, to dig out of the ground, or in the case of a fossil, to take out of its place of burial in the rock. Faulted, interrupted continuity of rock strata by displacement along a plane of fracture, generally caused by an earthquake. Formative, the era of the birth and growth of the earth out of the spiral nebula of the sun, the beginnings of the atmosphere and hydrosphere, and of the continental platforms and ocean basins. Fossil, the remains of plants and animals of prehistoric times, now found embedded in the rocks. Psychozoic, the era of man, including the time during which man attained his highest civilization (perhaps the past 30,000 years), to the present. Geology, the history of the earth as read in the rocks. Geyser, a boiling spring which periodically sends forth jets of water, steam and gas. Glacier, a slow moving river of ice, remnant of the last ice age, generally found flowing down the mountain peaks. Granite, a granular rock consisting of quartz, mica and feldspar,--the material of the original crust of the earth. Gypsum, the mineral from which plaster of Paris is made. Ichthyosaurus, an extinct fishlike reptile of huge size. Igneous, produced by the action of fire (i.e., a rock). Jurassic, that period of the Mesozoic era that gave rise to birds and flying reptiles. Lava, the melted rock ejected by a volcano. Limestone, a rock due in the main to the accumulated débris of plants and animals, especially to the shells of marine animals. Lithosphere, the rocky crust of the earth. Mesozoic, the era of reptile dominance, in which occurred the rise of dinosaurs, birds and flying reptiles, flowers and higher insects, and primitive mammals. Metamorphic, recrystallized by heat (i.e., a rock), or changed by pressure. Metamorphose, to change into a different form. Miocene, that period of the Cenozoic era when apes were transformed into man. Paleozoic, the era of fish dominance, in which occurred the first abundance of marine animals, the first known fresh-water fishes, the first known land floras, the first known amphibians, the first insects and the first accumulations of coal. Proterozoic, the age of invertebrate dominance, containing an early and a late ice age. Reconnaissance, a preliminary survey. Scarp, declivity. Shale, a fine-grained, layered, sedimentary rock, generally easily crumbled. Silica, a form of quartz. Stalactite, a pendant cone of calcium carbonate deposited by dripping water (as in a cave). Stalagmite, a deposit (on the floor of caves) resembling an inverted stalactite. Strata, layers of rock or earth. Striated, marked with fine grooves or lines of color. Triassic, the period that gave rise to dinosaurs. Triceratops, a fossil giant lizard. Uplift, an upheaval of rock strata. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- KEY TO GEOLOGIC TIME Archeozoic era. (Protoplasms.) Proterozoic era. (Invertebrates.) Paleozoic era. (Fish.) Cambrian period. Ordovician period. Silurian period. Devonian period. Mississippian period. Pennsylvanian period. Permian period. Mesozoic era. (Reptiles.) Triassic period. Jurassic period. Comanchean period. Cretaceous period. Cenozoic era. (Mammals.) Oligocene and Eocene time Pliocene and Miocene time. Pleistocene time. 
45989	----	[Illustration: "I'm Hit! Good Night!"] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras _by_ Jessie Graham Flower, A. M. _Illustrated_ THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio New York Made in U. S. A. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright MCMXXIII _By_ THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER I--OLD FRIENDS GET TOGETHER Overlanders plan for their summer's vacation in the saddle. Emma Dean "dotes on mysteries." Hippy Wingate gets a hard blow. Stacy amazes his new friends by his dramatic entrance. Shots and yells startle the Overland Riders. CHAPTER II--AN INTERRUPTED SLEEP The traveling salesman entertains his fellow passengers with tales of wrecks and hold-ups. Chunky makes the passengers laugh. Emma Dean has an attack of "nerves." Sheriff Ford is suspicious. The "Red Limited" comes to a jolting stop. "Robbers!" screams a woman. CHAPTER III--THE HOLD-UP OF THE RED LIMITED An ominous silence settles over the transcontinental express. The sheriff calls for volunteers to drive off the train bandits. Overland girls offer their services. The treasure car cut off. Stacy, in his pajamas, joins the defenders. CHAPTER IV--IN A LIVELY SKIRMISH "Dynamite!" exclaims Sheriff Ford. Defenders give battle. Stacy Brown shoots and talks. Hippy goes on a desperate mission. Bandit guards are outwitted. Lieutenant Wingate caught in a tight place. "I know you!" yells the Overland Rider. CHAPTER V--ON THE TRAIL OF THE MISSING Sheriff Ford starts a search for Lieutenant Wingate. A clue at last. "Captured by the bandits!" exclaims Tom Gray. Chunky helps himself to a plum pudding. "Suffering cats! You're it!" CHAPTER VI--CHUNKY MEETS THE BANDITS The fat boy stampedes the outlaws' horses. "Oh, wow! I've lost my biscuit." A pony that knew the way. "I suppose I emptied twelve saddles," boasts Stacy. Shots arouse the sheriff's camp. "Lie low, everybody!" CHAPTER VII--BANDITS CATCH A TARTAR Lieutenant Wingate, unconscious, is carried away on a pony's back. A cruel blow. A pin-prick saves the day. The escape of the Overland captive. "Cease firing! It's Hippy!" The traveling salesman in a new rôle. CHAPTER VIII--HEADED FOR THE HIGH COUNTRY Woo Smith joins the Overland outfit. Stacy declares that his pony can climb a tree. "I want food!" is the fat boy's plaint. The Overlanders are introduced to a "kyack." Packs are "thrown" and the journey to the Sierras is begun. CHAPTER IX--THEIR SLUMBERS DISTURBED "All aboard for the High Sierras!" The Chinaman proves to be a rare find. "You leave it to Smith," advises Hippy. Stories of rattlesnakes in campers' blankets set the Overland girls' nerves on edge. Woo savvies "transmigration." CHAPTER X--"BOOTS AND SADDLES" The Overland camp in an uproar. "Snakes! Oh, wow!" howls the fat boy. "Me savvy somebody pull queue," wails Woo Smith. The dark mystery is finally solved. Stacy Brown proves to be an unwilling "wrangler." CHAPTER XI--PONIES GET A BAD FRIGHT Hippy uses a pea-shooter with disastrous results. The fat boy awakens in a wild rose bush. Suspicion becomes a certainty. Overlanders make a perilous descent. "The ponies are stampeding!" shouts Lieutenant Wingate. CHAPTER XII--AMID THE GIANT SEQUOIAS "Look! Oh, look," cries Emma Dean. Lieutenant Wingate shoots a cinnamon bear. "Uncle Hippy never misses what he hits." Stopped by a rattler. Tom Gray lost in the great forest. Watched over by trees centuries old. CHAPTER XIII--THE CAMP AT THE "LAZY J" A surprise in the High Sierras. Overland Riders entertained at a mountain ranch. Stacy tries to shoe a horse. The white mare gets into action. Warned against the High Country. "Keep away from the 'Crazy Lake' section," advises the foreman. CHAPTER XIV--WOO'S EYES ARE KEEN The Chinaman sights a "buck in lelet." Hippy misses a "sure shot." "Why don't you use a pea-shooter?" jeers Stacy. A rifle that had been tampered with. "I--I just wanted to get even with you." A shot that reached the mark. CHAPTER XV--FOLLOWING THE AERIAL TRAIL The Overland Riders enjoy a venison dinner. Elfreda Briggs is reminded of Coney Island. Crossing a perilous mountain ridge. Emma Dean is afraid and doesn't care who knows it. The white mare meets with sudden disaster. CHAPTER XVI--GOING TO BED IN THE CLOUDS Kitty gives her masters a perilous job. Stacy offers to get a derrick. A scene to be remembered. Getting up in the world. Tom Gray makes up the Overlanders' beds with a pick. Stacy objects to being buried so soon after supper. CHAPTER XVII--IN THE LAND OF PINK SNOWS Woo loses a "piecee kettle" over the brink. The campfire disappears in the clouds. Camping in the valley of the blue lupines. A trail that was difficult to find. Elfreda becomes suddenly light-headed. CHAPTER XVIII--AT THE "TOP OF THE WORLD" The mystery of the "pink snows" is finally solved by Tom. A snowball battle above the clouds. On the peak of the High Sierras. The Overland Riders go to sleep in a snowbank. "Girls, this is an ideal summer resort." CHAPTER XIX--BOWLING IN NATURE'S ALLEY Hippy Wingate gives his companions a delightful surprise. The Overlanders withdraw their threat to throw him off the mountain. A mysterious lake is discovered. Emma Dean scores a hit. Bullets stop the highest bowling game on record. CHAPTER XX--LEAD AND MYSTERY IN THE AIR Overland Riders suddenly find themselves under fire. Stacy "creeps" to safety. "Get up and walk, you tenderfoot!" The Aerial Lake lives up to its reputation. Woo Smith savvies trouble. "Discovered!" exclaims Hippy. CHAPTER XXI--THE FACE IN THE WATERS The guide informs the Overlanders that a woman has been spying on the camp. Stacy feels like a snowbird. Prowlers leave a trail. Lieutenant Wingate meets with an unpleasant surprise. The pool of the mountain trout and what Grace Harlowe saw there. CHAPTER XXII--THE MYSTERY OF AERIAL LAKE Grace Harlowe flees from a hideous face. The Overland girls are eager to solve the mountain mystery. Stacy Brown discovers an "ark" and goes out for a sail. The fat boy mysteriously missing. Woo consults the skies. The lost boy returns with an appetite. CHAPTER XXIII--THE LAIR OF THE BAD MEN Chunky laughs at his companions' distress. Lieutenant Wingate invites his nephew out for a "paddle." Stacy makes an important discovery. Plunder found in the bandits' cave. The log that was chained down. Bullets drive the Overlanders from their quest. CHAPTER XXIV--MAKING A LAST STAND The Overland Riders are fired on by the mountain ruffians. Imprisoned by dynamite in the robbers' cave. A battle that came to a sudden end. Sheriff Ford to the rescue. Mother Jones' career is ended. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ GRACE HARLOWE'S OVERLAND RIDERS IN THE HIGH SIERRAS CHAPTER I OLD FRIENDS GET TOGETHER "Who is this Stacy Brown that you girls are speaking of?" questioned Emma Dean as the Overland girls sat down to dinner in Grace Harlowe's hospitable Haven Home. "He is my Hippy's nephew," Nora Wingate informed her. "You will like 'Chunky,' as he is known to his friends, and I promise you that he will keep this outfit from getting lonely," added Nora laughingly. "He was one of the members of the Pony Rider Boys' outfit," volunteered Grace. "You know we have heard of them several times on our journeyings. They used to go out in search of adventure every summer, so Stacy is a seasoned campaigner. We shall need him where we are going, too." "By the way, where are we going, Grace?" spoke up Elfreda Briggs. "I believe our destination is to be in the nature of a surprise--a mystery, as it were." "I just dote on mysteries," bubbled Emma. "Of course I could have learned all about it had I not been too conscientious." "That is characteristic of your sex," replied Hippy Wingate soberly. "May I ask you how you could have found out?" "I thank you for the compliment, and regret exceedingly that I cannot return the compliment in kind. How could I have found out? Why, by the transmigration of thought." "The what?" cried Elfreda laughingly. "Is this some new freak, Emma Dean?" "It may be new with me, but the principle is as old as the ages. I belong to the Society for the Promotion of Thought Transmigration. Our great and Most Worthy Master lives in Benares, India, where numbers of the faithful journey for instruction and inspiration once every two years." "Do you mean to say that you belong to that fool outfit?" wondered Hippy. "I am happy to say that I do. I joined last winter, and, novice that I am, I have realized some remarkable results," replied Emma. "Nora, we ought to take her to a specialist before we start on our journey. It won't do to have a crazy person with us. She might get us into no end of trouble," suggested Hippy. "Humph! I'd much prefer to be crazy than to have a bungalow head," retorted Emma scornfully. "A bungalow head?" exclaimed the girls. "Yes. A bungalow has no upper story, you know." "Ouch!" cried Hippy Wingate, clapping both hands to his head. "Now that our Sage of India has spoken, suppose Grace and Tom enlighten us as to where we are going this summer. In view of the fact that this is my treat--that I have offered to pay the expenses of the Overland Riders on this journey--it might not be inappropriate for me to inquire where we are going. Elfreda's question in that direction is as yet unanswered." Tom Gray nodded to his wife. "I had intended to wait until Stacy Brown arrived, but as he is not a member of our little organization, there is no reason why our business matters should be discussed with him," said Grace. "Dear friends, we are going to the High Sierras, the great snow-clad peaks of the far west. Adventure, hardship and health are awaiting us there. It will be a long journey before we reach the beginning of our real objective, but I believe you folks will agree with me that the preliminary journey is well worth while." "You say that Hippy is paying the bills?" interjected Emma. "He has so said. However, Tom will not have it that way, so we have agreed that Tom and Hippy shall share equally in the expense of the journey. Both feel quite rich now since they cleaned up on their big lumber deal in the North Woods," replied Grace. Elfreda said that such an arrangement would not please her at all, declaring that she would pay her own expenses. "You have nothing to say about it," laughed Tom. "The subject is closed. So far as our having Stacy Brown as our guest, is concerned, you all agreed to that when Grace wrote to you about his wish to join us on our summer outing. Are you still of the same mind?" "Yes," answered the girls in chorus. "What about a guide? Is that arranged for?" asked Miss Briggs. "Not yet," answered Grace. "We thought we would leave that until we reached our destination. Oh, girls, I have some of the loveliest trips in mind for several seasons ahead, but I'm not going to tell you a word about them now. In the meantime, anyone that has a suggestion to offer will please offer it." "I have no suggestions to offer, but I should like to ask further light on this new dope that Emma Dean has sprung on us. What is it, and how does it work?" asked Hippy. "If you won't make fun of me I'll tell you," replied Emma. "The transmigration of thought is 'tuning-in' one's mind to receive messages from the mind of another person, just as a wireless operator 'tunes-in' his instrument to catch the message being sent by another operator far away. In other words, persons so attuned to each other may converse, read each other's thoughts and hold communion, even though separated by thousands of miles of sea or land or both." "Marvelous!" breathed Hippy. "For instance, please tune-in your mind and tell me what I am thinking about. Let's see you do that, if you can," he declared triumphantly. "Our minds never could be in perfect accord, Theophilus Wingate. We are as far apart as the poles, but our range being so short, I can easily tell you what you are thinking about. Not being a deep thinker, you are as transparent as a piece of clear crystal." "Emma, don't you say that about my Hippy," protested Nora indignantly. "My Hippy has a mind as big as his heart, and--" "You are thinking," interjected Emma gravely, "what a shallow little butterfly I am, but what you do not know is that that thought is merely the reflection of your own mentality. You are, in other words, seeing yourself as others see you, Hippy Wingate." A peal of laughter from the Overland girls greeted Emma's retort. Hippy flushed, then joined in the laughter. "This is so sudden," he murmured. "I'll tell you what you do. Wait until Stacy arrives, then you just practice your transmigration stuff on him. Stacy will make a wonderful subject for you. He is so temperamental, so spiritual, that I am positive you and he will get wonderful results." Hippy winked at Nora as he said it. None of the others had ever seen Stacy Brown, so they had not the least idea what was in store for them from the comedian of the Pony Rider Boys' outfit. Stacy was an old campaigner, however, and Hippy knew that he would prove a valuable member of their party on the ride into the High Sierras. Stacy knew the open, and with his companions had experienced many exciting adventures in the wilder parts of the country. The Overland Riders, too, had had their full share of thrilling adventure, first as members of the Overton College Unit in France during the great war, where Hippy Wingate had won honors as a fighting air pilot, and Tom Gray at the front as a captain of engineers. However, they had a new phase of excitement to experience in "Chunky" Brown, and the first of those experiences was near at hand. A shot suddenly broke the summer stillness of Haven Home, a shot that brought the Overland Riders to their feet. "_Bang, bang, bang!_" "Merciful Heaven! Are we attacked?" cried Elfreda Briggs. "Whoop! Yeo-o-o-o-o-w!" Three more shots were fired, followed by a succession of startling whoops and yells. "What does it mean? I'm afraid!" cried Emma. The Overlanders ran out of the dining room to the veranda, but no one was in sight. "Chunky has arrived. Don't be afraid, girls," laughed Hippy Wingate. "He is on the other side of the house. There he comes!" A short, fat young fellow, riding a gray bronco and perched high on his saddle, at this juncture dashed around the end of the house, firing two shots into the air as he passed the amazed group. Just as he swept past, his sombrero fell off, but Chunky did not stop. In a minute or two he was back, and, making a graceful dip from the saddle, reached down for the hat. As he did so, the pony swerved and Stacy Brown landed on the grass of Haven Home, flopped over on his back, and after a few dazed seconds got up and shook himself. Stacy made a low bow to the spectators gathered on the veranda. "Oh, my dear, my dear! Are you hurt?" begged Nora, running to him. "Hurt? Of course not. I always fall off before dinner. It puts a keen edge on my appetite. Hulloa, folks! Glad to meet ye. Hey, Bismarck! Come here," he ordered. His dusty gray pony trotted to him and nosed Stacy's cheek affectionately. "Got anything loose around the house? I'm half starved," urged Chunky. "Uncle Hip, introduce me to these beautiful young ladies. I've heard of you folks, and so has Bismarck. You'll find him right friendly, especially the front end of him, but I shouldn't advise you to get too close to the tail end. He is very light there. Let him browse in the yard while I feed the inner man." "Indeed not," objected Grace. "I am not going to have my flowers trampled down after all my hard work on them this spring. Tom, please lead Stacy's pony around to the stables. I will put something on the table for you at once, Stacy. Come right in. We were just finishing dinner when you arrived so violently. Oh! Pardon me. You haven't yet been introduced to the girls." "Thanks!" bowed Stacy. "Thanks for the invitation, but come to think of it don't introduce me until after dinner. I never like to meet strangers on an empty stomach." "This is Miss Elfreda Briggs, a rising young lawyeress, and here is the life of our Overland party, Miss Emma Dean. We address each other by our first names, so you may call her Emma. Come now, Stacy." "You're a funny fellow, aren't you?" said Emma, surveying the newcomer curiously as they walked towards the house. "Then we are a pair of 'em, eh?" chuckled the fat boy. "I am not a boy, thank my lucky stars and all the saints," objected Emma. "I'll have you understand that, sir." "Let the dove of peace rest over your touchy spirit, Emma," laughed Grace chidingly. "It isn't a dove. It's a crow," corrected Chunky. "A thousand pardons, Emma dear. I--" "I'm not your dear," answered Emma with considerable heat. "Yes, you are, but you don't know it. To realize it you will have to emerge from the unconscious state in which you now so sweetly repose," teased Stacy, amid the laughter of the others. "I should prefer to be unconscious all the time," flung back Emma. "Ah! The food does smell good. Food always has a strange effect on me, and really, I haven't smelled any in almost a thousand years--not since breakfast this morning. By the way, where do we go and when do we start?" "To the Sierras," answered Tom Gray. "How are you, Chunky?" he added, extending a hand. "Starved. How's yourself?" "I think after we go back to the dining room and after I have my dessert that I shall feel fit as a fiddle," replied Tom. "To answer the rest of your question, we expect to start tomorrow forenoon. The ponies will be shipped in a car that is now on the siding at Oakdale." "Girls, what do you think of my nephew?" cried Hippy jovially, as they again seated themselves at the table. "So far as I am concerned, I think that he is another of those bungalow fellows just like yourself, Hippy," answered Emma. "Mr. Brown, may I ask if you ever have had any experience with mental transmigration?" she asked, turning to Chunky. Chunky, his mouth full of food, surveyed her solemnly. "Uh-huh!" he replied thickly. "I met one of those animals once in the Rocky Mountains. You see it was this way. We had been riding far into the night to find a suitable camping place, when we were suddenly halted by a savage growl just ahead of us. I went on ahead, with my trusty rifle ready, to slay the beast whatever it might be. Suddenly I saw him. He was the most terrible looking object that I've ever come up with in all my mountain experience. I threw up my rifle and shot the beast dead in his tracks." "Wonderful!" breathed Emma. "But what has that to do with mental transmigration?" "I'm coming to that. It is wonderful--I mean it was. Will you believe it, that terrible beast came to life. Yes, sir, he rose right up and made for us. My pony bolted, and I fell off--just as I ordinarily do before meal time. My feet at the moment chanced to be out of the stirrups and I fell off. Well, I might have been killed--I surely would have been killed, but I wasn't, just because of that stunt that you mentioned. I transmigrated myself out of that vicinity with a speed that left that terrible object so far behind that he just lay down and died again," finished Stacy Brown solemnly, amid shouts of laughter, in which all but Emma Dean joined. Stacy gave her a quick sidelong glance, and Hippy Wingate, observing the look, knew that war had been declared between Stacy Brown and Emma Dean. CHAPTER II AN INTERRUPTED SLEEP "Right at this point," said the traveling salesman impressively, "a train left the track and plunged into that ravine down there." "Any loss of life?" questioned Tom Gray. "A great many. I was in that wreck myself. I was shaken up a bit, that's all. You see I know how to take care of myself. We commercial travelers have to or we should soon be out of business. Nearly the whole train went into that ravine, and the car in which I was riding stood on end. I clung to the air-brake cord and thus was miraculously saved." "Humph!" muttered Stacy, hunching his fat shoulders forward. "You don't look to be light enough to perch on an air-brake cord." The Overland girls glanced amusedly at Chunky and the traveling salesman. The entire party was enjoying the late afternoon mountain air from the rear platform of the observation car on the transcontinental train known as the Red Limited. Just inside the door sat other passengers, who had been enjoying the frequent passages-at-arms between Stacy Brown and Emma Dean. The train had been rumbling over bridges and lurching through narrow cuts, affording the passengers brief views of a swiftly moving scenic panorama of interest and attractiveness. "As I was saying, the rope, in all probability, saved my life, as I was the only person in the car that came out alive," continued the traveling salesman. "I'm in ladies' fine shoes, you know." Stacy and Emma regarded the speaker's large feet, glanced at each other and grinned. "I'll bet you couldn't transmigrate them," whispered the fat boy. Emma elevated her nose, but made no reply to the trivial remark. "I mean that I am selling ladies' fine shoes, young man," added the salesman, he having observed the fat boy's grin. "My card." He passed business cards to those nearest to him, and from them the Overlanders learned that he was William Sylvester Holmes, traveling for a Denver shoe firm. "My trade call me 'Bill,'" he explained. "Hello, Bill!" muttered Hippy, nudging Nora. "May I ask what car you were in?" questioned a tall, bronzed passenger in a mild, apologetic voice. "The same as this one." "Hm-m-m! That's odd. I do not recall having seen you. However, I was in the other end of the car, which perhaps accounts for it," said the stranger in a more humble voice. William Sylvester flushed. Instead of being overcome, however, he shifted his conversation to another train wreck that he said had occurred a few miles further on at a place called Summit. The faces of the Overland Riders expanded into discreet smiles at the mild way in which the tall man had rebuked the loquacious traveler. Grace and Elfreda, in particular, found themselves much interested in this big man. Grace asked a fellow passenger who the man was, and learned that he was Bill Ford, for some years sheriff of Sonora County. Ford had been observing the traveling salesman through mild blue eyes in which there appeared an expression of more than casual interest. "It was that Summit wreck that nearly did me up," resumed Holmes. "We went over an embankment there. Being in a berth in a sleeping car I was unable to grab hold of anything. The car played football with me, but I came off with nothing more serious than a broken arm. Oh, I have had my experiences! Were you in that wreck, too?" he asked, turning quickly to the sheriff. "Never heard of it," answered Ford carelessly. "All that saved us was the fact that the cars were made of steel. We'll pass Summit within the hour, and I'll show you where we went off the rails that time." "Tell us about something that happened when the train didn't leave the rails," urged Stacy. "With pleasure. I remember, some two years ago--it was this very train, I do believe--when a party of bandits held up a train on this line. That occurred between Summit and Gardner. They uncoupled the express car and, after compelling the engineer to haul it up the track a short distance, dynamited the car and robbed it of the treasure it was carrying." "They've been cutting up that same kind of caper quite lately," nodded the sheriff. "Di--id they rob the passengers?" stammered Emma Dean. "In some of the cars, yes. In my car they did not. I held them off with my revolver. I----" "That was very careless of you. Why, sir, you might have shot yourself," cried Stacy. Mr. Holmes gave the fat boy a withering glance and resumed his story. "After my display of courage the other passengers got brave, and with their assistance I drove the bandits off. However, I should not advise it. For the average person, the safe course is to sit still and take his medicine. Gentlemen, never offer resistance when a gang of bandits orders you to put up your hands, but put them up as fast as you can and let them stay put," he added, fixing his gaze on Tom Gray who smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir," agreed Chunky. "That's the way I always do." "Were you ever held up?" questioned the salesman. "Many times. I put up my hands too, but there was a gun in both of 'em," answered Stacy amid much laughter. At this juncture a passenger asked the storyteller to tell them more about the hold-up, which he did without urging. "The train in question was carrying a treasure, just as this one no doubt is. The bandits had obtained information of this fact from a confederate. They were right on the job when the train came along. After stopping the train they placed men at the car door to take up a collection from the passengers. All submitted tamely, as they should have done, except in the car where I was, and--we are approaching Summit now. From that point we go down grade for twenty miles or so, then we begin to climb again. We stop at Summit." "Isn't it terrible, all that banditry. I'm afraid," shivered Emma when a little later the party had gone to the dining car for supper. "For one who can transmigrate as well as you can, there should be no fear," suggested Hippy. "Just transmigrate the bandits to some other train." "I think we should transmigrate ourselves in the event of such a thing occurring," vouchsafed Elfreda Briggs. Sheriff Ford came into the dining car shortly after the train had left Summit, and nodded at the party in a friendly fashion. "What has become of our story-telling friend, sir?" asked Grace. "I saw him go into the smoking car ahead as the train was leaving Summit. He sent two telegrams before leaving. This shoe business requires a lot of telegraphing, it appears," added the sheriff dryly. "How do you know it was about shoe business?" demanded Stacy. "Because I happened to see the last telegram." Tom Gray eyed the sheriff inquiringly, but the mild blue eyes of Mr. Ford conveyed nothing to him. After a pleasant evening, during which they saw no more of the traveling salesman, the Overland party retired to their berths for sleep. Forward, near the express car, rode the Overlanders' ponies in as much comfort as is possible to provide for animals en route. At every stop during the day one of the men of the party had run forward to look over the car of "stock," as the riders called their saddle animals. Now, however, all were too soundly asleep to think of ponies, and above the rumble of the train might be heard the rasping snores of Stacy Brown and Hippy Wingate. It was shortly after one o'clock in the morning when many of the sleepers were awakened by a sudden disconcerting jolt caused by an abrupt application of the air brakes. The train slowly settled down to a slow crawl, the hiss of the air from the brakes being plainly audible to those who had been awakened. The train stopped. Nothing of an alarming nature seemed to have occurred, so the nervous passengers again settled down into their blankets, for the night air was chill and penetrating. Others lay awake, but there was nothing to hear except the snores which continued without interruption. A few moments of this and then a subdued murmur of voices was heard just ahead of the Overlanders' car. A brief period of silence followed the murmur, then a man's voice, agitated and full of alarm, was raised so high that almost every person in the car was awake on the instant. "What is it?" cried a woman's voice from behind berth curtains. "We're held up! The train is held up!" cried the man. "Robbers! Robbers!" screamed the woman who had asked the question; and a chorus of frightened voices took up the refrain. CHAPTER III THE HOLD-UP OF THE RED LIMITED "Take it easy! Don't lose your heads. We are safe for the moment," urged a voice that sounded like Sheriff Ford's. Whoever it was, his words brought a measure of quiet to the excited passengers who were shivering in the aisle in scant attire. The passengers then sought their berths again and began dressing, for there would be no more sleep for them that night. Outside of the car there was not the slightest indication that anything out of the ordinary was occurring. An ominous stillness enshrouded the scene. Some one, more curious than the rest, stepped to the front platform of the sleeping car and, opening the vestibule door, looked out. The Overlanders learned later that it was Mr. Ford. A rifle shot roared out, whereupon the sheriff prudently stepped back and closed the door. Several smothered screams were heard, and then silence once more settled over the car. Up to the present time not a word had been heard from the Overland Riders. The curtains of their berths hung motionless, and Stacy Brown's snores were louder than ever. Perhaps they were all asleep, but how that could be possible in the circumstances it would be difficult to understand. The voice of Sheriff Ford once more focused the attention of the passengers on him. "Men," he said, addressing the passengers from one end of the car, "this train is being held up, but it does not look as if the passengers will be disturbed. If they are not, it means that the bandits are after the express car, in which, as I happen to know, there is a large amount of gold for shipment to the Pacific Coast for export. I am an officer of the law. The fact that I am not in my own county is sufficient excuse for my sitting down and letting the bandits have their own way, but I'm not that kind of a critter. I'm going out to take a hand in this affair, and I ask all the men in this car, who have weapons, to join me. Provided we get help from the other cars of the train, we can, perhaps, drive the robbers off. How many of you men are with me?" Two passengers stepped out from their berths. The curtains of the berths occupied by Lieutenant Theophilus Wingate and Captain Tom Gray were thrust aside, the curtain hooks rattling on the rods overhead, and they were revealed clad in shirts, trousers and boots, each with a revolver strapped on, sitting quietly on the edge of his berth. "Isn't there another _man_ in this car?" questioned Ford sarcastically. At this juncture Grace Harlowe, Elfreda Briggs, Nora Wingate and Emma Dean stepped out into the aisle, each wearing a revolver at her side, and Emma very pale and shaking in the chill air. "We are not men, but we are ready to do whatever you wish, Mr. Ford," announced Grace. Ford smiled and nodded. "I thought so," he said. "This appears to be about all we can depend upon. As for you young women, my hat is off to you, but this is no job for women. It's a man's job. What you can do, however, is to mount guard over this car and protect the other women. Can you all shoot?" Grace said they could. "Very well. Guard the vestibules, but in no circumstances open the vestibule door. The other passengers will please remain in their berths to avoid the possibility of being shot, and you young women will be careful that you do not shoot the train crew. Challenge first, then shoot, if you are not positive as to who any person is. Have you men ammunition?" "Yes," answered Hippy. "Lead us to it. We haven't had any action in so long that we are going stale." "We will go out by the rear door," announced the sheriff. "Please do not use your weapons until you are ordered to do so. The most we can hope to accomplish is to drive the bandits off--make them think they are attacked by a posse. There isn't much chance of our being able to capture the gang or any of them, much as I should like to do so. Yet I'm going to try to get hold of at least one. All ready!" "Be careful, Hippy darling," begged Nora as the little party moved towards the rear of the car. "You watch my smoke," chuckled Hippy. "Good luck," smiled Grace, waving a kiss to Tom as he turned to nod in return for her parting words. Ford stepped out into the rear vestibule and peered through the window into the darkness. "I'll go first," he said. "You follow when I give the signal. Not a word from any of you. Wait!" Lifting the trap-door in the vestibule floor, the sheriff let himself down on the steps, then cautiously stood up on the outside, revolver in hand for use in case of trouble. "Come out!" he commanded in a low voice. "There appears to be no one here. There goes the express car!" he added as a slight jolt of the train was heard. "They've cut out that car and are going to pull it up the track a piece and force it open. We'll have to hurry." Ford started on a run, the others falling in behind him. Up to this time no one had given Stacy Brown a thought, but as the party was leaving the sleeper something awakened him. Then Stacy heard someone say, "robbers!" The fat boy tumbled out into the aisle in his pajamas. "Wha--what is it?" he demanded sleepily. "The train is held up," answered Grace. "Oh! Wow!" "Yes, and Tom, Hippy and Mr. Ford, with two other passengers, have just gone out by the rear door to see what they can do to help us out," announced Miss Briggs. "You are a fine brave fellow to sleep through all this uproar." "They have gone to capture the bandit outfit and get their heads shot off for their pains," jeered the voice of a male passenger from the forward end of the car. "You're a brave man, aren't you?" chided Emma, directing her remark at Stacy. The fat boy blinked sleepily, then all of a sudden he woke up to a fuller realization of the situation. Emma's remark had passed unnoticed, but the taunt of the cowardly passenger had sent the blood pounding to Stacy's temples. The boy snatched his revolver from his grip and buckled on the holster, starting for the rear door at a run. "We can't all be heroes," he flung back at the passenger who had jeered at the Overlanders. "Some of us are born cowards with a stripe of yellow a yard wide through us. Go to sleep, children! I'll bag the lot of 'em and fetch 'em back for you to look at." Stacy fell through the opening in the platform, the trap-door still being open. In the fall, he bumped all the way from the platform to the ground, where he fetched up heavily in a sitting posture. "Hey, you fellows! Where are you? Wait for me, I'm on the way," he bellowed. "I've got the medicine with me. Sing out where you are." The fat boy started to run along the side of the train. He could not see his companions, but he was positive that they could not be far in advance of him. "W-a-i-t!" he shouted. "Who's that?" demanded Ford sharply. "It sounds like Brown of our party," laughed Hippy. "For goodness sake, go back and stop his noise or we'll have the robbers down on us," urged Ford. "Run for it!" Hippy started back at a brisk trot, on the alert for the presence of bandit sentries. He nearly collided with Stacy, and, knowing that the fat boy was impulsive, Hippy feared that Stacy might take him for a train robber and shoot, so he dropped down the instant he discovered his companion. "Stop that noise! Do you want to get hurt?" demanded Hippy sternly. "'Course I don't. I want to hurt a robber. Where are they?" "You will find out soon enough if you don't keep quiet." "That's what I'm making a noise about. I want to call 'em out; then you'll see what Stacy Brown and his little gun can do." "You are not to use your revolver until Mr. Ford gives you permission to do so. He is in command of our party. The bandits are supposed to be somewhere ahead of us. Come along, but don't you dare make a sound. Where have you been all the time?" "Sleeping. Isn't that what folks buy sleeping car tickets for?" "Hurry," urged Hippy, who ran on, followed by Stacy, stumbling and grunting, making enough noise to be heard several car-lengths away. The two came up with the others of their party at the front end of the forward car, where Ford had halted. "Where are they?" demanded Stacy. "I'm ready to capture the whole bunch. All I want now is to be shown. I'm a wild-cat for trouble when I get stirred up." "Silence, young man! I'll do all the talking necessary. You will get your wish for action soon enough, and I reckon you'll get some of the brag taken out of you, too," retorted Ford sarcastically. "Not if I see 'em first," gave back Stacy belligerently. "What is the order, Mr. Ford?" questioned Tom Gray. "We will go off to one side. It won't do to follow the railroad tracks. To do so would surely draw the fire of the bandits. There are several on guard not far from us," he added in a whisper, having been observing closely as he talked. "I think I now know the lay of the land. Be careful, all of you. If you will look sharp you will see that the bandits have the treasure car near the mouth of the ravine that leads up into the mountains." "They've taken our stock car too," groaned Stacy. "That's so. The ponies are gone, Ford," whispered Lieutenant Wingate. "I reckon they count on making a get-away on your horses," answered the sheriff. "We'll be able to block that game, I hope. Come!" After having walked some distance parallel with the tracks, the sheriff's party slowed down at a signal from their leader. Lanterns were seen moving about beside the tracks a short distance ahead of the sheriff. The safety valve of the engine was blowing off steam, the blow-off growing to a deafening roar that died down only when the engine pulled away from the express, baggage and stock cars. The locomotive came to a stop a short distance from the three cars, then the sound of a heavy object beating against the side door of one of the cars, was heard. "They're trying to smash in the door of the express car," whispered Ford. A volley of shots was fired at the car door by the bandits and was promptly answered by shots from within the car. The men in the express car appeared to be vigorously resisting the attack. They were firing at the band outside with such good effect that the robbers soon ceased their attempts to beat in the door with the section of a telegraph pole that they were using for the purpose. A period of silence followed while the bandits were holding a hurried consultation; then followed a movement among them. "Let me shoot! They're getting away, I tell you," urged Stacy excitedly. "Not yet, young man. Those fellows are up to more mischief, and I think I know what it is," answered Ford in a tense voice. "Men, we must get in and get in at once or we shall be too late. It is time to move. Listen to me, then obey promptly." CHAPTER IV IN A LIVELY SKIRMISH "We will crawl across the tracks between the engine and the cars," whispered the sheriff. "Once on the other side we must get to the rear of the bandits, and as soon as we find cover there we shall begin to shoot. I hope we may be in time. When we reach the other side of the rails I wish you men to spread out, but I want to know where every man of our party is." Ford started at a run, the others following, fully as eager as the sheriff to get into action. They had barely reached the rails when there occurred a sudden, blinding flash, followed by a heavy report. "Dynamite!" exclaimed Ford. "I expected that." "Our poor ponies," groaned Tom Gray. "If they get near my Bismarck he'll kick the everlasting daylights out of them," growled Stacy Brown. "Can't we do something?" urged Hippy. "Yes. We're going to do something and do it right quick," answered Ford grimly. "Fellows, remember that the bandits have rifles, while we have only our revolvers. You look out for those rifles, is my best advice to you." They reached the other side of the railroad tracks without loss of time and without attracting attention to themselves, and it was soon evident to the sheriff's party that the dynamite had not accomplished its purpose. The explosive had not been well placed, and the express car had been little damaged, though a hole had been dug out beside the tracks from the force of it. "When I give the word, shoot, but shoot over their heads," commanded Ford incisively. "Spread out and get down on your stomachs when you have taken your positions. Get going!" The men of the party crept along, skulking through the bushes that grew on the mountain side along the railroad right of way. One by one the members of the party dropped down and lay awaiting the word of command. Every now and then a shot would be fired from the interior of the express car, answered in each instance by a volley from the bandits. The preparations of Sheriff Ford up to this time had been made swiftly. The signal agreed upon for beginning the attack on the train bandits was two quick shots from Ford's revolver. The thin line of assailants waited in tense silence for the beginning of hostilities. The members of the little party were steady, although their pulses beat high, for no one deluded himself into the belief that this affair was going to be wholly one-sided. Two sharp reports from Ford's revolver, even though eagerly looked for, came so unexpectedly that every member of the party was startled, but their panic lasted for only a few seconds. Six heavy revolvers answered the signal. Three bullets sped harmlessly over the heads of the men who were trying to rob the express car. Three other bullets from the weapons of Ford, Tom and Hippy, by arrangement at the last moment before the party spread out, had been fired low enough to reach the legs of the bandits. Of course there could be no fine shooting on account of the darkness, but the sheriff and the two men with him did very well indeed, if the yells of rage that came from the bandits could be depended upon as indication of hits. "Down!" warned Ford when the revolvers had been emptied. Every man in the party well knew what was coming. The expected was not long in arriving. A volley of heavy rifle shots ripped over the heads of the sleeping-car party. Ford's party quickly reloaded as they lay; then began firing as rapidly as they could pull the triggers of their weapons, aiming whenever they saw anything to aim at. During all this firing the orders of the sheriff were implicitly followed. Tom Gray and Lieutenant Wingate were as steady as rock, for they had been through skirmishes before. Stacy was a little excited, but more from eagerness to be up and at the bandits than from fear. The bandits were getting desperate. On account of the interruption there had been no opportunity to explode another charge of dynamite under the express car, and they were now too fully engaged to proceed with that work. The desperadoes knew very well from the sound that the attackers were using small arms instead of rifles, thus leaving the advantage with the bandits so far as weapons were concerned. The robbers now began creeping stealthily up the slope, firing at every flash from a revolver, but Ford's party was keeping so low that there was no great danger of any one being hit except as they changed positions and ran for fresh cover, which they always did following a volley from the bandits' rifles. The sheriff's party was giving ground slowly, constantly changing positions under his orders, the officer himself now and then running along the line, giving quick low-spoken orders, without regard to his own safety. The bandits had been drawn away from the tracks for some distance when Ford dropped down beside Hippy Wingate, who was firing from behind a small boulder. "What is it, Sheriff?" questioned Hippy. "I have a plan," answered Ford. "Good! What is it?" "Our revolvers won't hold them back much longer. Should they rush us someone is certain to get hit. In any event we shall then have to run for it. I don't like to do that." "Not yet," answered Hippy with emphasis. "I think we may be able to save your horses and the express car if you are willing to take a long chance." "I have taken so many already that chances no longer are a novelty. What is it you wish me to do?" demanded Hippy. "Go to the engineer and tell him to back up. Tell him to hit those three cars as hard as he dares--hit them as fast as he can without throwing them from the rails or injuring the horses. Having done that, let him back down the grade as quietly as possible so those fellows won't notice him. When he hits the express car he is to keep on backing until he reaches the train, which he is to push back a full half mile, and then stop and wait for us to finish our job. When we have done that we will fire a signal--three shots at intervals. I reckon the moon will soon be up so we can see what we are doing. Tell the engineer, too, that we will fire the same signal if we approach him, but, should he see anybody coming up who does not give that signal, he is to start up his engine and reverse for all he's worth. Get me?" "I get you, Buddy." "I would go myself, but I am needed here. When the time comes we shall have to make a sharp get-away ourselves, but if we save the train that will be enough. Do you think you can reach the locomotive?" "Surest thing you know, old top," answered Hippy laughingly. "Be careful! You will find that the engine is guarded, but I don't believe there will be more than two men guarding it, and perhaps this firing may have drawn them away, though I hardly think so." "Leave it to me." "Should you miss us on your return, make for the train as fast as you can. You're the right sort, Lieutenant. Pick your own trail and the best o' luck." Lieutenant Wingate was off a few seconds later, running cautiously, now and then flattening himself on the ground to avoid the occasional volley. Hippy had no fear of the bullets that whistled over him, though he had a sufficiently intimate acquaintance with such missiles to hold them in high respect. That was why he dropped to the ground when firing was resumed. In a few moments he was out of range of the firing. He then straightened up and ran with all speed, parallel with the tracks, but keeping several rods to one side. As he neared the locomotive Hippy proceeded with more caution. The night was now sufficiently light to enable him to see the figures of two men sitting on the bank beside the tracks on the right side of the engine. There was no special need for vigilance on their part now, for ahead of the locomotive a telegraph pole had been felled across the tracks, while to its rear were the cars and the bandits. All this made the guards somewhat careless so that they failed to see a figure dart across the tracks a few rods back of the locomotive tender. Lieutenant Wingate crept along under the overhang of the tender, on the side opposite from the two guards. He did not know but there might be men on that side also, but soon discovered that there were not. He had crawled to the running board, by which entrance is gained to the locomotive cab, before he was discovered by the fireman. "Sh-h-h-h!" warned Hippy just in time to check an exclamation that was on the lips of the fireman. "Lean over. I have a message for you--for the engineer. Don't make a quick move, but just settle down. You might fire up the boiler a little. With the glare from the fire in their eyes those two fellows won't see quite so clearly." The fireman, after a whispered word to the engineer, opened the fire door and threw in fresh coal, then crouched down with his ear close to the Overland Rider, whereupon Hippy briefly explained Sheriff Ford's plan, at the same time acquainting the fireman with the situation to the rear. Another whispered conversation across the boiler between engineer and fireman followed, with Hippy Wingate clinging on the step of the locomotive in tense expectancy. A sudden hiss of steam from the cylinders on both sides of the engine startled him, and the big drive wheels began slipping on the rails. "Hey there! What are ye up to?" yelled a guard, making a leap for the running board. The fireman responded by hieing a chunk of coal, which caught the bandit in the stomach, laying the fellow flat in the ditch beside the tracks. The remaining guard fired point-blank without effect at the engineer's window, but the driver's head was below the level of the cab window at that instant. The wheels gained a foothold, the engine began backing rapidly while the guard continued to shoot at the reversing hulk of steel. "Good for you, Buddies!" cried Hippy enthusiastically. The engineer did not slow down as he approached the scene of the hold-up, knowing that there were no persons in the way. Hippy had dropped off before the engine gained much headway, and rolled over into the ditch and soon heard the tender hit the express car. The bandits had heard the engine rumbling down the grade, but they were too busy shooting at Sheriff Ford's party to be able to spare the time to interfere. In the meantime a new note had been added to the battle. The train crew, now taking courage, had gone to the assistance of the Sheriff, armed with revolvers, shot guns, iron bars and whatever else they could lay their hands on. Grace Harlowe and her friends, in the meantime, however, remained on guard, and not even the trainmen could have got into her sleeping car without giving an account of themselves to the Overland girls. The firing now grew fast and furious. Hippy heard it, listened attentively and realized that his little party was being assisted. "I must get back and take a hand," he muttered, making a wide detour with the intention of coming in to the rear of Sheriff Ford and his men. To do this he ran up the ravine from the railroad, near where the attack had been made. Lieutenant Wingate had not proceeded far before he heard what sounded like hoof-beats. At first he feared that the ponies of his outfit had been taken; then he realized that this could not be the case. The ravine in which he found himself was now fairly well lighted by the rising moon, and discovery was certain, the banks on either side being so steep that the Overlander knew that he could not look for escape that way. Not caring to be caught in a trap, Hippy turned and began to retreat down the ravine, then halted abruptly, as he discovered a horseman coming up the ravine at a gallop. A man was running just ahead of the rider, the latter calling orders to the runner. At this juncture, Lieutenant Wingate unlimbered his revolver and waited. The two men saw him, and the runner pointed to him, then dashed right past Hippy, shielding his face with a hand. As he passed, the runner fired a shot at Hippy. "I know you!" yelled the Overlander, sending a bullet into the ground behind the runner. "I know your game, you scoundrel!" Hippy, for the moment, apparently had forgotten the man on horseback, who was now to the rear of him, for Lieutenant Wingate, upon discovering the identity of the man on foot, was so amazed that all other thoughts took flight. All at once the Overland Rider remembered. He wheeled like a flash and fired at the figure that was now towering over him. A blow, crushing in its force, came down on the head of the Overland Rider, felling him to the ground. The butt of a rifle in the hands of the horseman was the instrument that caused Hippy's undoing. In the meantime, while Hippy was carrying Ford's message to the engineer of the Red Limited, the hot reception they were getting led the bandits to give up the fight and scatter. It was one of the fleeing train-robbers who had struck Lieutenant Wingate down. CHAPTER V ON THE TRAIL OF THE MISSING "Have the train draw up here and wait for us," Sheriff Ford directed, as the trainmen were about to return to their train after the bandits had finally been driven off. "Those ruffians have had enough, and won't come back. Some of them are wounded, too." "Aren't you coming with us?" asked a trainman. "No. I'm going to look for Lieutenant Wingate. He may be on the train, but, if he is not, have the engineer give us three whistles." "Hippy wouldn't go back without us," declared Tom Gray with emphasis. "Go back to your train, men, while we look for our friend," urged Sheriff Ford. The train crew lost no time in following Ford's advice, being eager to get away from that locality. Stacy Brown was sent back with them to put on his clothes. Stacy was shivering in his pajamas, but the fat boy had done his duty as steadily as any of his companions, and fully proven his courage, thus winning the admiration of Sheriff Ford and Tom Gray. The two other volunteer passengers, one a salesman for a Chicago grocery house, the other a Colorado ranchman, announced their intention of remaining with the sheriff to assist him in his search. Shortly after the departure of the trainmen, three long blasts of the locomotive whistle told the party that Lieutenant Wingate had not returned to the train. "That settles it, men. It is up to us to get to work," declared the sheriff. Ford divided his forces and sent parties in various directions to search for the missing Hippy Wingate, hoping, and partly believing, that the lieutenant had probably met up with the bandits on their retreat into the mountains after abandoning their attack on the train, and secreted himself somewhere in the vicinity of the attempted hold-up. The Overlanders were now in the Sierras, and the country all about them was wild and uninhabited. After surveying his surroundings with critical eyes, Ford took to the ravine up which Hippy had gone in attempting to get back to his companions, and soon found the place where the bandits had staked down their horses. Two warning whistles, the engineer's regular signal that the train was about to start ahead, caused the sheriff to run down the ravine to the railroad, at the same time firing three shots to recall his companions. "Get aboard in a hurry!" shouted the conductor, leaning from the engine cab as the train came back to the scene of the attempted robbery. "Wait! Has Lieutenant Wingate returned?" demanded Ford. "No!" shouted Stacy Brown from the platform of the smoking car. "Didn't you find him?" "Are you positive, Stacy?" called Tom Gray, running up at this juncture. "He is not on the train, Tom," answered Grace Harlowe from a vestibule doorway. "The engineer said he dropped off just as the engine began backing down. Tom, you must search for Hippy. Nora is nearly wild from worry over him." "We are going to find him, little woman," answered Captain Gray. "Are you folks going to get aboard?" demanded the conductor insistently. "No. We're not going to leave that man here by a long shot," retorted Ford. "All right. Stay if you want to. We're going ahead," snapped the conductor. "Stop!" ordered the sheriff. "You hold this train until I give you leave to move it. I am an officer of the law, and in command here for the present. Captain Gray, what do you wish to do?" "Find the lieutenant, Sheriff." "Then, would it not be a good idea to unload your ponies?" asked Ford. "We may have to be here until tomorrow, and perhaps make a long journey into the interior, which we cannot well do on foot." "Yes. We will unload enough animals to carry your party," answered Tom. "Pull your train up to the mouth of the ravine and stop," commanded Ford, clambering aboard the locomotive. "Get aboard there, boys." The train promptly pulled ahead while the sheriff had his final argument with the conductor in the locomotive cab. The argument was brief, but heated, the sheriff laying down the law to the angry conductor, who, by the time his train had reached the mouth of the ravine, was wholly subdued. The Overland Riders stepped off the train to watch the unloading of the ponies and to get instructions from Tom and Mr. Ford. "We are about twenty-five miles from Gardner," said the sheriff, addressing Grace. "You people, I believe, intend to detrain there. Have someone unload your stock and then wait until we return. You will find a very fair little hotel at Gardner." "We will wait," answered Grace composedly. Ford called upon the train crew to assist in unloading the ponies. Unloading boards were obtained from the baggage car with which a rather substantial gangway was constructed, and down it the light-footed ponies--five of them--were led without the least difficulty. Rifles and light equipment for the party were unloaded, the rest of the Overlanders' property and two ponies being left on the train. While the unloading was in progress Tom Gray went to the dining car and purchased provisions, consisting of canned goods, pork and beans and a side of bacon. Stacy Brown, who had gone back to the sleeping car for something he wanted from his suitcase, dropped in while Tom was bartering, and helped his companion carry back their purchases. By the time they reached the head of the train all was in readiness for the departure. Ford waved the lantern that he had borrowed from the conductor. "Go ahead," he called to the conductor. "Mrs. Gray, don't forget to report to Gardner what has become of us. If we are not back in two days have them send a posse for us." "I understand," answered Grace Harlowe. "I say, you! You might have Emma do a little transmigrating for us while we're away. I reckon we'll be needing it," called back Stacy. As the train pulled out, the passengers, including the girls of the Overland party, were gathered on the platforms cheering. The searching party now consisted, besides Sheriff Ford, of Tom Gray, Stacy Brown and the two passengers who had been with them from the first, making five in all. "Now, sir, what is your plan?" demanded Tom after they had saddled and made ready to start. "I think we will follow up the ravine for a little way," answered the sheriff. "Your man went this way. I know because the fireman saw him take to the ravine. One of you lead my horse; I'm going ahead on foot with the lantern." "If you have no objection, I will go with you," offered Tom. Ford nodded, and the two started away, the others, on the ponies, keeping well to the rear. The two men in advance finally reached the point in the ravine where Lieutenant Wingate had been struck down. With lantern held close to the ground, the sheriff went over it on hands and knees, examining every foot of the ground. "Stand where you are until I come back," he directed, addressing Tom Gray. "Do you recognize this?" he asked, holding up a hat, upon his return a few moments later. "It is the lieutenant's hat," answered Tom promptly, and Stacy Brown agreed with him. "What's the use of a hat without a head to wear it?" demanded Stacy. "This!" replied Ford. "I have proved one thing. Our man came this way, but beyond this point the only trace of him is the hat. Unless I am much mistaken, he left here on the back of a horse, and he went that way." The sheriff pointed up the ravine. "It is fair to assume that he did not go voluntarily. The only inference possible, then, is that he has been taken." "Captured by the bandits!" exclaimed Tom. Ford nodded. "For what reason?" "Candidly, I don't know, Captain. We have got to find out, and it is advisable for us to go in search of the answer to that question as fast as we can. We will mount and move on." "I suppose I am the one who will have to furnish the brains for this party and find the missing man," declared Stacy pompously, but no one laughed at his sally. A minute later they were mounted and on their way up the ravine, the sheriff still carrying the lantern, which he held low, keeping his gaze constantly on the trail, which still was fairly plain and easy for an experienced man to follow. Stacy dropped behind a little way and produced a plum pudding can from his pocket. Opening the can, he calmly proceeded to eat the pudding. "What's that you're eating?" demanded one of the two passengers. "Pudding. A plum one." "Where did you get it?" "Oh, back there in the diner," answered Stacy carelessly. "You stole a pudding, eh?" laughed the questioner. "Oh, my; no, sir. How could you think such a thing? Don't you know I wouldn't do anything like that?" "Oh! You paid for it," nodded the passenger. "I did not. Captain Gray did. You see it was this way. The captain paid for six cans of baked beans, but they gave him only five cans. The colored gentleman in the diner cheated us out of one can, and probably pocketed the difference, so I sort of helped myself to a pudding to even things up." "Humph! You are a young man of unusual ability. You should have been a lawyer." "I know it," admitted Chunky. An exclamation from Ford interrupted the conversation. The sheriff had picked up a handkerchief which Tom thought belonged to Hippy Wingate. They believed that the lieutenant had dropped it purposely, knowing full well that pursuit would follow promptly when his friends discovered that he was missing. "We are on the trail all right," cried the sheriff. "Look sharp and don't make much noise about it, either." Daybreak found the outfit still in the saddle. Now that they could see, Ford threw away the lantern, and, after watering their ponies at a mountain spring, they pressed on with all speed. The men ate a cold breakfast in the saddle, there being no time to waste in halting to cook breakfast. Further, the smoke from a camp-fire would be a danger signal to the men for whom they were searching. About nine o'clock in the morning the sheriff and Tom found a split-trail. The two trails led up a steep incline to a small plateau. There they discovered the remains of a camp-fire. Ford dismounted and ran his fingers through the ashes. "There has been a fire here within a few hours," he announced. "And the trail has gone to pieces," added Stacy Brown who had got down from his pony and begun nosing about. "The bandits have taken different directions from here, haven't they?" questioned the sheriff, glancing up. "Yes. I'll tell you what let's do. Let's shut our eyes and let the ponies decide which trail to take," suggested Chunky gravely. "My Bismarck can follow the trail of a squirrel." "This is not a squirrel trail," answered Ford briefly. "There are five of us men here. Four will take separate trails while one remains here. Let each man follow his trail for, say, three hours, then, whether or not he has discovered anything, he will return to this point. We can then decide upon further action." "I have an idea that the bandits discovered that they were being followed," suggested one of the two passengers. "Otherwise, why should they split up and take different trails?" "Yes. I agree with you," nodded the sheriff. Mr. Ford decided that one of the passenger volunteers should remain behind, then assigned the other passenger and Tom, Stacy and himself to follow the bandits' trails, Ford selecting what seemed to be the most promising trail for himself. Full understanding of what each one was to do was had, then the four rode away, leaving their guard where he could see, yet remain hidden. The four trails led on for five miles without a break. Stacy, full of importance because of the duty assigned to him, was watching his trail closely, and, had he been less observant, he might have missed the point where the trail again split. Discovering this, he halted and sat regarding the two trails with solemn eyes. "Sharp trick," he nodded. "It doesn't fool Stacy Brown, though." He decided that the left-hand trail swung over towards the one that Tom Gray was riding, perhaps joining it a short distance from the junction where Stacy was at that moment. Having come to this conclusion, the fat boy had a bright idea. He would take a short cut across country. He knew that this was a risky thing to do, but he had several mountain peaks for landmarks and did not believe that he could go astray, so he started full of confidence, leaving both trails behind him. An hour-and-a-half passed. Stacy still had thirty minutes to ride before it would be time for him to turn back towards the starting point, as he learned by consulting his watch, and he decided to make the most of those thirty minutes. "There! Didn't I tell you?" he cried as he rode out into an open space and instantly discovered the hoof-prints of several horses on the soft ground. "I was positive that I couldn't be wrong. My time is up, but I have found the spot where the rascals got together. Now I'll just turn about and follow it home. This is the trail we must follow to find Uncle Hip. Yes, I'll go back and report." Stacy Brown's intentions were good, and, well satisfied with what he had accomplished, he rode along humming softly to himself, now and then confiding his opinions to his pony. The little animal wiggled its ears as if it understood. "Hulloa! There goes the sun. Seven o'clock! Who would have thought it? According to my watch I've been back at the forks for a quarter of an hour. I wonder if I really have?" Stacy regarded his surroundings narrowly. "No. I never saw any of you mountain-peak fellows before. I must have made a mistake in my reckonings, but I've got a biscuit in my pocket, and we'll be able to go quite a distance on one biscuit, especially on this kind of a biscuit. Some biscuits go a great deal farther than others. This is one of the farther kind," finished Chunky, performing a series of contortions as he tried to break off a piece of biscuit with his teeth. The pony was laboring up a steep incline, the stirrup straps creaking in rhythm with the animal's quick, short steps, Stacy's body, from the belt up, bobbing upwards and backwards with monotonous regularity. The reins lay over the saddle pommel, thus giving the pony's head full play and enabling it to snatch a mouthful of greens here and there. Suddenly the little animal threw its head up and snorted. Stacy Brown ceased munching and sat staring wide-eyed. "Suffering cats! You're IT, Stacy Brown!" he gasped. Jerking his rifle from the saddle-boot he fired three quick shots over the head of his pony. CHAPTER VI CHUNKY MEETS THE BANDITS The pony had nosed its way around the base of a high rock, fetching up on a meadow, when Stacy made the discovery that startled him. What he saw was a group of men sitting about a cook-fire, hurriedly eating a meal while their ponies grazed on the mountain grass some distance from the fire. The boy knew instantly that he had stumbled upon the bandits. He realized, too, in those brief seconds, that he must be a long way from the place where he was to meet his companions. The desperadoes saw the intruder about the time that Chunky saw them. Used to emergencies and quick action, the men sprang for their rifles, which were standing against a boulder near at hand. Chunky also saw that Lieutenant Wingate was not with them. Had the boy thought twice he would have held his fire, but, as it turned out, his shots served a good purpose. It startled the bandits, causing momentary confusion, which gave Stacy an opportunity to head in an opposite direction, which he was not slow in doing. "Ye-o-o-o-ow!" howled the fat boy in a shrill, piercing voice. The shots and the yells startled the bandits' ponies as it had their owners. The horses threw up their heads, snorted and galloped into the mountain meadow, fully twenty rods from the camp, while the boy threw himself on the neck of his pony, fully expecting a shot or a volley from them, and dashed around the base of a high rock at a perilous pace. He had no more than reached the protection of the rock than the _pock, pock_ of rifle bullets, as they hit the rock to his rear, reached his ears. "Oh, wow!" howled Chunky. "I lost my biscuit." In ordinary circumstances he would have gone back to look for the biscuit, but just now Stacy was in somewhat of a hurry. Fortunately for the boy, it took the bandits fully twenty minutes to round up their horses, by which time the fat boy was far in the lead, riding like mad. He had lost all sense of direction, but perhaps the pony had not. The little animal had taken affairs into its own control and was laying out its own trail. The bandits, instead of following, rode with all speed farther into the mountains, but Chunky continued on at his same perilous pace, even though darkness had now overtaken him. "Whoa, Bismarck!" commanded Chunky finally, reining in his pony. "Do you know where you're going, or don't you?" The pony rattled the bit between its teeth, tossed its head up and down, and uttered a loud whinny. "You said 'yes,' didn't you? All right, if you know where you are, go along. You surely can't know any less about it than I do." Rider and mount resumed their journey at a somewhat slower pace, and rode on until Stacy was brought to a sudden stop by a sharp, gruff word of command. "Halt!" ordered a voice just ahead of him. The pony gave a startled jump that nearly unhorsed its rider. "Oh, wow!" howled Chunky, and on the impulse of the moment he fired two quick shots at the sound. "Stop it! It's Tom Gray. Haven't you any more sense than to blaze away before you know at what you are shooting?" "Oh, fiddlesticks! Had you been through what I have you would shoot at the drop of the hat. Are you lost, too?" "Lost? I am not lost. Don't you know where you are?" "No. I might be in the suburbs of Chillicothe for all I know." "The camp is only a few rods away," Tom Gray informed him. "You don't say?" wondered Chunky. "We heard you coming, and thought it might be Mr. Ford. How did you happen to come in over that trail?" "Ask Bismarck. He knows all about it. I don't. Got any news about Uncle Hip?" "No. Of course you saw nothing of either him or the bandits." "I not only found the robbers, but I had a battle with them," answered Stacy. "What's that? Don't trifle, Brown. This is a serious matter," rebuked Tom. "I'm telling you the truth. It was this way. I was riding along, peaceful like, when, all of a sudden, biff, boom, bang! It seemed to me that fifty or a hundred men burst from the bushes." "So many as that?" laughed Tom. "Well, something like that. I may be a dozen or so out of the way, but you see I didn't stop to count them. I raised my trusty rifle and--well, to make a long story short, I fired right into that howling bunch of bandits. I suppose I emptied as many as twelve saddles." "Wait a moment," urged one of the travelers who had joined them. "How many times did you reload?" "Not at all. I didn't have time." "Captain Gray, he emptied twelve saddles, so he must have shot two men with each bullet, as his magazine holds only six cartridges. I call that some shooting." "Is that so? Then I must have done as you say. Wonderful, wasn't it?" At this juncture, Sheriff Ford rode into camp and was quickly told of what Stacy had discovered. Mr. Ford, after a few quick questions, realized that the boy really had stumbled on the right trail and discovered the bandits. "You did well, young man," he complimented. "I thought I had struck a lead, but the trail pinched out. Can you take us to the place where you came on those ruffians?" "No, but the pony can, or you can follow my trail. I reckon I left a pretty plain one. I know Uncle Hip better than you do, and if he has been able to get away from the fellows who captured him I'll guarantee that he will find us. He would know we wouldn't go away and leave him. For that reason I suggest that we build a fire to attract Uncle Hip's attention, should he be in this vicinity." One of the men protested, saying it would be dangerous, but the sheriff agreed with Stacy. "We will have a fire and will post guards to protect ourselves," he said. "We shall not be bothered by the bandits to-night; I am positive of that. They know that the alarm has been given and that, in all probability, a posse is already on their trail. If nothing develops during the night--if we get no news from Lieutenant Wingate--we will start for Gardner in the morning and organize a big searching party to comb the mountains for him." After all phases of the situation had been discussed, the sheriff's plan was agreed to, and a fire was built up. It had been blazing for some time when, in a lull in the conversation, Stacy was reminded that he had not finished telling about his meeting with the bandits. "Yes. You left off with shooting two men with each bullet," laughed Tom Gray. "In the excitement of meeting up with the villains," resumed Stacy, without an instant's hesitation, "I wheeled the pony--spun him about on his hind feet like a top, set him down on all fours and dashed away. We didn't gallop, we simply dashed. You know it wasn't that I was afraid. Anyone who knows me knows that nothing can scare me. I--" "_Bang, bang, bang!_" "Oh, wow!" howled the fat boy, diving head first into a clump of bushes where he crouched wide-eyed, the chill creepers chasing up and down his spinal column. The others of the party sprang up and snatched their rifles, Ford kicking the blazing wood of the camp-fire aside, and Tom Gray dousing it with a pail of water. "Lie low, everybody, till I find out what this means!" commanded the sheriff sharply. "Are--are we attacked? Have the scoundrels come back?" chattered Chunky. "Be quiet!" Mr. Ford crept out into the darkness, the others waiting in tense expectancy listening for a rifle volley. Tom thought the shots they had heard were signals, but no one else believed such to be the case. The flash of a revolver, a sharp report close at hand, was followed by a shout from Stacy Brown and two shots from his own weapon at a shadowy moving figure skulking behind a clump of bushes. CHAPTER VII BANDITS CATCH A TARTAR The blow on the head had left Lieutenant Wingate unconscious. Without loss of a minute he was thrown over the back of the horse, in front of the rider, like a sack of meal on its way home from the mill, then the horse started away at a trot. After a few moments of violent jolting, consciousness began to return to Hippy and he groped for something to take hold of to relieve the strain of his trying position. His fingers finally gripped the boot of his captor. Quick as a flash, the bandit brought down the butt of his revolver on the captive's head, whereupon Hippy went to sleep again, the blood trickling from nose and mouth. Other riders, in the meantime, had caught up with and passed the rider who was carrying him away. From what was said it was apparent that Hippy's captor was the leader of the party, for the others deferred to his commands, and, riding on ahead, soon disappeared. The trail grew more and more rugged. On the right a solid granite wall rose sheer for several hundred feet, while on the left, the side over which Hippy's head was hanging, the ground dropped away sharply for fully three hundred feet. Lieutenant Wingate again began to recover consciousness. It seemed to him as if all the blood in his body were concentrated in his aching head and neck. He did not realize at the moment how the arms and hands were smarting from being dragged through bushes and against the rough edges of rocks, but he did discover that two large lumps had been raised on his head, one well down towards the base of the brain. Had the second blow been an inch farther down, it probably would have killed him. His head becoming clearer, Hippy began to consider his situation--to think what he could do to extricate himself from his uncomfortable and perilous position. His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the bandit and a sharp pressure of a spur against the pony's side. Hippy could feel the rider's leg contract as the spur was driven home. The pony reared and threatened to buck, but, evidently changing its mind, started away at a jolting trot. The interruption had served one good purpose: it had given Hippy an opportunity to get one hand up to his shirt, where the hand fumbled for a few perilous seconds, then dropped cautiously to its former position. That hand now held a pin. Miserable as he was, Hippy smiled grimly and pricked the pony's side with the pin. The bandit roared as the animal jumped, and again applied the spur, followed instantly by a jab of Hippy's new weapon, the pin. A lively few seconds ensued, and the pony bucked so effectively that its rider had all he could do to stick to the saddle, and at the same time manage his captive and the reins. Hippy jabbed the pin in again and again, though every buck of the animal nearly broke the Overlander in two. A few seconds of this treatment and the end came suddenly. With a final humping of its back in a buck that lifted all four feet from the ground, the pony went up into the air with arching back and with head held stiffly close to its forefeet. The bandit threw all the strength of one hand into an effort to jerk that stubborn head back where it belonged, while the other hand grabbed desperately for the body of the captive, which was slowly slipping away. The bandit, as a result, came a cropper over the pony's head. Hippy wriggled and slipped off, shooting head first down the sharp incline of smooth rocks that fell away from the left side of the trail. The pony galloped away a few rods; then, halting, gazed about him uneasily. The bandit, after a few dazed seconds, got up and started for his mount, then halting suddenly began searching for his captive. Hippy Wingate was nowhere in sight, though his captor found where his body had crushed down the bushes as it slipped from the trail. The bandit finally gave it up, and, catching his pony, quickly rode away. "No use. He's done for," growled the man before leaving the scene. "He's gone clear to the bottom, mashed flat as a flapjack." The hoof-beats of the pony had no sooner died away than Hippy Wingate's head was cautiously raised from behind the roots of a tree that clung to the side of the mountain, gripped into a deep crevice for anchorage. "I'm not a flapjack just yet, old top," he muttered. "I may be if I am not careful how I move about. I suppose I ought to hang on here till daylight, but those fellows may come back. They can't afford to let me get away. I know too much." [Illustration: "No Use. He's Done For!"] Hippy began crawling cautiously toward the trail, and finally gaining it, sat down to think over what he had better do next. He felt for his revolver and was relieved to find that it had not been taken from him, and thus fortified, he decided that the prudent course would be to find a hiding place and wait there for daylight, so he started away, taking the back track, which he followed until it had so widened that he was unable to keep to the trail. He then branched off to the right, holding as straight a course as possible. The trickle of water caught his ear, and, a moment later, Hippy was flat on his stomach, drinking long, deep draughts from a tiny mountain stream. He then bathed his face and head and his smarting, swollen arms. He knew that he ought to be moving, but what direction to take was the question. Being a good woodsman, he knew that to wander aimlessly about in the night surely would result in losing himself completely. After searching about for some time, Lieutenant Wingate found a high rock suited to his purpose. He climbed up and sat down. "The scoundrels will have to move quickly if they get me this time," he muttered. "They'll--" Hippy's head drooped, and he sank slowly to the rock fast asleep. When he again opened his eyes the sun was shining down into them, and his cheeks felt as if they were on fire. "Morning! Who would think it?" he exclaimed. Without wasting time, he made his way back to the stream where he drank and bathed. Now came the question as to the course he should follow. "It is probable that some of my outfit will remain by the railroad where the hold-up occurred," he reflected. "That's where I am going." After a final look at the sun, Hippy started back briskly. He did not follow the trail, believing that he could find a more direct course, and that such a course eventually would lead him to the railroad a short distance to the west of where he had been the previous evening. It was nearly noon when Hippy first began to realize that he was hungry. He had not thought of breakfast, nor would it have done him any good had he thought of it. An hour later he found a berry bush and ate all the fruit it held. That helped a little and he again plodded on. About four o'clock that afternoon he reached the railroad, and, not long after that, he was trotting around the bend to the scene of the hold-up. The place was deserted. Hippy fired a signal from his revolver and listened. There was no reply. A rabbit hopped across the tracks. He fired twice at it, missing each time. "There goes my supper!" he exclaimed ruefully. "Next time I sight game I'll throw a stone at it. I reckon I can throw stones better than I can shoot. I should have thought my friends would wait for me." Hippy did discover where the Overland ponies had been unloaded, then he understood that his companions had gone in search of him. This knowledge heartened him up a great deal, and he immediately set himself to work to discover which way the party had gone. What he was looking for was the trail of his own pony, whose shoeprints he believed he would be able to identify instantly. Hippy picked up the trail in a remarkably short time. "Here I go. I've got to travel some if I am to catch them before dark," he cried, starting away. Darkness found Lieutenant Wingate wandering aimlessly near the place where the trail forked and where his companions were now discussing their further plans for the morrow. He concluded that he would have to spend another night in the open and alone, and had just ensconced himself on the highest ledge he could find when he caught sight of the light from Sheriff Ford's camp-fire. Hippy gazed at it for some moments, then raised his revolver and fired three shots. The camp-fire was suddenly blotted out. "There! I've shot out the fire," he grumbled. "Just the same, I don't believe it is the bandit camp, and I'm going down." Moving with extreme caution, Hippy crept down the mountain-side until he believed that he was near the place where he had seen the fire. "I reckon there's nothing doing, boys," Ford was saying. "Light the fire, but keep a sharp lookout." Hippy got up. Stacy's keen eyes discovered him and the fat boy fired. "Hi, there! Cut the firing! It's Hippy," called Lieutenant Wingate, ducking. "Oh, wow!" howled Chunky. A shout went up from the searching party when Hippy called out his warning, and he was fairly dragged into camp where Sheriff Ford hurriedly started a cook-fire and put over coffee as a starter. While this was being done, Lieutenant Wingate briefly related the story of his capture and escape. "You say you know the man who was on foot when you were taken?" asked Tom Gray. "Yes, I know him." "Give me one guess and see if I can name him," spoke up Sheriff Ford, straightening up, frying-pan in hand. "It's yours. Who is he?" laughed Lieutenant Wingate. "Our story-telling friend of the Red Limited, William Sylvester Holmes," replied Ford confidently. "You win," chuckled Hippy. "How did you guess it?" "I was suspicious of him all the time. At Summit my suspicions were, in a way, confirmed. He sent telegrams from there that, I now believe, informed the gang about the treasure car." "Was there really a treasure car on the train, Ford?" asked Tom. "You might call it that. There was nearly three million dollars in gold on that car. Pretty good haul, eh? I reckon the authorities of this county will be glad to hear what you have to tell them. I will go to Gardner with you and we'll have a confab with the sheriff there, if you will spare the time." "Sure we will," spoke up Stacy. "We riders have to keep busy, you know." "It strikes me that you have been rather busy since I first met you," returned the sheriff. "What are your wishes, to go through to-night or wait until morning and get an early start?" he asked the two passengers. "I'll flag a train for myself down by the bend and you men can ride through. You can't miss the way. There is a good trail all the way from here to Gardner, and you should be there by early afternoon." The two passengers said that, if the sheriff would flag the train for them, they would prefer to go by train too, as they were in haste to reach their destination on the coast, important business awaiting them there. "All right. I'll flag the next train after we get to the rails and put you two men aboard. I can then ride through with these three Overland men. I'd prefer a hoss to a Pullman any time." The party made themselves as comfortable as they could, sleeping on the ground, and before daylight next morning Mr. Ford had breakfast ready. Hippy was stiff and his hat hurt his head, but he made light of his discomfiture and was ready for the start which was made before sunup. Ford made good his word to stop the next train, which proved to be a local, and there was not so much grumbling by the train crew as there would have been had the train been a limited one. The horseback ride that day was a hard one, but all were used to the saddle, and Sheriff Ford, himself a "rough-rider," was interested in the riding of the three Overlanders. By this time he had grown to understand Stacy Brown better, and his laughter at the boy's sallies was loud and appreciative. Late in the afternoon the delayed party rode into Gardner where a warm welcome awaited them from the Overland girls, who had already arranged for a posse to go out to look for the missing ones. The authorities were keenly interested in the information that Sheriff Ford and the three Overland men had to offer, and declared their intention of starting out in an effort to round up the gang. That evening there was a genuine reunion of the Overlanders at which their further plans were discussed. It was left to Hippy to find a guide, while Stacy was to select the pack animals, and the girls the food and other equipment for the journey. The results of their quests were destined to furnish much amusement on the following day. CHAPTER VIII HEADED FOR THE HIGH COUNTRY "I have found a guide," announced Hippy next morning, walking into the post office where he found all the other members of his party writing postal cards to friends in the east. "That's good. Where is he?" asked Tom Gray. "If you will look up you will see him." The Overlanders looked. Just to the rear of Hippy Wingate stood a grinning Chinaman, both hands hidden in the ends of his flowing sleeves. The Oriental was bowing and scraping, his queue animatedly bobbing up and down. Stacy uttered a loud "Ha, ha!" "Permit me to introduce to you the Honorable Woo Smith whom I have selected, subject to your approval, to accompany us on our journey to the High Sierras," announced Hippy Wingate. "But surely, Hippy, this man cannot be a guide," protested Elfreda Briggs. "We need a guide!" "Perhaps he isn't, but you can't find anything else with a magnifying glass in this burg. Should you folks think best not to accept him, we'll go it alone. I've done the best I can. Remember, too, that I'm a sick man, that I've been mauled and keelhauled by a bunch of bandits and--" "Do you speak English?" interrupted Grace Harlowe. "Les. Me speak English velly fine." "You say his name is Woo Smith?" questioned Emma. "The Honorable Woo Smith," Hippy informed her. "What has he done in the way of mountain work?" persisted Grace. "I am informed that he has made frequent journeys to the mountains with prospecting parties and hunters as cook, guide and general handy man. At one time he was out with a government survey party." "As cook or guide?" interjected Nora Wingate. "The former, I believe." "This outfit needs a good cook," suggested Chunky. "Woo, do you know horses?" asked Tom Gray. "Les." "That reminds me, Chunky, what have you done about the pack animals?" demanded Lieutenant Wingate. "Got three dandies. I have learned that we must travel light. They say that the trails are very rough in the High Country, and further, that we must depend upon the country for our food, generally speaking. I don't know what Uncle Hip and I are going to do if it comes to short rations. Of course, as a last resort we can eat the pack-horses. They eat horses in France, so why shouldn't we do the same, if we're hungry enough." "That reminds me. One of the men out with us on our search for Hippy declared that our ponies would not be suitable for this journey, and that it requires animals accustomed to the peculiarities of the Sierras," averred Tom Gray. "Oh, pooh!" grunted the fat boy. "My pony could climb a tree." "How much money do you wish, Woo?" questioned Tom. "Five dollah a week." "What do you say, good people?" asked Grace. "I don't care what you do," exclaimed Hippy. "I want food and I want someone who knows how to cook it fit for human consumption, that's all." "I second the motion," agreed Stacy. "We can't all live on soul-transmigration stuff. I'd get mental indigestion on that food in thirty seconds by the watch." "We had a Chinaman on our journey across the Great American Desert, and he was an excellent man," declared Elfreda Briggs. "I move that we take this one." The others agreed with her, and Grace, turning to Woo, told him that he was engaged. "What has been done about the general equipment?" asked Tom. Grace said that experienced men had advised against the Overlanders burdening themselves with tents or any heavy equipment. "We have slept in the open many times before, so I think we shall be able to get along very nicely," she added. Stacy Brown protested vigorously. He declared that he would not sleep out of doors where bugs and other undesirable things could get at him, but, after discussing the matter further, every one agreed that the tents would prove an unnecessary encumbrance. They went over their list critically, eliminating several articles that they thought they could do without. "I have an idea!" exclaimed Stacy. "Keep it," urged Emma. "They seem to be reasonably scarce with you." "At least I don't transmigrate them," retorted Chunky. "As I was about to remark when interrupted, I have an idea that this outfit will have to browse with the horses if it wishes food." "It would be a great flesh-reducer," murmured Emma, giving Chunky a sidelong glance. Elfreda suggested that they have a look at the pack-horses selected by Stacy, so they all walked over to the corral, and expressed themselves as well satisfied with Stacy's selections. One white, mischievous little animal, with a circle of delicate pink about each eye, they named Kitty. The name seemed to fit her. The other two animals they, decided to name later on after learning their peculiarities. "I've ordered pack saddles for them," announced Hippy, "and a pair of kyacks for each horse." "What is a kyack? Something good to eat?" questioned Stacy. "A kyack is an alforgas," Emma Dean informed him. "I am amazed at your ignorance." "I agree with you, Emma. For once I do," nodded Hippy. "For your information, Stacy, a kyack is a packing outfit. These are made either of heavy canvas or of rawhide, shaped square and dried over boxes. After drying, the boxes are removed, leaving the stiff rawhide or canvas, like small trunks, open at the top. They are in reality sacks--" "Me savvy klyack," chuckled the Chinaman, rubbing his palms together gleefully. "Mr. Smith knows," nodded Hippy. "The explanation is not satisfactory. Once more I rise to ask if this kyack thing is some sort of dried beef that we are expected to eat when real food is scarce?" insisted Chunky. "You and I, lad, would have to be pretty hungry to eat a kyack," laughed Hippy. "The loops of the kyack are slung on each side of the horse. They are used to pack belongings over the mountains. I have also ordered sawbuck trees for the pack-saddles, together with pack-cinch, and pack-rope for each animal. I also took the liberty of buying blankets from which to make saddle-pads. It will be cheaper than trying to get along with horses with sore backs, I think. Then there are hobbles for the horses, a couple of cow bells--" "Are we going to take cows along with us?" wondered Chunky, opening his eyes a little wider. "Not quite. Only a calf or two," murmured Emma Dean. "The bells are for the horses, so that they may be easily found in the morning," spoke up Tom Gray. "I thought you had been out before." "I have, but never with such an outfit as this, especially the transmigration end of it," retorted Stacy, giving Emma a quick look to see if his shot had gone home. "I see," he added. "But every time I hear the bells a-ringing, I shall think of home and a pitcherful of warm milk." "Perfectly proper food for the species to which I so recently referred," observed Emma airily. "However, from all accounts, you will have nothing more nourishing than snow-water from the tall peaks of the Sierras." "Br-r-r-r!" shivered Stacy. At Hippy's direction, the Honorable Woo Smith led the pack-horses over to the general store, and there, with Stacy to assist him, Hippy began packing their equipment, throwing a diamond hitch about each pack. The girls, observing the work, discovered that Stacy Brown was quite as familiar with "throwing packs" as was his Uncle Hippy. "Mister Brown is not quite the fool he would have us believe," declared Elfreda Briggs. "It is my opinion that he believes in putting his worst foot forward, keeping the other one hidden behind it." A group of mountaineers were standing near, observing the operations with interest. One stepped up and examined the much-worn saddle on Hippy Wingate's pony. "Son," said he, "do ye reckon on climbin' mountains with that thing?" "Why not?" demanded Hippy. "I reckon it might be all right for the Rockies, but yer saddle'll be on the critter's tail afore ye git half way to the top of the Big Sierras." Hippy stroked his chin reflectively. "You mean I ought to have a double-cinch on the riding saddles? Is that it?" "I reckon." "Thanks, Buddy. I'll fix it. I should have thought of that, but I am not at all familiar with the lay of the land up here." "Ye will be, pardner, after ye've fell off it a few thousand times. The landscape in these here parts be rather sudden in spots," drawled the mountaineer. A yell from the Honorable Woo Smith interrupted the dialogue. Kitty, the mischievous pack-horse, had playfully seized the queue of Woo Smith between her teeth and was jerking her head up and down, and, with each jerk, the Chinaman was jolted backwards, howling lustily, chattering in volleys in his native tongue. The street, near the village store, filled with cowboys and citizens as if by magic. They set up yells, shouts and cat-cries that smothered the chatter of the new guide. Grace, being nearest to the mischievous animal, sprang forward and gave the white pack-horse a smart slap with the flat of her hand on Kitty's plump stomach. The mare instantly dropped the howling Chinaman, and, whirling on Grace with wide open mouth, looked as if she were about to devour the Overland Rider. The girl never flinched. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Kitty?" she chided. "If ever I see you do a thing like that again I'll surely have you punished. Do you understand?" The mare's mouth closed slowly, her upper lip quivered, she nibbled gingerly at Grace Harlowe's sleeve, and looked as meek as was possible for a mischievous pony to look. The cowboys grunted disgustedly. They were disgruntled that Grace had spoiled their fun, disappointed that the white mare had not taken a large slice, either out of the Chinaman or Grace Harlowe herself. "Grace, do you know, you have given us a most remarkable demonstration of the transmigration of thought," declared Emma. "It was your thought, transmitted to the mentality of the white mare, that caused her to desist, to beg of you to forgive and--" "Yeo-o-o-o-ow!" howled Chunky. "Young man, your rudeness is inexcusable," rebuked Emma. "That's what the white mare wanted to say to Grace," retorted Stacy. While all this was taking place, Tom and Elfreda were talking with the mountaineers, getting all the information they could about trails and conditions in the mountains. The result of the information gleaned was that the Overland Riders decided that they would take the "Cold Stream Trail" for the High Country, a section seldom visited, but which Woo Smith declared he knew all about. The spectators were inclined to make sport of the explorers, and especially of the idea that women could ride the Sierras. Even the postmaster sought to dissuade them from making the attempt. "It's a bad country," he confided to Tom. "With that bunch of gals on your hands, you'll starve to death, sure's you're a foot high." "There is plenty of game there, is there not?" questioned Tom. "Yes, for them that knows how to shoot." "Then I reckon we will not starve. What other objection is there?" "The Jones Boys. You watch out right smart for them." "Who are they?" demanded Elfreda, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between Tom and the postmaster. The postmaster glanced about him apprehensively before replying, then, leaning towards Tom, spoke in a half-whisper. "Outlaws!" he said. "I reckon you've heard of them. It is suspected that they're the fellows that held up the Red Limited the other night. I reckon you know something about that affair." The postmaster squinted knowingly at Tom, who nodded. "So, that's it, eh?" "Yes. Better look out for them. They have their hang-out somewhere in the mountains, but nobody has ever been able to trail them to it, and I don't reckon no one ever will--and come back to tell about it. A squad of Pinkerton detectives went into the mountains looking for those fellows, but not one of that bunch of detectives has ever been heard from since." "It sounds shivery, doesn't it?" spoke up Elfreda. "However, we have no especial reason to fear the bandits because there could be no object in their interfering with us. We do not carry money with us--not enough to make it worth their while to try to rob us--nor are we looking for trouble." "No object!" exploded the postmaster. "Lady, those fellows would kill you for two bits and a piece of string." In his own mind, Tom Gray was not so positive that the bandits had no reason for interfering with them. On the contrary, if the Jones Boys knew that it was the Overland Riders who had assisted in driving them from the scene of the attempted train robbery, the Overlanders might confidently look for some stirring times in the High Sierras. CHAPTER IX THEIR SLUMBERS DISTURBED "All aboard for the High Sierras!" called Stacy Brown, swinging to his saddle a few minutes later. The others, one by one, mounted and sat awaiting the order to start. Woo Smith had gone on ahead. Scorning the use of a pony to ride, he had trotted on, shooing the pack-horses along, the departure of the Overlanders having been deferred until about an hour after he had left them. Woo said that he would make camp at a good place and have supper ready upon their arrival. The Overlanders finally started away, waving their hands to the curious natives, and soon reached the trail that led towards the High Country. The trail was an old one, but so seldom used that it could hardly be dignified by the name of trail. Woo plainly was familiar with it, for he had reached it by the most direct course, marking the beginning of it by breaking over branches of bushes, a trick that he had learned from white men with whom he had explored the mountains at some previous time. Very good time was made that day, and when about eighteen miles from Gardner they saw the smoke of Woo's camp-fire. Half an hour later they reached it and found that the guide had selected an ideal camping place. There was water and good feed for the horses. Woo already had turned out the pack-horses, which were grazing out of sight of the camp, and the cowbells on two of them could be heard tinkling in the distance. "I reckon I drew a prize," declared Hippy pompously, referring to Woo. "Time will tell," answered Emma Dean. "I agree with you," answered Elfreda Briggs. "One shouldn't jump at conclusions, as Grace Harlowe says." Saddles were quickly removed, and, before doing anything else, the men of the party washed the backs of the ponies to prevent the animals becoming saddle-sore. By the time they had finished and turned out the ponies to browse, the guide had supper ready for them. The air was hot and motionless, for they were not yet high enough in the mountains to catch the cool breezes from the snow-clad tops, and all felt the heat. The Chinaman had prepared a supper that won golden words of praise from the girls of the Overland party, and Stacy and Hippy ate until it seemed as if they must pop open. The flapjacks fairly melted in the mouths of the Riders and the coffee they pronounced to be delicious. "Won't it be fine not to have to do any cooking on this trip?" smiled Emma. "Yes. I feel as if a great load had been lifted from my shoulders," agreed Stacy. "I did most of the cooking for our Pony Rider outfit. Ordinarily I would rather cook than do most anything that I know of." "I am sincerely glad that you are not cooking for this party," declared Emma Dean with emphasis. "You are congratulating yourselves too early," interjected Nora Wingate. "We are all going to do work just as we always have done." Grace and Elfreda agreed with her. "You don't mean that we've got to get up in the dewy morning and rustle grub for the outfit, do you?" demanded Chunky. "Yes, of course," answered Grace. "That is the fun of camping," said Miss Briggs. "We should soon forget all we knew had we servants to do the work for us. He is an industrious fellow, though, I must say," added Elfreda, glancing at Woo, who was busily at work washing dishes and singing "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" "He is a song-bird, too," observed Stacy. "Woo, you must be saving of the provisions," called Grace. "Remember we must make our supplies go a long way, for we shall not get any more for some time." "Don't wolly till to-mollow. Hi-lee, hi-lo; hi-lee, hi-lo!" sang the guide. "What's that he says?" demanded Tom Gray. "He says, 'Don't worry until to-morrow,'" interpreted Emma. "Ha, ha!" laughed Chunky, and the Overland Riders joined in the laughter. "You savvy plenty to-mollow. Me savvy glub to-mollow," added Woo, chuckling to himself. "He speaks hog Latin quite fluently, doesn't he?" observed Stacy solemnly. "You leave it to Smith. I found Smith, you know," reminded Hippy Wingate pridefully. "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" sang the Chinaman, continuing with his work, while the Overlanders, having finished their supper, gathered about the campfire, and forgot the heat of the California night in its cheerful glow. It seemed good to them to be out in the open once more, to be where they were obliged to depend almost wholly on their own resourcefulness for their food and lodging, if not for their lives, for they were going into perilous places, places fraught with dangers. Woo, having completed his work, and having hung his frying-pans and other equipment to nails driven in a tree, sat down on his haunches by the fire, and, after composing himself, lost his long yellow fingers in the mysterious depths of his wide-flowing sleeves. "Me savvy plenty fine night," he observed, gazing blissfully up into the sky. "You savvy plenty fine night, too?" he asked, looking soulfully at Miss Briggs. "I savvy the same as you do, Woo," replied Elfreda soberly. "It is going to be a fine night for sleep, but I think the air will be cooler later on." Woo nodded wisely, and Stacy glanced up with quickened interest. "Are we going to sleep on the ground?" he asked. "Yes," answered Tom Gray. "You ought to be used to that." "Are there snakes up here?" questioned the fat boy apprehensively. "Me savvy plenty snake," the guide informed them. "What kind?" wondered Emma. "Lattlers." "He means rattlers," interpreted Grace Harlowe. "Oh, wow!" muttered the fat boy. "I think I'll climb a tree." "You will take pot luck on the ground with the rest of us," answered Tom rather severely. "Me savvy lattler in blanket once," declared the guide. "Lattler sleep plenty in blanket. Go away in molning. Lattler no hurt Chinaman," explained Woo. Signs of uneasiness were observable among the girls of the Overland party, and in Stacy Brown as well. Tom declared that Woo was "drawing the long bow," and said that he never had heard anything of the sort about the Sierra trails. "I have," announced Hippy. "There are snakes all about here, but we are not going to lose any sleep over it. Besides, Stacy is getting the wiggles." "Yes. For goodness sake, drop the subject. You folks give me the willyjiggs," shivered Emma Dean. "I'm not getting the wiggles," protested Stacy. "I reckon I'm not afraid of anything that walks." "We were not speaking of that kind," reminded Nora. "We were speaking of reptiles." "How long do you figure that it will take us to get into the High Country?" asked Grace by way of changing the subject. "Me savvy eight days," answered Woo. "You savvy mebby pony him no climb?" "Yes, they can, too," objected Stacy indignantly. "Our ponies can go where a bird can. Don't you forget that." "Me savvy plenty snake, too," added Woo. "For goodness sake, stop that snake conversation," cried Emma. "I shall surely dream about snakes if you go on that way." Smith grinned happily, then proceeded, with the utmost composure, to relate experiences with big rattlers in the Sierras. He told of waking up in the morning and finding one coiled in his blanket, under his arm, or, perhaps, nestled close to his neck for warmth from the chill night air of the higher altitudes, until Stacy was on the verge of a panic, and Emma Dean was shivering. "Mr. Smith," she said, after regarding him inquiringly for some moments. "Have you ever had any experience with transmigration of thought?" she asked. "Tlans--tlans--" "Transmigration," assisted Hippy. "Tlansmiglation! Les. Me savvy. Me savvy one time big hunter shoot one in mountains. Woo savvy bad medicine and run away," chuckled the Chinaman. "I reckon that will be about all for you this evening, Emma," observed Hippy Wingate, amid peals of laughter from the Overland girls. Tom got out the bedding, consisting of a blanket apiece, and a tarpaulin for a cover, while Woo busied himself with cutting browse which he placed on the ground and laid blankets on it. It was not a particularly soft bed at that. While they were preparing their beds, Stacy poked about with a stick, covering a radius of several rods. "What in the world are you doing?" demanded Nora Wingate. "He is beating up the landscape to drive out the serpents," answered Emma. "You are a tenderfoot, aren't you?" "I don't like the fleas to get next to my skin," explained the fat boy lamely. "They tell me that these California fleas are awful." "Were I as tough as you, I do not believe I should worry about a little thing like that," retorted Emma. Stacy made no reply, but poked the fire savagely, then piled on more wood, occupying all the time he could before preparing for bed, and the others had turned in long before he was ready. "Stop that fussing and come to bed!" ordered Hippy. "Yes, for goodness sake, do," added Miss Briggs. "Woo Smith, aren't you ready to turn in?" "Les. Me savvy glub first." "You might fetch Uncle Hip and myself a bite to eat while you are on the food question," suggested Stacy. "No food until breakfast," admonished Grace. After idling about and grumbling for fifteen minutes more, Stacy finally crawled in under the tarpaulin, uttering dismal groans and complaints about the hardness of his bed. All were lying with feet towards the fire. The smoke and the blaze drove away insects, and the warmth was pleasant, even though the night was sultry, and it was not long after that when the Overlanders dropped off to sleep. Woo, chuckling to himself and muttering, crept cautiously to the men's side of the fire, surveyed the layout, then crawled in under the tarpaulin beside Stacy Brown. A few moments later, Hippy, who lay next to Stacy, was aroused by the fat boy's mutterings. Stacy was dreaming about snakes. Hippy knew because he heard his fat nephew say, "Snakes!" "I'll teach that boy a lesson and make him dream of something worth while," decided Hippy. Rising on one elbow, Lieutenant Wingate glanced over the row of heads just visible above the top of the tarpaulin. He could barely make out their features in the faint light, but when his gaze finally came to rest on the face of the sleeping Chinaman, Hippy Wingate was suddenly possessed of a brilliant idea. Woo lay flat on his back, both hands snugly tucked into the wide-flowing sleeves. "I have it," chuckled Hippy. Reaching over Chunky very cautiously, he lifted the long black queue of the guide, held it for a moment, then softly dropped it across the face of the sleeping, snoring Stacy. Chunky muttered and stirred restlessly. Hippy waited, then began slowly drawing the queue over Stacy's face. The fat boy awakened suddenly, but he did not move at once, for he was fairly paralyzed with terror. Something cold and soft was wriggling over his face. Uttering a mighty yell, Stacy grabbed that wriggling queue, at the same time giving it a tug. It was now Woo Smith's turn to yell, and yell he did, as he struggled and fought to free himself. Stacy, hurling the thing from him, leaped to his feet, howling lustily. He stepped on Woo and went over backwards, landing on Hippy's stomach, struggling and fighting, and finally finishing up by fastening his fingers in Tom Gray's hair. The camp was instantly in an uproar, and none was more loud in his protestations than Hippy Wingate himself. CHAPTER X "BOOTS AND SADDLES" "Stop that noise!" shouted Tom Gray. Emma uttered a frightened cry and springing up, started to run. "Come back! We are all right," commanded Miss Briggs. "Oh, what is it? Hippy, my darlin', are you all right?" wailed Nora. "Snakes! Snakes! Oh, wow!" howled Stacy Brown. All hands had turned out in a hurry, and Woo Smith was dancing about chattering and fondling his head at the base of his queue. "Snakes! Where?" cried Emma. "It crawled right over my face," declared Stacy. "I grabbed it and hurled it from me, and think I must have flung it against a tree and killed it. Uncle Hip, go see if you can find it." "You poor fish!" chortled Hippy Wingate. "You--you must be a good thrower, for there isn't a tree near where you slept," declared Emma. "That's so, there isn't," admitted Chunky. "Well, anyhow, it must have been a stone that I threw the snake against." "What you did do, young man, was to fall on me with your full weight," rebuked Hippy. "Oh, why did I ever ask you to come with us?" "That's what I have been wondering," agreed Emma. "Please, please quiet down, good people," begged Grace laughingly. "Suppose we find out what actually did occur. Does anyone know?" "Yes. I know. A great big snake crawled over me," averred Stacy. "With all due respect to you, Stacy Brown, I don't believe it," differed Elfreda. "He ate too much and had the nightmare," suggested Miss Dean. "It wasn't a mare. I tell you it was a snake," insisted Stacy. "I guess I know what I am talking about, and don't you try to make me believe anything different. I won't! I know what I believe, and I believe what I know, and that's the end of it." "Well, sir, what is the matter with you?" demanded Tom, facing the excited Chinaman. "Mr. Smith has the willyjiggs, too," answered Emma. Woo chattered and caressed his head. "Me savvy somebody pull queue. Me savvy head almost come off. Ouch!" "Just a moment. Just a moment," begged Grace. "You say someone pulled your queue?" "Les." "This demands further investigation," spoke up Hippy. "The question now before this tribunal is, who pulled the Chinaman's queue. Emma Dean, did you pull Honorable Smith's queue?" "I did not," retorted, Emma indignantly. "All right, all right; don't get all heated up about it. I take it that none of the other ladies tried to scalp our guide. How about you, Stacy?" Stacy declared that he didn't know anything about it, and cared less, and Tom Gray said the idea that he had done such a thing was preposterous. "We will leave it to Smith," announced Hippy. "Woo, did Mr. Brown try to pull your halter off?" "Les, les. Me savvy him pull queue. Him neally pull head off. Woof!" "I begin to understand. Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery is solved. The Honorable Woo Smith's queue got on Stacy's face and Stacy thought it was a snake. You see how easy it is to be carried away by one's imagination. Stacy, if you raise further disturbance in this outfit I shall require you to roost by yourself. I, for one, at least, need my rest." "If Woo will get out I'll keep quiet," answered Stacy. "Don't wolly till to-mollow," advised the Oriental, pawing about like an animal, in search of a suitable place on which to lie down and sleep. No further disturbance occurred that night, though Stacy refused to turn in until he had seen Woo lie down at some distance from him, and at daybreak the Overlanders were aroused by the "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" of the guide, who was out gathering wood for the breakfast fire. "Come, folks. Wash and get busy," urged Hippy. "Who is the wrangler this morning?" "It is Stacy's turn, I believe," replied Tom Gray. "I don't want to wrangle. I'm too sleepy and too cold," protested the boy. "That makes no difference. There is to be no shirking in this outfit," answered Uncle Hippy. The wrangler is the man who goes out in the morning to round up the horses. Following the custom in the mountains, the Overlanders had turned out all but two of the ponies, permitting the stock to graze where it pleased through the night. The pack animals had been hobbled. It now became Stacy Brown's duty to find the animals, and drive the herd into camp. "I don't hear the cow bells. The animals must have gotten away quite a distance," suggested Emma mischievously. Stacy took all the time he could in getting ready, and, as a result, by the time he was ready to start, breakfast was nearly ready to be served. "Don't I eat first?" he questioned anxiously. "Certainly not. Wranglers always go out for the horses before breakfast," reminded Emma. Chunky threw himself into the saddle and galloped away at a reckless pace, but his was a long chase, for the ponies had wandered some distance from camp. They were lying down in a glade and did not move or make a sound when the boy rode past them. Stacy had followed their trail out, but, suddenly discovering that he had lost it, he turned about and went back to pick it up. This time he discovered the animals. "So! There you are, eh?" he jeered, regarding the horses resentfully. "Thought you would play me a smart trick, did you? I'll be even with you for that." After much floundering about, the white pack pony, Kitty, finally got up grunting and groaning dismally, then Stacy began removing the hobbles from their legs. Kitty gave him the most trouble, the white mare insisting on grabbing Chunky by the trousers every time he stooped to unfasten the hobbles. This continued until Stacy finally lost his patience, and, getting a switch, he gave Kitty a good sharp touching-up. Finally, having completed his task, he turned their heads towards camp and mounted his own saddle pony. "Shoo! Go on, you lazy louts! Think I am going to eat cold grub, just out of consideration for you?" It was shortly after that that the Overlanders in camp heard the tinkle of the bells on two of the pack animals, and when Stacy rode into camp the party was half way through breakfast. Slipping from his saddle, Stacy started at a run for breakfast, flinging a set of hobbles at the cook as he passed. "Stacy! You are becoming a very violent young man," smiled Grace. "Becoming?" spoke up Emma Dean. "It is my opinion that he always has been. No one could acquire his manners in so short a time." "Association sometimes plays strange freaks with one," retorted Stacy. "Say, Uncle Hip. That white mare is a terror. She actually hid so that I should not see her; then, when I finally found her, she tried to eat me up. The brown one is the laziest thing I ever saw. We ought to call her the Idler, she's so lazy." "Good!" cried Elfreda. "Idler she shall be, with the permission of our Captain, Grace Harlowe." "How about the other one?" asked Stacy. "The black?" questioned Tom. "Yes. He is always stumbling and getting into difficulties," said Chunky. "We will name him Calamity," said Grace. "That is what I was going to name the Chinaman," grumbled the fat boy. "The wrangler always attends to the packing, you know," reminded Elfreda after they had finished breakfast. "This wrangler doesn't," answered Chunky. "Of course, in view of the fact that this is our first morning out, and that you are still a little green--" teased Miss Briggs. "His natural color," interjected Emma. "I will help you," finished Hippy. "By the way, you need not throw the diamond hitch around the packs this morning. Kitty has a soft pack, and the square hitch will answer very well, provided you make it good and tight." "Oh, I'll make it tight, all right. I'll lash it so tightly that the old horse won't be able to breathe. I owe her a grudge, anyway," declared Stacy. "Did you folks know that I learned a new hitch at Gardner?" "Impossible!" exclaimed Emma. "It is called 'The Lone Packer,'" continued Stacy, unheeding the interruption. "It is even harder to learn to tie than is the diamond hitch. For a load of small articles it is supposed to be the best in use. The particular feature about it is that it pulls the pack away from the animal's sides and prevents chafing." "Here, here! That isn't the way to throw a square hitch," objected Hippy, hurrying over to Stacy who was laboring with the white mare's pack, Kitty standing with all four feet braced, groaning dismally. "What have you done to her?" "I? Nothing. She thinks she's smart." Hippy regarded the pack animal keenly, then, stepping up, he placed his hat on top of her pack. The mare flinched and groaned. It was a test that Hippy had seen practiced on lazy horses in France during the war. "So that's it, eh?" he chuckled. "She is soldiering, but never mind. We will take all that out of her." "That is what I told Kitty this morning. I promised her that she should get all that was coming to her. Stand up, you lazy-bones!" commanded Stacy sharply, at the same time giving the mare a slap on the stomach. Kitty instantly retaliated by taking a chunk out of the boy's sleeve, and a wee bit of skin with it. Stacy howled and jerked away. His face flushed, and he raised a hand to strike back. "Don't do that!" rebuked Grace. "Never, never strike a horse on the head! It is a sure way to spoil an animal. And never punish a horse when you are in anger. Should an animal need punishing, punish him humanely, but trim him so thoroughly that you never may be called upon to repeat the performance." "But, she bit me," protested Stacy. "Forget it!" laughed Grace. "I should say that the poor beast is already sufficiently punished after biting Stacy Brown," observed Emma meekly. "Be firm, but gentle," continued Grace. "Kitty is in just the right mood to be spoiled by rough treatment." Stacy was not over-gentle. He jerked the white mare about, shook his fist in her face and announced in a loud tone what he would do to her did she ever again try to make a meal out of his arm. In the meantime Hippy, with an interested group of Overland girls observing, was putting the final touches to the packing, making the lead-ropes fast, using a knot that he had learned, by which, in case of trouble, one can reach from his saddle and jerk the pack free by a single pull on a loose end of a rope. All was now ready for the start. Woo Smith, with a final look backward, started ahead singing blithely. Hippy whistled "Boots and Saddles." The Overland ponies knew the signal, but of course the pack-horses did not, though they soon would learn that it was the command to get under way. When a short distance from camp, the pack animals straggled off and sought their own trails near the one that was followed by the riders, Hippy now and then shouting to Woo to keep them up, for the Idler was lagging behind, though she had started out in the lead of the pack-horses. Woo Smith's "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" sung in the Oriental's shrill, knife-edge voice kept time for the plodding ponies, that were now climbing up a steep grade. The Overland party were well started on their way to the high places of this wild, rugged country, where genuine adventure awaited them. CHAPTER XI PONIES GET A BAD FRIGHT Up and up traveled the Overland party, the ponies here and there being obliged to zigzag back and forth, picking their way like mountain goats. The members of the party were keenly interested in watching the pack-horses to see how they acted under these trying circumstances, and, to their satisfaction, found that the animals were thoroughly familiar with their work. The saddle horses of the Overlanders, they had seen in action before, and knew what they could do. Now and then the white mare would poise with all four feet bunched as if she were about to make a leap into space, then slowly one foot would reach out for a footing. Having found it, the other fore foot would follow, then the hind feet, Kitty all the time groaning dismally and wheezing like a leaky valve on a locomotive. Ordinarily, horses on a trail make an effort to keep within sight of each other, but in this instance Idler, the brown mare, did not appear to care whether she were within or out of sight of her companions. Hippy, when they made the noon luncheon camp, searched his kit for an article that he had brought along, thinking it might prove useful. He did not let the others see what it was, but secreted it on his person. This article was a pea-shooter, and he had the peas to use in it, too. When the party moved on after luncheon, Hippy dropped behind to better observe the pack-horses. Idler loafed, as usual. Hippy tried the pea-shooter on her, and the brown mare jumped at a critical point. All four feet went out from under her, and she landed on her back, greatly to the detriment of her pack, and, had it not been that the pack was very strong, the outfit she carried would have been ruined. "Oh, the clumsy beast!" groaned Grace Harlowe. "What ails the silly creature?" cried Emma. "She has thrown a fit," Stacy informed her. Hippy, whose scheme had exceeded his expectations, sprang from his saddle and ran to the fallen horse, which, by this time, had rolled over on her side. One foot further and Idler would have slipped down along the rocks a hundred feet or more. "Stacy! Sit on her head! Fetch me a rope, someone," urged Lieutenant Wingate. Passing the rope about the animal, they threw it around a tree above the trail, then began removing the pack, which Tom had loosened by pulling on the pack-rope. Relieved of the weight on her back, Idler, aided by a pull on the rope, struggled to her feet, and, after no little effort, she was gotten back on the narrow trail. About a hundred feet above them, perched on a pinnacle of rock, sat the Honorable Woo Smith, hands lost in his flowing sleeves. "Hi-lee, hi-lo! hi-lee, hi-lo!" sang the guide. Stacy shied a pebble at him. "Will you stop that 'hi-lee' business?" he demanded. "It is lucky for you that you are above instead of below me, or I'd roll a rock down on you." "Let the cook alone!" ordered Tom Gray. "I don't understand what caused that beast to lose her footing so suddenly." Hippy Wingate, however, understood only too well, but he did not think best to enlighten his companions, who might have found unpleasant remarks to make. A full hour was lost in getting the brown mare and her pack in condition to proceed, then the journey was resumed. Later in the day, Lieutenant Wingate found occasion to use his pea-shooter again. The first effort in that direction had proved so successful that he could not resist the second shining opportunity that presented itself. This time Stacy was the victim. Stacy was asleep in his saddle at the time, his pony moping along with head close to the ground, when Hippy sent a pea straight at the tender flank of the animal. The pony woke up suddenly, and then another pea hit it. The fat boy's mount bucked beautifully, and Chunky took a long flight, landing head-first in a wild rose bush, howling and struggling, not rightly knowing what had occurred. "Here, here! What's going on?" shouted Tom, turning in his saddle. "Stacy has come a cropper. Oh, please do it again, Stacy. It was beautiful," urged Emma enthusiastically. "I--I fell off," wailed the boy, raising a very red face above the top of the rose bush. "I--I transmigrated, didn't I, Emma?" Stacy grinned sheepishly. "I'll trim the beast for that." "You will not," laughed Hippy. "The pony was not to blame in the least." As a matter of fact, the pony appeared to be even more amazed at the mishap than were the Overlanders themselves. The excitement ended, and the party once more under way, Chunky began to ponder over what had occurred, and the more he pondered the more convinced did he become that someone had played a trick on him. He eyed each member of the party narrowly, finally regarding Uncle Hip with suspicion. "I wonder if he did it?" muttered the boy. The trail was growing more difficult and perilous with the moments, and the Riders were making not more than a mile-and-a-half an hour, and at one point it curved so sharply that the riders in the lead, in this instance Tom and Stacy, were directly above Lieutenant Wingate, traveling in the opposite direction. "Hulloa! What's Uncle Hip up to now?" wondered Stacy, casting suspicious glances at him. Chunky saw something glisten in the hands of Uncle Hip; then he saw him place the glistening object to his lips and blow. Miss Kitty snorted and jumped, after which she quickened her pace. "So, that's the game, is it?" grinned Stacy Brown. "I reckon I know now what made me come a cropper into the rose bush. Uncle Hip used a pea-shooter on my pony. Wait till I get an opportunity! I'll make a show of him for that." Tom had halted at the summit, and, shading his eyes, gazed off over the scene before him. "What do you call that hole down there?" questioned Elfreda. "That? That is a box canyon," replied Hippy. "Are we going down there?" wondered Nora. "Yes." "We're going to do a giant leap for life to the bottom of the box in a few moments," Stacy Brown informed her. Tom removed his sombrero and mopped his forehead. "I see nothing that looks like a trail," he declared. "Woo, are you positive that there is a safe way to get down?" Woo bobbed his head vigorously. "Him plenty good way. You no savvy tlail?" Tom shook his head. "Me savvy tlail. You come. Me show." "Never mind, Woo. We are going to find that trail for ourselves. This isn't the first time we have been in the mountains. You watch us," answered Lieutenant Wingate. Hippy crawled down the mountainside for some distance, working along, first to the right, then to the left. He observed, at the same time, that the wall on the opposite side of the canyon had a more gradual slope. Climbing the other side would be easier than the one they were now going down. There was no trace of a trail on the Overlanders' side, but Hippy found a way to get down. "Well?" questioned Grace, upon his return. "We can make it." "Of course we can make it. We shall have to jump, though," said Stacy. "Suppose you jump first, then, if the jumping is good, perhaps we may follow," suggested Emma. "Jump? Why, you wouldn't dare jump off from a silver dollar," declared Chunky. "Produce one and see whether I dare or not," offered Emma. "I--I don't think I have one," stammered Stacy amid laughter. "All ready," announced Lieutenant Wingate, mounting and starting down the sharp incline. The others watched him for a few moments, then followed, the pack animals taking their places without being urged, not at all disturbed over the perilous descent. Hippy was now taking a zig-zag course, which was the only safe way, unless one preferred to adopt Stacy's suggestion and jump. To look at the mountain, traveling down its steep side would seem to the novice an impossibility. However, ponies familiar with mountain climbing are sure-footed and unafraid, and do some remarkable climbing, frequently going where a tenderfoot would hesitate to crawl on hands and knees. Here and there were small trees, with an occasional growth of bushes, which afforded more or less protection from a bad fall, but on other parts of the trail the rocks sloped away for hundreds of feet, lying smooth and glaring in the bright afternoon sunlight. The Overland Riders took the descent without any display of nervousness, but Kitty, the pack-horse, groaned and grunted all the way down. One would imagine that she was suffering agonies, but it was simply habit with her, and she got no sympathy, though now and then she did feel the sting of a pebble that one or another of the party hurled at her. Lieutenant Wingate was making much more rapid progress than his companions, he being eager to reach the bottom before the light failed them, for it would not do at all to be caught on the side of the mountain after dark. A shout from below told them that he had reached the valley. It was answered by another shout from above, then a "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" in the high-pitched voice of the guide. A stone came bumping down not far from Woo. "Stacy, did you throw that stone?" shouted Hippy. "I did." "Stop it! You might hit someone." "I want to hit someone. I want to wing that song-bird, and I'll do it yet," threatened Chunky. The safe arrival of the rest of the Overland party at the bottom of the pit put a stop to further gaiety at the expense of the guide. They found themselves in a valley about a quarter of a mile in width and of unknown length. The place was a meadow in the heart of the mountains, carpeted with the brown California grass that did not appeal to the appetites of the horses, and as soon as the animals were turned out they made haste to climb the opposite slope in search of the succulent greens that they seemed to know they should find up there. In the meantime, preparations for making camp and getting supper were going on systematically down in the canyon. It was an ideal place for camping, sheltered from storm, and from sunshine during the early and late hours of the day. A clear, cold brook rippled merrily on their side of the canyon, its waters leaping from the black rocks or lying in sombre bank-shadowed pools; and, despite the apparent dryness of the landscape, gorgeous bush-flowers bloomed, filling the air with their perfume, the valley farther down being a riot of varied colors where the stream had left its banks and spread out over the lower land. "Oh, girls, isn't this fairyland?" breathed Elfreda Briggs. "Wonderful!" agreed Grace. "All but the fairies," answered Stacy. "We have a gnome," suggested Emma, glancing at Chunky. "Fairies don't stuff themselves. They live on atmosphere." "This fairy doesn't live on atmosphere," retorted Stacy. "He takes his belt off, if necessary, too." "I would suggest that you take it off now and get to work. We have plenty of it to do," reminded Tom Gray. All hands turned to, to help the cook, for they were hungry, and it was natural that they should be, for climbing mountains in the High Country is hard, grilling work. Supper was a busy rather than a lively affair, but after supper the Overlanders found their tongues and were soon engaged in good-natured raillery, but they were quite ready to turn in when Tom Gray whistled "taps." This time there was no hesitancy on the part of anyone to sleeping on the ground, and they dropped off to sleep with the tinkling of the bells of the pack-horses in their ears, the rich perfumes of flowers in their nostrils, their senses lulled pleasantly by the song of the locusts and strange insects that none remembered ever to have heard of before. The camp was awake shortly after daybreak. Once more Stacy Brown had to be urged forth to wrangle the horses. He protested loudly when Elfreda pointed to the opposite slope, which Chunky must climb, for the animals were nowhere in sight. "I suppose I might as well go out. I always get the fag-end of the stick," grumbled Stacy. "Never mind, Chunky. I'll fetch the horses," offered Tom. "No, no. I just wanted to say something," returned Stacy, hastily stirring himself into activity and jumping on the bare back of his pony. No sooner was he on than he was off again, for the pony had never been ridden without a saddle, and promptly bucked when his owner mounted. Stacy landed flat on his back in the campfire, sending up a shower of sparks and smoke, and it was only the quick action of Nora Wingate that saved him from being burned. As it was, his clothing was smoking when he was dragged out. Hippy and Tom put Stacy's fire out by grabbing the boy up and throwing him in the creek, where Stacy rolled over whooping and howling his disapproval of the entire proceeding. "You should have known better than to try to ride that pony without a saddle," rebuked Hippy. Stacy turned angrily on his now meek-eyed pony. "You donkey! Oh, you doddering idiot!" he raged, shaking a fist at the animal. "You'll pay for that! You'll rue the day and the minute that you bucked me off your back. Where is my saddle?" "Never mind. I will get the ponies," grinned Hippy. "You aren't fit." "I am. I'm always fit. I'll get 'em myself." "Be sure to bring back the donkey," teased Emma. Stacy cinched on his saddle before starting, and this time the little animal offered no protest, but galloped away as docile as could be desired. After he had left them, the Overlanders had a good laugh at his expense, then began packing in preparation for the day's journey. The Overlanders finally began to wonder what had become of Stacy, for he had been absent much longer than seemed necessary, then, all at once they heard a yell on the opposite side of the canyon. "There he is! He is in trouble again," cried Tom, starting for his own pony. "See him come! He will break his neck," worried Nora. Tom halted at his pony's side, for he had discovered something else. Right on the heels of Stacy's mount came the saddle-ponies and the pack-horses. The latter, being hobbled, were hopping like kangaroos, making long leaps, covering a great deal of ground in each leap and turning their heads to glance back with almost every jump. "What can be the matter?" wondered Grace, anxiously watching the descent of the fat boy. Every second she expected to see him come a cropper and fall the remaining distance down the mountainside, but Chunky did nothing of the sort. He stuck tightly to his saddle, now and then casting apprehensive glances back at the horses that were tearing along in his wake. Lieutenant Wingate, suddenly surmising what the trouble was about, ran for his rifle. "Wha--at is it?" stammered Emma Dean. "They are stampeding. Something is chasing them. I think I know what it is," answered Hippy, darting across the canyon, clearing rocks and other obstructions in a series of lively leaps, the others of his party standing gaping, wondering, some of them a little fearful, especially for the safety of the panic-stricken Chunky. CHAPTER XII AMID THE GIANT SEQUOIAS Stacy swept past, flinging back some unintelligible words, the ponies still tearing along after him. The Overland Riders shouted with laughter at the funny antics of the hobbled pack-horses. Kitty had forgotten to groan, and Idler was imbued with a new spirit of activity. For the moment the outfit had forgotten all about Lieutenant Wingate. When finally they thought to look for him he was nowhere in sight. "Hippy! Oh, Hippy!" hailed Tom Gray. No answer came back from Hippy, who was stalking the mysterious something that had stampeded the ponies. "What is it?" cried the Overlanders in one voice, as Stacy rode back to them wide-eyed. "I don't know. It was something big and awful. I couldn't see all of it, but it looked to me like an elephant. Maybe it was a Bengal tiger, but I didn't wait to see. If I had waited, the ponies would have run right over me. When I saw them coming I threw on the high-speed lever and lit out for home. I transmigrated. Where is my rifle? I am going back after that beast, whatever it may be and--" "There goes Hippy across that open space," cried Grace, pointing. "Yes, and he is after something," added Tom. "Look! Oh, look!" cried Emma. All eyes were turned in the direction indicated by Grace. They saw a dark object moving across the open space towards Hippy, then saw the lieutenant raise his rifle and fire. Still the object came on. "It's a bear! Hippy's missed!" groaned Tom. "I'll wager my hat that Uncle Hippy didn't miss," answered Stacy. "He never misses--when he hits." Hippy raised his rifle and fired again. "That was a hit!" cried Grace. Stacy galloped his pony up the other side of the mountain. "Came near making a meal of you, didn't he, Uncle Hip?" called Stacy as he came up with Lieutenant Wingate. Hippy shook his head. "I tried to shoot him between the eyes, but he dodged as I pulled the trigger. Next time I couldn't do any fine aiming because the bear was too close. Do you see what he is--a big cinnamon bear? I am going to have that skin. Go back and tell them to wait until I finish this job, and that we are going to have bear steak for supper to-night." Stacy galloped back with the message, then Tom rode out to assist in the skinning and to select such meat as he wished to carry with them. The bearskin proved to be very heavy, but Hippy insisted on taking it along, first, however, treating the skin so that it would keep until they reached a place where the curing and tanning might be continued. Woo, upon observing the bear skin and the steaks taken from the animal, lapsed into song, which Stacy pretended not to hear. It irritated Chunky to listen to that "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" and put him into a fighting humor. An hour after their delayed start they topped the rise on the opposite side of the canyon and paused to gaze over the peaks and rugged mountain-tops that lay before them in a vast panorama. Over yonder in the clouds hung the snow-capped peaks of the High Sierras, now and then taking on a purple shade from some tinted cloud. "It doesn't seem possible that we shall be able to make those mountains with our ponies, does it?" wondered Elfreda. "Are we going there?" demanded Stacy. "I believe so." "Hm-m-m-m!" "Are you getting cold feet already?" teased Emma. "Not yet, but I expect to when I get in those chilly looking snow-caps off yonder," answered Stacy quickly. "This life is just one ridge after another." They had mounted ridges, and crossed broad and narrow valleys for some time without incident and the steady creak of saddle straps and girths was becoming monotonous, when suddenly Grace's pony jumped clear of the ground with all four feet and began to back. Grace Harlowe, instantly understanding, called "Look out!" and whirled her pony about. "What is the trouble, Grace?" called Tom, who was riding farther to the rear. "A snake! I heard it, but do not know where it is." "Stay back. I will find him and dispatch him," shouted Hippy, hurrying forward. "Send him a message for me while you are about it. Tell him Emma Dean wishes him to transmigrate," chortled Stacy. Just then Lieutenant Wingate discovered the snake, and raising his rifle he aimed it over the head of his pony for a few seconds, then pulled the trigger. "Did you get him?" shouted Nora. "Of course he did. My Uncle Hip never misses anything," declared Stacy. "No. Not even food," added Emma. "You may all get off. I am going to skin the reptile. He is a fine specimen," announced Lieutenant Wingate. "I propose to make a hat band of him. It isn't everyone who can wear a rattler around his sombrero, you know." "I'll say that was a fine shot," declared Stacy. "Yes, but not better than almost any other person could make," differed Emma Dean. "Velly fine. Me savvy fine shot," interjected the Chinaman. "Emma, in a way, is right," spoke up Grace. "It does not take any sort of marksmanship at all to shoot the head from a rattler. Even a person who never has fired a gun in his life should be able to shoot one." Hippy laughed. "You don't believe it. Suppose you let Emma try it when next we meet a snake. Point your rifle at a rattler and he will line his head up with the muzzle. Move the muzzle from side to side and he will follow it, always keeping his head in line with it. Then, all you have to do is pull the trigger. Why, I believe I could shoot and hit one with my eyes shut. I think I should like to make the experiment next time we see a rattler," said Grace. "Never mind; never mind! We will take your word for it," protested Stacy Brown. "We do not need a public demonstration." "It surely would be interesting," agreed Elfreda. "Oh, all right. Just let me know when the show is coming off and I'll have business on the other side of the mountain," declared the fat boy. During this temporary halt the pack-horses had plodded on alone. They made a detour of the spot where the snake was being skinned, seeming instinctively to know where they were expected to go, and soon after they started off, Woo Smith followed with his "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" About midday they topped a range of hills, and before them saw revealed a vast forest that stretched over more miles of mountain country than they cared to try to estimate. At first they had no idea of the bigness of the trees; it was merely a great forest. Lieutenant Wingate, who had been gazing inquiringly at the scene, fanning himself with his sombrero, turned to his companions. "Good people, you are now gazing on some of the big trees of California of which you no doubt have heard or read much. Before you lies the world-famous Sequoia forest. Let us push on. When you are among the trees you will get a better idea of their great height." "You should have been a guide on a sightseeing bus," averred Emma, as the Overlanders rode on. The party reached the edge of the great forest some two hours later, where, in the cool shadows, they halted for a rest. "I am told," resumed Hippy pompously, "that this forest comprises more than five thousand specimens of trees." "And you will also observe," announced Emma Dean, standing up in her stirrups and waving her sombrero, "that many of them are from ten to twenty feet in diameter. At the great height to which they grow, the least leaning either way would cause the trees to break off. You will observe, also, the perfect symmetry of the trees. They are perfect works of art," finished Emma, resuming her seat on the saddle. "Hooray!" shouted Stacy Brown. "Emma has transmigrated again." Emma's companions looked at her in amazement, then burst out laughing. "Where in the world did you learn all that, darlin'?" questioned Nora Wingate admiringly. "I heard the postmaster at Gardner telling Hippy about it," answered Emma meekly, amid shouts of laughter at Lieutenant Wingate's expense. The scene was so impressive that the laughter of the Overland Riders soon died away, for the great silence of this wonderful forest had taken strong hold on them. Whereas all other forests in which they had traveled, were continually nodding and murmuring, the giant Sequoias stood in absolute calm. Tom Gray explained this silence by saying that, owing to their great height, the trunks were solid, the branches rigid and the movement very slight. Even though there might be some slight murmurings, the tops were so far above the ground that the human ear could not catch the faint rustling up there. As the party moved on through the silent forest aisles, the bigness of the trees grew Upon them. "You savvy big tlees?" asked Woo Smith finally, after a long period of silence on his part. The Overlanders nodded. "Do you know where there is a spring or a creek?" asked Tom. "Me savvy spling," nodded Woo. "Lead us to it. Is it far from here?" The guide answered with a shake of his head. An hour later, no water being yet in sight, Grace called a halt. "Woo, I do not believe you savvy any spring at all," she said. "I think we should camp right where we are. It will soon be dark, and if we keep on going we shall undoubtedly be worse off than if we remain where we are. Smith, have you lost the trail?" she demanded. Woo did not reply at once, but gazed up at the tops of the trees, muttering to himself. "You're lost! That's what's the matter," grinned Stacy. "Woo no lost. Tlail him lost. Me savvy tlail lost," chuckled the Chinaman. "I thought so," agreed Hippy gravely. "There being no objection, I second Grace's motion that we camp here." "While you are making camp I will go out and prospect for water," offered Tom, wheeling his pony about and riding off into the forest. Tom, being a forester by profession, an experienced woodsman, they felt no concern over his departure, but, as the hours following his departure wore on and Tom Gray did not return, the Overlanders began to worry. At nine o'clock they began firing signals at intervals, and Woo Smith built up a blazing fire, but there was no response to either signal. Grace Harlowe was the least worried of the party. "We will have supper," she said. "Tom will be all right. Should he be lost it will not be the first time." "Yes, but what if he doesn't find himself?" questioned Emma tremulously. "In that event he will make camp and sleep in the forest, so you folks make your beds and turn in for a good night's sleep, just as I am going to do," urged Grace. "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" chanted Woo. "Stop that noise, will you!" commanded Chunky. "I am not in the mood for song this evening, and I might do you bodily harm," he added, starting to prepare his bed. This he did by smoothing the ground with an axe swung adz-wise between his legs, then filling in the open space with dry pine needles. The Overlanders observed his work in interested silence. "You do know how to do something, don't you?" approved Emma. "Someone in the outfit has to have a head with him," retorted Chunky. "It makes me sleepy to look at it. If I weren't sleepy I would make beds in the same way for you girls. Let Uncle Hip do it, I can't keep awake long enough. Good night!" Stacy lay down, and the others quickly cradled under their blankets and went to sleep, watched over by the huge Sequoias that had stood sentinel on that very spot for hundreds of years. Then, all at once, it was morning. The songs of birds filled the air, and a squirrel, whisking its tail nervously, chattered on a giant tree trunk, then darted up out of sight. CHAPTER XIII THE CAMP AT THE "LAZY J" Stacy sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What did you wake me up for?" he demanded. "Hulloa, Tom!" "I awakened you by transmigration of thought," answered Emma. "Oh, girls, girls, wake up! Tom is here," she cried. The camp was instantly aroused. Tom was discovered sitting calmly by a little fire that he had built, waiting for the sleepers to awaken. Tom had done exactly what Grace said he would. When he lost his bearings in the darkness, he lay down to wait for daylight. When daylight came he found no difficulty in picking up his trail and returning to camp. "Did you find water?" demanded Hippy. "Not a drop. For that reason, we must take a quick breakfast and hurry on. I think we shall find water beyond the next low range, and it is necessary that we do so before the sun gets high and hot. We can stand it for some time longer, but the horses cannot." The start was made soon after that, Tom and Hippy packing their belongings while Woo and the girls were getting breakfast. The trail they followed took them up a gradual slope for several miles and then pitched giddily into a deep canyon, a canyon that covered all of fifty acres, from which the hills rose in great swells into the far distance. The climb down the side of the mountain was tiresome and difficult, but they forgot their discomfort when finally they came upon a stream of cold, sparkling water that came down from the snow-capped tips of the High Sierras. "Oh, look!" cried Emma. "Cows! Now we can have some milk." "Cows!" groaned Stacy. "Those aren't cows, they are cattle." There were loud exclamations of wonder when the Overlanders saw a lot of cattle, in charge of several herders, grazing less than a mile away. After permitting the horses to drink all that was good for them, and after the Overlanders themselves had drunk and filled their water bottles, they galloped on towards the herd. From the herders they learned that the cattle belonged to the "Lazy J" ranch. The animals were on their summer grazing grounds, having come up into the hills for the summer months. The herders informed the Overlanders that the ranch-house was about five miles due east of there, and that the boss would be glad to see them. "My horse has a loose shoe. Is there a blacksmith outfit over there?" asked Hippy. "Sure," answered a herder. "You'll have to do your own smithing, though." "I reckon I can do that all right," answered Lieutenant Wingate. "We can make camp there and have a rest before we undertake the next hard climb." After waving good-byes to the herders, the Overland Riders resumed their journey, arriving at the "Lazy J" ranch about mid-afternoon. They were warmly welcomed by Mr. Giddings, the foreman, who showed his amazement that a party of young women should have made the rough ride into the mountains. "Help yourselves to anything in sight. It's all yours," he offered. "Glad to have you take pot luck with me in my shack. There isn't much, but what there is you are welcome to." "No. You sit down with us and have a snack," urged Grace. Mr. Giddings did so, and after a late luncheon he conducted Hippy to the blacksmith shop, where Lieutenant Wingate removed the loose shoe from his pony and straightening it on the anvil proceeded to nail it back in place, observed interestedly by the Overlanders and several cowboys who were resting up at the ranch-house. Even the cowboys' cook came out, frying-pan in hand, to see how the tenderfoot would go about it to shoe a horse. The cowboys looked on with solemn visages, expressive of neither approval nor disapproval. Their interest quickened, however, when Stacy Brown announced that he was going to remove a loose shoe from the off hind foot of the white mare, Kitty, and set it properly in place. Kitty was led in, and Chunky made his preparations with sundry flourishes to show the spectators that he knew what he was about. Kitty was not unobservant, and every move of the Overland boy was narrowly watched by her. "I should advise you to watch her ears," urged Grace. "It isn't her ears, it's those hind feet that I am interested in," replied Stacy. "Ears can't hurt a fellow--feet can," he said. "Whoa, you brute!" added Stacy, running a hand down one of the pony's hind legs, then lifting the foot from the ground. What followed was almost too swift for the human eye. Barely had the foot been lifted than Kitty kicked the boy clear out of the shop. In his flight, Chunky was catapulted against the cook, and both went down in a heap. The faces of the cow-punchers relaxed. They howled, fired their revolvers into the air and went fairly wild with joy, while Grace and Elfreda disentangled Stacy and the cowboys' cook and stood them on their feet. [Illustration: "Are You Hurt?"] "Are you hurt?" begged Grace solicitously. "Of course I am. I'm killed, but the white mare is going to get worse than I did," threatened the fat boy. "Cool off. Don't punish her now," advised Elfreda. "I don't want to cool off. I want to shoe that beast." Stacy strode belligerently to the now meek little animal. "I ought to break your miserable neck, but I haven't time to do it to-day. Besides, the weather is too warm. If I did, this outfit would make me dig a hole and bury you. I always get the worst of it when trying to do a good turn for others. Now you stand still or I'll surely forget myself." This time Kitty made no objection to having her loose shoe removed, but once off Stacy did not know how to put it on again, and Tom Gray had to finish the job to the great enjoyment of the cowboys. The job finally finished, Stacy and Hippy perspiring from their efforts, the Overlanders went out to watch the range men come in, uttering wild whoops as they discovered that there were women in camp. Throwing themselves from their saddles, the range men soused their heads in the creek that flowed near the ranch-house, and were ready for the evening meal. After supper, all hands lounged out to the green in front of the bunkhouse, smoked their pipes and told thrilling stories of adventure in the Sierras--told them for the benefit of the tenderfeet who were their guests. The Overland girls chatted with the rough but big-hearted cow punchers, who, that night, declared that they never had come up with such a likely bunch of young women. When Mr. Giddings learned from Tom Gray that the party was bound for the High Sierras, he shook his head dubiously. "No place for white folk, especially women," he warned. "Why not?" questioned Tom. "Trouble! It's the Devil's country up there." "We are used to roughing it under all sorts of conditions," replied Tom. "We learned how to do that during the Great War. All these young women were in the service, at or near the front in France; Mr. Wingate was an aviator, and I was a Captain of Engineers, so you see we aren't afraid of trouble." "That's all right. I take off my hat to you, especially to the young ladies. This country is another breed of cats, however, and they tell strange stories about men going up there and never being found afterwards, or, as is sometimes the case, found dead in the Crazy Lake section. Aerial Lake, they call it." "Where is this mysterious lake?" asked Miss Briggs. "I don't rightly know. I don't know anything about it. I reckon I don't want to know. Neither would you if you had been up here long and had heard as much about it as I have. Did you ever hear of the Jones gang?" "I reckon we have. We had a little mix-up with them. At least, we understand that was the outfit," Hippy informed them. "Yes, and we drove them off and gave them a good walloping," added Stacy. "Let's hear the yarn," called a cowboy. Hippy related the story of the hold-up and of the skirmish that followed, resulting in the driving off of the train robbers. The cowboys listened attentively, their expressions showing an increasing respect for the "tenderfeet" who had dropped in on them for a friendly call. "Why should this band of outlaws have reason to interfere with us?" asked Tom. "Why do they bother other folks?" answered Mr. Giddings. "For what they can get out of it, of course," he said, answering his own question. "They will not get much if they hold us up," Grace Harlowe informed their hosts. "No. I reckon that would not likely put you in peril, for the reason that they are after bigger game, like that treasure on the Red Limited. There's another thing, though, that might make it equally bad for you people." "What is that, Mr. Giddings?" asked Elfreda. "The railroad has had Pinkerton detectives after that gang for a long time, on account of an express robbery, which makes the gang rather touchy about strangers being in the mountains." "Where does this Jones crowd make its headquarters?" questioned Hippy. "That's just the point. Nobody seems to know, but they are supposed to hang out to the eastward of this place. We have never seen any of them since I have been on this range, which is going on five years." "Then we do not have to bother our heads about them at all," announced Tom. "We are not going in that direction." "You're going to the peak, aren't you?" asked Giddings. "Yes," replied Grace. "Hm-m-m-m-m! I'll bet I know what you folks are after. You're after golden trout. You're not the first parties to come up here looking for those shiny fellows." "Eh? What's that?" questioned Hippy, instantly on the alert. "Where are they? I'm the boy that is looking for gold," spoke up Stacy. "Maybe there ain't any such thing," laughed Giddings. "But they do tell a story about a prospector coming across a stream up Farewell Gap way, where the golden trout were as thick as pollywogs in a mud puddle." Tom said he had never heard of them. Giddings replied that he reckoned no one else ever had in reality. "They do say," resumed the foreman, "that when the fisherman discovered those fellows basking in the sun at the bottom of the stream, he sure thought he had struck it rich. He believed that he had found sure-enough gold nuggets, but when he went to gather them, the nuggets just up and dusted." "That's the way nuggets usually do," answered Stacy wisely. "I hope we find them," said Hippy. "I have a rod and a book of flies with me." "It's enough to give a fellow heart disease, anyway," continued Giddings. "So, between the Joneses, the lake and the movable nuggets, you folks have plenty of entertainment ahead of you." "There is generally excitement and some trouble where we hang up our hats," laughed Nora Wingate, "but we manage somehow to get along all right." "I wish you luck, pardner," nodded Mr. Giddings. "I'll have a bunk-house cleaned out for you folks to-night, so you can sleep indoors," he offered. Thanking him, but declaring that they preferred to sleep in the open, just as they had been doing for several seasons, the Overlanders made camp out of doors just beyond the corral. The night was hot and the flies very thick. The night's rest was not at all satisfying for this reason, and for the added one that the cowpunchers' ponies in the corral were restless. Hippy said it indicated that a storm was coming, but Stacy differed with him. He averred that the ponies were restless for the same reason that he was--because the flies bit them--and the Overlanders laughingly agreed that there might be something in the fat boy's reasoning after all. Next morning they were out with the earliest of the punchers. After breakfast, packs were made up and lashed with firm hitches thrown about them. Then bidding good-bye to their hosts and shaking hands all around, the Overland Riders set out for their long journey over the mountains--a journey that would occupy some weeks and be filled with exciting as well as enjoyable experiences. CHAPTER XIV WOO'S EYES ARE KEEN The air was becoming chilly, the Overland Riders now being at an altitude of nearly eight thousand feet, and still upward bound. A week had elapsed since they left the "Lazy J" ranch, and during all that time they had sighted no game except some grouse that they had shot at but failed to bring down. Provisions were at a low ebb and all knew that they were nearly face to face with a serious situation. Hippy Wingate was pondering deeply when they pulled up for luncheon one noon. He was wondering what he was going to give his party for supper, for Hippy was the official game-hunter of the Overland party, and they had come to rely on his resourcefulness to provide food for them. Stacy Brown was even more deeply interested in this matter than was "Uncle Hip," but for a somewhat different reason. "What do we eat to-day?" he asked in a tone that he tried to make sound light-hearted. Some one laughed. "Oh, it's not because I'm hungry," hastily explained Chunky. "I just wanted to know so as not to have to open all the packs unless we are going to have a spread." "Ours is more likely to be a snack than a spread," suggested Grace laughingly. "What is it going to be, Hippy?" questioned Nora. "Raisins and hard tack, my dear." "You don't mean it?" gasped the fat boy. "I reckon that will be about it if I don't see some game to shoot at," replied Hippy a little soberly. "Raisins and hard tack for a man with an appetite like mine," groaned Stacy. "You might as well feed a bricklayer on angel food and expect him to smack his lips and pat his stomach with heavenly satisfaction. This is too much, and too much is enough." "If you folks will camp here I will go out and see if I cannot scare up some game," suggested Hippy. "I do not believe you will find anything worth while at this altitude," said Tom Gray. "It is a condition that I have feared we should meet. I--" "You no savvy game?" interjected the Chinaman. "No, Smith," replied Hippy. "We savvy plenty appetite, but we no savvy anything with which to satisfy it. If I could sight a deer--" "Me savvy deer. Me show buck in lelet," cried Woo, gesticulating excitedly. "What kind of heathen talk is that?" wondered Emma. "'Buck in lelet!'" mocked Stacy. Hippy was eyeing the guide inquiringly, knowing very well that Woo had something in mind. "Buck in lelet," repeated the Chinaman, indicating the horns on a deer's head, with his hands. "I understand," nodded Tom Gray. "What he is trying to say is, 'buck in velvet.'" "Ha, ha! The further they go the worse they are. First it was Emma Dean whose wheels went wrong; now it is my Uncle Hip and Captain Gray," jeered Stacy. "Is it the altitude that has gone to _your_ head?" "No, it has not," retorted Lieutenant Wingate. "Woo has more sense than all of us together. At this season of the year the bucks 'carry their antlers in velvet.'" "Oh, pooh! That is a fine fairy tale to feed hungry people with. Folks back east might swallow it, but not up here among the high and lofty peaks of the Sierras. Tell me something that I can swallow," laughed Stacy. "Stacy, if you will hold your horses I will try to explain," rebuked Tom. "At this season of the year the antlers of the bucks are very tender, and that condition is called 'carrying the antlers in velvet.' In those circumstances the bucks frequent the high rocky peaks that their tender horns may not be torn off in contact with tough bushes and trees. Later on you will find the bucks on the lower ranges. Then, as the antlers become hard, almost as hard as iron, the bucks take to the dense thickets." Stacy Brown mopped his forehead. "Emma, why don't you transmigrate a little? Send a little thought wave out and see if you can't get in touch with a nice fat buck all dressed up in velvet," he suggested. Emma Dean elevated her nose, but made no reply. She was at that moment more interested in the guide, who was running his yellow fingers about his wrists inside the wide sleeves, and chuckling to himself at a rapid-fire rate. "Me savvy! Hi-lee, hi-lo; hi--" "What were you going to say?" urged Hippy. "You savvy buck in lelet?" Lieutenant Wingate shook his head. "Me savvy buck." "You do? Where?" The guide pointed his long, bony finger towards the rocks on the other side of a narrow pass in the mountains. The mountain there was covered with brownish grass and some spindling saplings. Lieutenant Wingate looked until his eyes ached, then turned to Smith. "Woo, you must be mistaken," he said. The guide took the stick that he used to beat up the trail ahead on his march each day, laid it across a rock, and, after sighting it, beckoned to Lieutenant Wingate to look over it. "You savvy?" he questioned eagerly. "No, I don't, Woo." "Mebby you savvy to-mollow," replied the Chinaman disgustedly. The Overland Riders snickered, and even Hippy grinned appreciatively. "I reckon you are not far from right, Woo. I--" Hippy paused abruptly. Out of that mass of brown something began to grow into his vision, to stand out until everything else appeared to have disappeared. "You savvy nicee piecee buck?" chuckled the guide. Hippy reached a cautious hand behind him. "My rifle. Quick!" he whispered. "Woo is right. There lays a fine big fellow behind that bush over yonder. I don't know whether he sees us or not. It is a dead sure shot, too. Don't make a sound," urged lieutenant Wingate as his rifle was cautiously laid in his outstretched hand. Placing it across the rock where Woo had laid the stick for him to sight over, Hippy took careful aim a little below the base of the antlers of the buck. His automatic rifle belched forth a deafening roar that went rolling and echoing from peak to peak. At the same instant, what appeared to be a dull brown and white ball leaped into the air and went bounding away in tremendous leaps. Hippy's rifle went to his shoulder and he fired again, but the shot only served to hasten the speed of the fine large buck that Woo Smith had discovered. Hippy had missed a "sure shot" as well as a long shot. "Uncle Hip never misses what he shoots at," quoted Emma a little maliciously. "Why don't you use your pea-shooter?" scoffed Stacy. "Dead Shot Hip made a mess of it that time." "He did," admitted Hippy, "and Stacy Brown missed a fine fat meal. Laugh at me all you like, folks. I deserve it, but I don't understand how I could miss that shot." "Don't wolly till to-mollow," advised the guide wisely. "May I look at your rifle?" asked Grace. Lieutenant Wingate handed it to her and Grace gave it a critical inspection, then held it out to Hippy. "Look it over carefully. I think you will discover why you missed," she suggested. Hippy intuitively glanced at the sights, and shot a quick look of inquiry at Chunky, but Chunky's face was woodeny in its lack of expression. Without another word, Lieutenant Wingate set up a mark, placed his rifle on the rock, marking its exact position, and, taking careful aim, fired. The bullet shot under by more than a foot, whereas it should have shot over the mark, the rifle being originally sighted for a much longer distance. Several cartridges were expended in resighting the weapon and adjusting the open sight, which he found had been changed from its former position. "There, now! Show me another deer. I don't believe I shall miss the next one." "You savvy sight no good," chuckled the Chinaman. Lieutenant Wingate nodded. "Stacy, come here. I would hold converse with thee," he ordered. Stacy complied, but with evident reluctance, and, obeying a gesture from Hippy, seated himself on a slab of granite beside his Uncle Hip. "Why did you fool with the sights on my rifle?" demanded Lieutenant Wingate sharply. "I--I--I--" "Don't quibble. Whenever you put on a wooden face I know that you have been up to monkey-shines. Why did you do it?" "I--I--I just wanted to get even with you, Uncle Hip," stammered the fat boy. "For what?" "You--you pinked my pony with a peashooter and made me come a cropper in a rose bush. Don't you deny it. You know you did," added Chunky, adopting his most savage tone. Hippy Wingate chuckled. "That is it, eh?" "Yes." "When did you change them--change the open sights?" "I did it when you were after water last night." "Shake, pard!" cried Hippy, extending an impulsive hand. "We are quits now, aren't we?" "Yes, we are dear friends. We're more than that--we love each other most to death," declared Stacy fervently. "Oh, fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Emma Dean. "You make me weary." "But, Stacy, the next time you wish to get even with a fellow, please do not tamper with his weapons, especially in a country like this," warned Lieutenant Wingate. "It is a dangerous thing to do. Suppose I had met up with a cinnamon bear at close range, for instance--what do you think would have happened?" "I reckon there would have been a sprinting match between you and the cinnamon," observed Stacy in a tone that brought a shout of laughter from the Overland girls. "You are partly right," agreed Hippy laughingly, "but don't do anything like that again, will you?" Stacy promised that he would not, but the probabilities are that he forgot the promise within five minutes after he had made it, for at that instant Woo Smith uttered a sudden exclamation that drew the instant attention of the Overland Riders. "Me savvy buck! Me savvy buck in lelet," chuckled the Chinaman excitedly. Hippy was on his feet in an instant. "Where, where?" "You savvy him white lock?" "Yes, I see the white rock. Sure enough; there he is!" When the automatic roared a moment later, a brown ball was seen to leap into the air, but, instead of bounding away, it straightened out and took a long, curving leap, crashed into the dwarfed bushes, then whipped over on its back. "I got him!" shouted Lieutenant Wingate triumphantly. "Great shot!" cried Elfreda Briggs enthusiastically. "Hi-lee, hi-lo; hi-lee, hi-lo!" sang the guide, hopping about delightedly, his queue wriggling in the air with serpent-like movements. This time no one appeared to be irritated by Woo's singing, for Lieutenant Wingate's shot meant food in plenty for the Overland Riders. CHAPTER XV FOLLOWING THE AERIAL TRAIL Shouting and laughing, the entire party raced down the hill and up the other side to view the result of Lieutenant Wingate's shot. They found the buck lying dead where it had fallen, with a bullet hole through its head. "Can my Uncle Hip shoot? Well, I reckon he can," declared Stacy pompously. "Cleverness runs in our family," boasted Stacy. "That quality must have exhausted itself before you joined the family," retorted Emma. Stacy admitted that he had lost some of it after becoming a member of the Overland Riders, which, he said, was undoubtedly due to association with inferior intellects, to which Emma had no reply to make, other than characteristically elevating her nose and turning her back on the fat boy. "Come, come," urged Hippy. "Stacy, you and Tom will have to help me dress this beast if you want meat. It is certain that we shall not starve today." The job of dressing the buck was accomplished clumsily, the Overland girls being interested spectators and offering frequent suggestions on the subject, of which they knew nothing. That night the Riders enjoyed a great spread. Following it, such of the meat as they wished to carry with them they spitted on sharp sticks in the smoke of the camp-fire. This was the beginning of the curing process required to put the meat in condition to keep, so that they might carry it along, for the party did not dare trust to the chance of finding other game farther on, fearing that they again might be caught foodless. One experience of the kind was enough. Lieutenant Wingate and his companions had learned a lesson in observation from the guide, and Hippy began to understand that a hunter, when after game, must put out of his mind every object in the landscape except the particular thing for which he is looking. He tried out that idea that same day by looking for various objects, one at a time, and was amazed at the result. Under this method, objects that he had not before observed at all now stood out with great prominence. Hippy then recalled what an old hunter, then sniping Germans, had told him in France: "Let your eyes sweep quickly over the landscape but pay no attention to the more prominent objects, and you will be amazed at the quickness with which you will discover that for which you are looking." The method worked out just as Hippy's informant had said it would, and Hippy determined never again to be caught napping. However, his respect for the guide had increased considerably, and especially for the keenness of Woo Smith's eyes. With all the venison they could carry packed in their kits, the party set out early on the following morning and soon found themselves on the brink of another box-canyon, which they reached without mishap, then made their way up the side of another mountain, and on over a series of rugged elevations that would tax the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. "This up and down progress reminds me of a wild ride that I once had on a scenic railway at Coney Island," declared Elfreda Briggs as they finally halted for a rest. Elfreda's face was red from exertion and excitement, and her hair had become the plaything of the mountain breezes. "Don't wolly till to-mollow," chuckled Stacy. "Stacy, you're right," nodded Tom Gray. "But it is now time we were moving. See that ridge to the right of us?" "Surely we do not have to cross that, do we?" begged Emma. "Yes. We shall have to ride its entire length in order to reach the high mountain peak that you see still farther on. Either we must start now or wait until tomorrow," averred Tom. "It never will do to be caught on the top of that ridge in the darkness," agreed Hippy. The ridge referred to lay slightly higher than their present position, but there was plainly a safe trail leading to it. Orders to move were given by Hippy. The Overland Riders were quickly in their saddles, and the party slowly mounted the ridge, but halted as they came to the top of it. For once the girls experienced a case of "nerves." "We never shall be able to ride over this awful trail," cried Elfreda Briggs. "Oh, let's go back," begged Emma. "Impossible!" answered Hippy. "This is the trail that we shall have to follow to reach the high peak of the Sierras." "If the horses behave and no one loses her head we ought to be able to cross safely," averred Grace. "My head is swimming already," moaned Nora. "Why don't you turn it over and let it float for a few minutes?" suggested Chunky. After directing Woo to proceed on ahead, the journey was resumed, and the ponies stepped out over the knife-edge top of the ridge. This ridge, not more than a dozen feet wide along the top, formed a natural bridge connecting two mountain ranges. Here and there the sides of the ridge fell away sheer for hundreds of feet, and at others, smooth granite rocks sloped away to the canyon below. Ahead of the Riders, Woo Smith was picking his way unconcernedly, singing blithely. The girls of the party sought to look equally unconcerned, but not with very much success, for each one was feeling the effect of the great height and their peril on the narrow path. Emma Dean finally slipped from her saddle, and passing the bridle-rein over one arm, proceeded to pick her way on foot. "Cold feet, eh?" scoffed Stacy. "No. I'm scared, that's all," replied Emma. "I don't care who knows it, either." Grace glanced at the faces of her companions, and then, at the rapidly narrowing trail. "While I believe that we shall be in less peril on our ponies than on foot, I suggest that we all walk," she said, dismounting. "With your feet on the ground you will be less nervous." Grace's companions lost no time in following her example, but they dismounted cautiously. It was a relief to feel the solid ground under their feet. A laugh further relieved the strain when Hippy Wingate finally dismounted. The girls teased him unmercifully, though all knew that a man who had fought the Germans in the clouds was not likely to be disturbed by great heights. A few moments later Stacy dismounted, but Tom remained on his pony and appeared to be enjoying the novel experience of riding along this unusual aerial trail. Miss Kitty, the lazy pack-horse, as usual, brought up the rear of the line and was dragging farther and farther behind. Her actions were observed with keen interest by the Overlanders, there being no certainty as to what the white pack mare might or might not do. She proved the wisdom of their lack of confidence in her when, weaving from side to side to avoid stepping over projecting rocks or boulders, she stepped off the trail with one hind foot. "Quick, Hippy!" cried Nora excitedly. "She will fall over!" Lieutenant Wingate sprang forward and gave the mare a quick slap on her flank. The mare jumped, then down she fell on her side with hindquarters hanging partly over the brink, and there she lay groaning dismally, the picture of misery and fear. The faces of the Overland girls paled, for each knew that the slightest struggle on the part of the white mare would send her sliding to the bottom of the canyon fully a thousand feet below. CHAPTER XVI GOING TO BED IN THE CLOUDS "Oh, Hippy, you have done it this time!" cried Nora. "Keep quiet! Don't frighten her!" cried Grace, snatching the lariat from her saddle and handing it to Hippy. "Slip the loop over one of her hind legs, but for goodness sake do not make any sudden moves." "Wait! I'll get a derrick," shouted Stacy. "Keep quiet!" commanded Tom sternly, at the same time taking a rope from the pommel of his own saddle and hurrying to Lieutenant Wingate's assistance. While Grace, was patting the head of the fallen animal, trying to soothe her, Tom slipped the rope over her neck, Hippy having dropped the loop over one hind foot. "Oh, Tom, you surely will choke Kitty to death if you pull on the neck rope," warned Grace. "Serve her right if I did," growled Tom. "She is a perpetual nuisance. What next, Lieutenant?" "We must haul her up, that's all. Keep your rope taut, but don't put too much strength on it," directed Hippy, as he began to pull on the rope about the white mare's hind leg. He failed to budge her. "It is the pack," said Elfreda. "Don't you see that Kitty's pack is pressing right against the rocks?" "That's right," agreed Tom Gray. "We must unload the beast before we can do a thing with her. Confound her!" "Now, Tom," admonished Grace Harlowe. "Stacy! Get that pack off and be careful about it too," ordered Lieutenant Wingate. Stacy could not manage the pack alone, so Grace and Elfreda assisted him in removing it. This undertaking, perilous as it was, was accomplished after more than two hours had been lost through Kitty's clumsiness. It was then discovered that the white mare had gone lame, but Hippy found that she had suffered nothing more serious than a bruised hip. "We must be on our way," he urged. "As it is, we shall not get across this ridge before dark," declared Elfreda, glancing at the lowering sun. "Oh, don't say that," begged Nora. "We must." Tom Gray shook his head. "To make haste would be dangerous," he warned. As soon as the white mare was again in proper shape the party started ahead, determined to get as far on their way as possible before night, but darkness was settling over the canyons on either side of them when Lieutenant Wingate finally called a halt. "We must make camp while we can see to do so," he directed. "What, here?" cried Emma. "It is the best we have," answered Lieutenant Wingate in a doubtful tone. The trail had been steadily narrowing as they proceeded, and ahead of them it appeared to be almost impassable, at least for horses. It was decided to stake the ponies down in single file, which the three men finally succeeded in doing to their satisfaction. It was not an ideal tethering place, but most of the animals were used to sleeping in ticklish places, and, in fact, if necessary could sleep standing up. Packs were removed and stored in safe places, but Woo, who had been sent out to locate a spring, returned with the information that he could find none. This, however, did not disturb the Overlanders, for their bottles held sufficient water for supper and breakfast, provided they were economical in its use, so a small cook-fire was built, and in a few moments the kettle was singing merrily and the odors of coffee and venison were in the air, to the accompaniment of Woo Smith's "Hi-lee, hi-lo." It was an unusual supper for the Overland Riders, sitting there with their food served on an army blanket laid on the ground, with empty space and sombre canyons on either side of them now filled with inky blackness. While they were eating, Woo gathered stems of bushes and piled them ready for making a larger fire to light up the camp after supper. "I should like to know where we are going to sleep," reminded Nora as they finished the meal. Tom said he would make up their beds very shortly, whereat the Overlanders laughed, but with not much mirth in their voices. "If you don't make haste you won't be able to find beds to make up," averred Emma. "Don't you see the fog rolling in? We shall soon be enveloped in it." "Fog!" Hippy laughed heartily. "Why, child, that isn't fog--it is clouds. We are above them, but I think they will rise and take us in. When it gets a little darker here, you will see a sight that will interest you." Hippy's prediction was fulfilled. The moon rose full at about nine o'clock that evening, and exclamations of wonder were uttered by the girls of the party, as its beams lighted up the slowly moving clouds that now had risen almost level with the top of the ridge itself. Here and there sharp peaks thrust themselves through the cloud seas, which were dark and menacing to the eyes of the observers. "How beautiful," murmured Elfreda Briggs. "It is indeed," breathed Grace. "The scene reminds me of the one that we looked down upon when we were riding the Old Apache Trail, except that this is infinitely more beautiful. Hippy, does not this remind you of France, when you were flying above the clouds?" "In a way, yes. Many is the time that I have gone to sleep on a cloud for a few seconds. Tom, what is our altitude here?" he asked, turning to his companion. "According to my aneroid, about eight thousand feet." "We are surely getting up in the world," chuckled Emma. "Don't congratulate yourself too soon, Miss Dean. We may be going the other way before morning," reminded Stacy Brown. "What about starting a conflagration, Captain Gray?" "Woo, stir up the campfire and let's have some light and warmth," directed Tom. "Oh, it is too bad to destroy this wonderful view. If you build a fire we shan't be able to see the full cloud effect," protested Grace. "You will," answered Hippy. "We soon shall be enveloped in clouds, and we are going to feel the cold, too." There was a biting chill in the air already and, to the amazement of the campers, mosquitoes were numerous and very active. Tom, after a survey of their surroundings, said he would make up the beds, and called to Woo to bring the pick-axe. "Make up the beds with a pick?" exclaimed Emma. "Yes. By the way, where do we sleep tonight?" asked Miss Briggs in a slightly worried tone. "I will show you," replied Tom, beginning to dig a trench in the thin layer of soil that covered the ridge. "If you can transmigrate a real bed, I wish you would make it two so that I may have one," called Stacy. Tom made no reply, but, after digging the trench, he had the guide and Hippy place stones on either side of it as an added protection against rolling out of bed. "Stacy, get in here and see if this hole fits your ample proportions," directed Tom. Stacy hesitated. "I don't like to be buried so soon after supper," he complained. "Is this some new game that you are trying to play on me?" "Yes. It is a game to keep you from falling out of bed and making a mess of yourself," replied Tom tersely. CHAPTER XVII IN THE LAND OF PINK SNOWS "I--I think I should prefer to sleep downstairs," stammered Stacy. "If that is the way you feel, you have only to roll over and you will be downstairs for keeps," promised Lieutenant Wingate. "All right, I'll sleep in the hole in the ground, but don't you dare throw dirt on me," warned Stacy, crawling into the trench and cautiously disposing of himself to see if his bed fitted. "This isn't even half a bed, Tom. How am I going to turn over?" "Don't," laughed Grace. "Yes, please do," urged Emma. "Wow!" muttered Chunky sitting up and peering over the edge of his bed at the cloud-sea rolling slowly along just below the camp. "Wouldn't it be a terrible catastrophe if I were to be transmigrated out of bed?" "That depends upon the point of view," suggested Emma. The Overlanders were startled at this juncture by a shout from the Chinaman, accompanied by a series of bangs. "Somebody knocked over the kitchen table!" cried Chunky. "Me savvy piecee kettle go 'way," wailed Woo, who, in emptying out some dishes, had let them fall over the side of the ridge so that the utensils were then on their way to the bottom of the canyon, a thousand feet below. "He has lost the kettle," groaned Nora. "At this rate we shall soon be without anything." "Except our appetites," finished Chunky. "What a tragedy," observed Emma. "Don't wolly till to-mollow," advised the guide. "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" Nothing could disturb the equanimity of Woo Smith for very long, and he immediately resumed his duties. The loss of a few utensils was not a thing to be greatly disturbed about--at least he so reasoned the matter out. It was late in the evening when the Overlanders finally got into their trenches and dropped off to sleep, but their sleep was brief. First, Stacy had a nightmare and set up such a howling that all hands awakened in alarm. The next disturbance came when a sudden mountain wind-storm sprang up. The Overlanders were aroused just in time to see their campfire lifted into the air and hurled out over the clouds in which the embers and sparks quickly disappeared. "Oh, this is terrible! We shall surely be blown off the ridge," cried Emma. "Lie down in your trenches and let the blooming storm blow itself out!" shouted Hippy. "No wind-storm up here can harm you so long as you keep down." The girls of the party rather reluctantly lay down again, and found that, in that position, the wind barely touched them, and, from that time on, peace reigned in the Overland camp until morning. The morning, however, brought with it fresh troubles. Every member of the party awakened shivering. Stacy declared that his feet were frozen, which Emma asserted was a chronic condition with him. The Overlanders dragged themselves from the trenches, shoulders hunched forward, hands thrust into their pockets, their faces blue and pinched. The limit of their endurance was reached, however, when the familiar voice of Woo Smith assailed their ears. "Hi-lee, hi-lo! Don't wolly till to-mollow," sang the guide. "Smith!" shouted Tom Gray. "He--he thi--thi--thinks he's a bird," chattered Stacy. "I hope he tries to fly." "Smith, please cut out the singing and prepare hot coffee as quickly as possible," directed Tom. "Me savvy coffee. Me savvy nicee piecee day. You savvy nicee day?" bubbled the guide. "Oh, let him have his way, Tom," urged Grace laughingly. "We should be glad that we have such a cheerful guide." "Cheerful idiot!" muttered Tom. "Yes, Woo. We savvy," called Grace, smiling over at the grinning face of the Chinaman. "Please make haste with the breakfast, though. Girls, get up and look out over the wonderful scene before you, and I will guarantee that you will instantly forget your troubles." With shaded eyes, they looked and did, for the moment, forget their chilled condition. The peaks were now in the full glare of the morning sun, while down in the canyons day had not yet fully dawned, and the dim shadows there were gray with the morning mist. Another day of hard riding was before them, but before starting out Tom and Hippy announced that they would try to find a trail up the mountain that loomed in the sky some distance beyond. Upon reaching the end of the ridge that formed a natural bridge connecting two mountain ranges, Tom and Hippy came upon a sharp descent that led down into a broad, open valley, beyond which lay the mountain they were to climb. "This looks promising," nodded Tom, as they jogged down into the valley. "It is more than that; it is wonderful," cried Hippy as the two men found themselves in a field knee-deep with blue lupines that grew there in profusion. The odor of the flowers was almost overpowering. To the right and the left of the two explorers were bunches of tuft-grass, here and there groves of slender lodge-poles, and spindling pines and junipers. Tom and Hippy paused in admiring silence. It was more beautiful than anything that they had thought possible in this rugged country. While they were hunting for a possible trail that would lead them up the mountain, Tom Gray declared that Nature had used this sweetly scented field for a dumping ground, after having completed the building of the mountain itself. "Yes, and she protected her work mighty well when she erected that snow-capped peak," answered Hippy. "I know that there _must_ be a way out of this place to reach that mountain," he added, getting up from a fall, very red of face, his jaw set stubbornly. Despite their persistent efforts to find a trail out of the valley of the lupines, it was noon before they did discover a possible way out for their party. After marking it by tying a handkerchief to the bent-over top of a spindling pine, they started back to join their companions. The Overland party had some time since saddled and bridled their ponies and were ready to move when Tom and Hippy returned to them, and all were on their way soon after the arrival of the two men. "You are going to see something that will gladden your heart, Brown Eyes," declared Hippy as they started on. It was late in the afternoon when they finally rode into the valley below. The blue lupines, the grass, the pines and the junipers there presented a scene that brought cries of delighted amazement from the Overland girls. "Oh, look at the pink ice cream!" cried Emma, pointing to the towering mountain which they were to try to climb. "Why, Tom, we didn't notice that coloring on the snow up there this morning," exclaimed Lieutenant Wingate. "It must be a cloud reflection." Tom Gray nodded and said that the pink shade probably would soon disappear. "We must camp in the midst of these flowers," cried Grace Harlowe. "It is finer than any place we have yet seen in these mountains." "I agree with you," answered Elfreda. "It gives me fresh courage to go on. Why, Grace, I feel as if I could vault a six-foot fence." "Suppose you try to jump over the white mare," suggested Grace, laughingly. "This high altitude has gone to my head, too." "No, thank you. I think that it might be best for a person of my years to keep her feet on the ground," laughed Elfreda. "But the effect, as well as the view here, is wonderful. I do not believe there is anything like it anywhere else in the world." Camp was promptly made amid the flowers. Soon thereafter the clouds on the horizon rolled down behind the mountains as the sun sank out of sight, but as long as light remained on the mountain tops, the wonderful pink tint clung to the everlasting snows on the pinnacles, and the mosquitoes increased in numbers and ferociousness. "The higher we go the worse they get," complained Stacy Brown. "Isn't it queer how that pink tint hangs on?" "Say, girls," bubbled Emma Dean, "what if it should prove to be ice cream in reality?" "In that event I know someone who never would go home," laughed Nora. "Two someones," reflected Stacy, with a far-away, longing look in his eyes. CHAPTER XVIII AT THE "TOP OF THE WORLD" The morning dawned with the sky a molten green and gold. The mountain peak and the high ridges were a beautiful pink, and below them lay the green and blue of the meadow like a velvet carpet. "Wonderful!" breathed the girls in chorus. "Could anything be more beautiful?" murmured Grace. "This is worth all the hardships we have endured," declared Elfreda. The Overlanders continued to admire the scene until breakfast was ready. Immediately after the meal the journey was resumed, each one eager to reach the pink snows above that held so great a fascination for all. They came to the snow line late in the day. The ponies were left in charge of Woo Smith to remain until the party returned from the high peak of the Sierras, which was now their immediate objective. Now that they were close to it, they discovered that the snow really was pink. No one seemed able to explain this mystery until Tom announced it as his opinion that the pink shade was due to a tiny bright red flower whose petals were found imbedded in the snow. Stacy scooped up a handful of snow and tasted it, and then made a wry face. "It tastes like turpentine," he declared. The Overland Riders danced and capered about in the snow like school children, and tried to snowball each other, but found the snow so crumbly that it could not be rolled into balls. This they overcame by wetting handfuls of snow from their canteens, and then, ere they even thought of making camp, they had a merry snowballing battle thousands of feet above sea level. They battled until their breaths gave out in the rarefied air--threw snowballs at each other until almost exhausted. "Never mind. Don't wolly till to-mollow," comforted Stacy Brown. With the coming of night a chill settled over the mountain, beside which the previous nights were almost sultry, and a damp, gray cloud hid the lower reaches of the peaks like a great gray blanket. The Overlanders were glad that they were above rather than below that cloud, and they hugged their cook fire, though it was far from being a roaring one, for they did not have fuel to waste. Tom Gray, who, before the evening was far advanced, went out to examine the strange twisted little trees that grew here and there, discovered that they were full of pitch. He said nothing to his companions, but, moving back a little distance from the camp, he tested one with a match. The trunk of the twisted tree flared instantly. He put out the blaze with snow and returned to camp. "How would you folks like a real camp-fire?" he asked. "There ain't no such thing," mocked Emma. Grace gazed at her husband inquiringly, knowing quite well that Tom had some plan for a fire in mind. "The easiest thing in the world, my dear friends," chuckled Tom. "All that is needed to make a regular conflagration is the know-how." Tom struck a match against the trunk of a small scrubby tree against which he was standing, and held the match close to the trunk until he felt the heat, then sprang away from it. The tree blazed up gloriously. "I did it with my magic wand!" he cried, waving his arms dramatically. Exclamations of wonder greeted the achievement, and the Overlanders gathered about the blaze, holding out their hands to catch some of the warmth. "Me savvy nicee piecee fire," observed Chunky solemnly. "However did you do it, Tom?" wondered Nora. "The tree is filled with pitch," answered Tom Gray. "When we get ready to turn in we will light another one. I don't suppose we shall get any warmth from it, but we can hear it crackle, which will be some comfort." That night the Overlanders made their beds under an overhanging rock where there was no snow, and were lulled to sleep by another of Tom Gray's burning trees. They awakened in the morning again stiff with cold, but half an hour after sunrise they had fully recovered their spirits and were making preparations for the long hard hike ahead of them. Each of the men carried a pack on his back, leaving the girls to carry such provisions as they thought would be needed. Even the rifles had been left behind with Woo, the mountain climbers carrying no arms but their revolvers. Ropes, an axe and a shovel were included in the equipment and they finally set out for what Elfreda Briggs characterized as "The Top of the World." The peak of the great mountain was reached late in the afternoon, with all hands well tired out. They found the summit of the peak strewn with huge granite slabs, from some of which the snow had been blown away in spots, forming little scooped-out cups in the pink mantle. "Well, now that we have enjoyed this punk view, suppose we get down to some place where we can make camp and sleep," suggested Stacy. "This is where we are to sleep to-night," answered Tom. "What! Here?" gasped Stacy. "Yes. Did we not come up here for that purpose?" Stacy shivered, and glanced down over the glittering snow field, then shivered some more, but made no further comment. "This will be the first time that I ever slept in a snow bank, and I trust it may be the last," observed Emma resignedly. "Last night we found a nice dry spot for our beds, but up here--Br-r-r-r!" "You will be as comfortable as though you were in your own bed at home," promised Grace. "I wish to goodness I had your imagination," grumbled Chunky. "It must be beautiful to be able to dream things the way you do." No fuel for a fire had been brought along on this last leg of the climb above timber line, so supper was a cold meal. Everyone felt so miserable after supper that the Overlanders with one accord began preparing to roll up in their blankets for the night. Hippy had already dug trenches in the snow for the party to sleep in, so they might be out of the wind. The girls talked chatteringly of everything they could think of, to assist them in forgetting their misery, then crawled into their trenches and tightly rolled themselves up in their blankets. "This is the first time I ever went to bed with my boots on," complained Elfreda. "Should I live until morning I surely shall have something to brag about." "Why, girls, this is an ideal summer resort," laughingly chided Grace. The response was a chorus of dismal groans. For a few moments after that the Overlanders lay gazing up at the bright stars, then a gradual warmth overspread their shivering bodies, and one by one they dropped off to sleep, now nearly thirteen thousand feet above sea level. CHAPTER XIX BOWLING IN NATURE'S ALLEY Contrary to expectations the Overland Riders slept soundly all through the night, but the moment they crawled from under their blankets in the morning, they began to shiver. "Come on! Take a run with me," urged Tom. "Please go away and let me die," moaned Emma. "We must have exercise to start our blood circulating," reminded Hippy. "I don't want exercise. I want something to warm me up on the inside," protested Stacy. Grace and Elfreda, holding hands, were already dancing about in grotesque fashion, taking long draughts of air into their lungs, the color rising to their faces as the circulation of their blood responded to their lively movements. "Never mind, folks," comforted Hippy. "If you will all take a lively sprint, then a snow-wash, I will give you something that will please you and fix you up in great shape." "I shall be past all human help long before that," answered Emma. "Why don't you transmigrate yourself to a warmer clime for an hour or so?" suggested Stacy. Tom Gray nodded to Hippy, whereupon Lieutenant Wingate took from his pack a tiny alcohol stove, which he filled from a small bottle and lighted. Over the stove he placed a coffee pot full of white snow dug from underneath the crust where it was not tainted with what Stacy had been pleased to characterize as a "turpentine taste." As the snow melted in the coffee pot, more snow was added until there was sufficient for their use. The Overlanders, quickly discovering that something unusual was going on, ran to the coffee-maker. "Wha--at's this?" demanded Elfreda. "An alcohol stove--a hot cup of coffee for each in a few moments," chuckled Lieutenant Wingate. "Hippy Wingate, did you have that last night?" demanded Emma. "Yes." "And you let us suffer with cold and eat a coffeeless supper?" rebuked Nora Wingate. "You lived through it. Why kick, now that you are about to have a warm drink?" "We ought to throw you off the mountain," declared Grace. "Don't do it till he gets the coffee ready," urged Stacy. "The reason that I did not use the alcohol kit last night was that I had only enough alcohol to burn the stove for one meal," explained Hippy. "I knew that you would be in more urgent need of coffee in the morning than you were last night." "I withdraw my suggestion that we throw you over," laughed Grace. "Are you ready?" called Lieutenant Wingate. "The coffee is." "Are we ready? Just watch us," cried Emma Dean. Each had an individual cup, and Hippy passed lumps of sugar to them from his own kit. They had no milk, but there was no complaint, for the Overlanders were glad enough to get the coffee black. This, with some biscuit and cold venison, comprised the meal, but they declared unanimously that they had never had a more appetizing breakfast. "I have decided," announced Stacy finally, "not to be a party to the plan to throw Uncle Hip overboard--at least not to-day. Good-morning, Sun! Welcome to our happy home," he added, bowing to the rising sun. Tom called attention to two birds circling over them, which he said were jays looking for crumbs, whereupon the girls broke up pieces of hard tack and sprinkled them over the ground a few yards from the camp. The jays swooped down on the crumbs, chattering and scolding. Grace then suggested that, having reached the "top of the world," they resume their journey and explore the lower ridges, taking the whole day for their return to camp. The first quarter of a mile down was a slide rather than a walk, but the Overlanders made merry over their frequent mishaps, finally reaching a long granite slope on the south side of the mountain where there was little snow. There, the sun's rays blazed down all day long, and there many sparkling streams had their origin. About them the ground was strewn with boulders from the size of a man's head up to great spheres of flint-like stone, many as round and glistening as though they had been turned and polished by man. "Oh, look at the beautiful lake!" cried Nora enthusiastically, pointing to a body of water in the valley far below them. "What is it?" "It doesn't appear on my map. I don't know what it is," answered Tom. "Perhaps it is the Aerial Lake that we have been warned against," suggested Grace. "I was thinking of that myself," nodded Tom. "There are trees growing in the lake, but what are those glistening objects farther out?" "Rocks," replied Grace, after focusing her binoculars on the shining marks. "I wonder if I can hit one of them," said Stacy, picking up a round stone which he sent rolling down the smooth granite slope. The stone shot over a broad, shelving rock, leaped far out into the air, then, after what seemed an interminable time, splashed into the lake. The Overlanders saw a tiny spurt of water as the stone struck the surface of the lake. "Folks, I've got an idea. Greatest thing you ever heard of, too," cried Hippy. "Throw it over the cliff," suggested Emma. "The very best possible use to which you can put your ideas." "That is exactly what I am going to do, my dear Emma. Just watch my smoke." The Overland Riders were puzzled to know what Hippy had in mind. First, he cut several tough lodge poles, then selecting a boulder half as high as himself, Hippy easily pried it from its resting place with a pole and started it down the slope. The boulder soon began to roll, gaining momentum with the seconds, striking fire as now and then it came into contact with sharp projections of rock. The boulder finally hit the shelving slabs of granite at the edge of the cliff with a mighty crash and leaped out into the air. The party watched its projectile-like flight with fascinated gaze. Then came the splash into the lake. The Overlanders did not hear the splash but they saw the water spurt up into the air like a miniature geyser, and fall in a silver shower over a wide area. "Hurrah!" shouted Stacy, tossing his hat into the air. Tom Gray was excited, and so were his companions. Stacy Brown was already prying at a boulder with a pole, while Hippy had run to another one and was digging an opening into which to insert his lever, using a flat stone for a fulcrum. Many of the boulders lay resting on the slope and thus were easily thrown out of balance. "Wait!" cried Elfreda. "We will have a game of bowling." "Yes, and the highest one that was ever played," exclaimed Grace. "And I'll be Rip Van Winkle. Show me a soft place to lie down and sleep," cried Stacy. "Where are the ninepins?" demanded Emma. "One cannot bowl without having something to bowl at." "Use the trees down yonder in the lake," suggested Hippy. "The one who makes the first score will be free of camp duties for the next twenty-four hours." "I won't play," declared Chunky. "I know you want to work some sharp game on me." "And the one who makes no score at all must do the work for all those who do make scores," added Elfreda laughingly. The fat boy sat down stubbornly. "Go on with your game," he said. "What's the matter? Don't you want to play, Honey?" asked Nora. "No. I'm going to be the umpire," answered Stacy. "As you please," laughed Hippy. "You will have to do the chores anyway. Folks, I am going to try to hit the third tree to the left of that group of rocks near the middle of the lake. Now watch me." Hippy started a rock, which he had selected with great care. It boomed over the ledge, observed in breathless silence by the spectators, then hurtled far out over the lake, finally smashing into the blue waters, throwing spray high in the air. "A miss!" shouted the Overlanders. "He missed it by half a mile," jeered the umpire. "Why don't you change your sights? You are shooting over the mark." [Illustration: "It's a Hit!"] Tom took the next try. He balanced his rock, after having pried it loose, and made it ready for the fall, and sent it crashing along on its way. As nearly as the eye could measure, Tom's boulder fell some twenty rods to the right of the tree aimed at. Tom then made ready a boulder for Grace. She failed to hit the lake, and derisive howls greeted her effort. Elfreda and Nora did a little better than that. Both hit the lake, but nowhere near the mark they had aimed at. Stacy got up slowly and yawned. "You folks make me tired. You ought to go to night school and learn how to roll stones. Why, even our little transmigrating Emma could beat you sharps at throwing stones. Emma, will you roll if I fix a boulder for you?" questioned Stacy. "Yes, if you promise not to play tricks on me." Stacy winked at Emma and nodded sideways to the others, as indicating that the trick was to be played on them, then snatching up his pole he ran to a boulder that he had some time since selected for his own. After prying the rock into proper position, squinting and sighting and surveying the rock from all sides, he nodded to Emma and offered the pole to her. "Take it easy. If you can't move the rock I'll lend you a hand," whispered Stacy. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are now about to witness one of Emma Dean's most notable transmigration feats. Keep your eyes on the performer and you will see that she has nothing up her sleeve--nor under her hat," announced Hippy Wingate. "Tip it over!" commanded Stacy, throwing his weight on the pole with Emma. "Watch the two twin-trees down there, but look sharply or you won't see them when they disappear from the face of the earth," he warned, strolling back towards his companions. Emma's boulder, not being quite round, moved very slowly at first, and once it threatened to stop altogether and go no further, but finally, gaining new impetus, it started savagely on its way to the ledge, where it did a clumsy hop into the air, then dived for the lake. "It is going to hit the lake!" cried Grace. "What did you think we were trying to hit?" demanded Stacy. "If it is a hit--if little Emma makes a killing, I did it. If she misses, she did it." "It's a hit!" yelled Lieutenant Wingate. "You don't say?" wondered Stacy, turning quickly, the most amazed member of the Overland party. Cheers greeted the achievement as two trees standing side by side in the lake disappeared as if by magic. Stacy threw out his chest and paraded back and forth with folded arms, an expression of dignified superiority on his face. "I don't have to work for a whole week," observed Stacy. "Oh, yes you do," answered Elfreda. "You know you weren't in the game--you are only the umpire. Further, Emma won the roll, and will have a vacation until to-morrow afternoon." "There goes my Hippy's roll!" cried Nora, and for the moment attention was centered on Lieutenant Wingate's rolling boulder. It made a clean hit, knocking down a tree close to the water. "The racket must be terrific down there," said Grace. "Hippy, you surely raised a disturbance with that last shot." Tom tried once more and sent a boulder into the lake. The Overlanders plainly heard the impact, and could see a shower of broken rock being distributed over the surface of the lake. Suddenly a new sound smote the ears of the Overland Riders, a familiar sound that they had heard many times in France and on their journeys in their own land. "What's that?" demanded Stacy. "That?" answered Hippy. "Why, that is a butterfly lullaby. You surely ought to know that sound by this time." "_Woo, woo, woo!_" was the sound that smote their ears again. "Down, all of you! We're under fire!" shouted Tom Gray. CHAPTER XX LEAD AND MYSTERY IN THE AIR "Are--are we attacked?" wailed Emma Dean. "Bullets are coming from somewhere, that is certain," answered Hippy, raising his head from the ground on which he, as well as his companions, had thrown themselves at the first shot. Following the last two shots, the reports of rifles were distinctly heard by each member of the party, and each pair of eyes was straining to locate the source of the shooting. "Oh, it must be a mistake," cried Emma. "That doesn't help us any," replied Tom Gray. "But I do wish we had our rifles." "Don't wolly till to-mollow," advised Stacy. Hippy raised himself to a sitting position and waved his handkerchief. "_Woo, woo, woo!--Bang!_" Hippy threw himself over backwards, his feet kicking up into the air, his attitude being so funny that the Overlanders laughed heartily. Their laughter, however, quickly subsided, when they recalled that the last shot had passed very close to them. Tom Gray had been listening to the whistle of the bullets and to the reports that followed, and the result of his listening and looking was the conclusion that the shooters were getting the range, and that, undoubtedly, smokeless powder was being used. "I don't care whether they see me or not," exclaimed Hippy, getting to his feet, but no sooner had he done so than a bullet whistled so close to him that, as he declared later, he felt the hot breath of it on his cheek. "Did you see that?" he cried, throwing himself on the ground. "No. I didn't see it. I may have sharp eyes, but they aren't sharp enough to see a bullet on the wing," retorted Stacy. "What I cannot understand is, why they are shooting at us," wondered Elfreda. "Perhaps they think we have been throwing stones at them," suggested Emma. "Rolling stones gather no moss," interjected Stacy. "Possibly, however, our rolling stones came near gathering in some parties down in the valley, and they are retaliating by shooting at us." "Girls! Let's get out of here," cried Grace, springing up. "I am weary of hiding." "Get down!" shouted several voices. Grace gave no heed to the command, nor to the bullet that sang over her head, but when one barely grazed her cheek, she decided that she was quite ready to join her companions on the ground again. "Are we going to lie here all day and let those ruffians shoot at us?" demanded Emma. "The only other alternative is to crawl away," answered Tom. "Crawl where?" questioned Grace. "To that ridge to the right of us." "I'm blest if I do!" retorted Hippy, getting up and walking deliberately towards the rocks indicated by Tom Gray. The others, with the exception of Stacy Brown, not to be outdone in courage by Lieutenant Wingate, got up and followed him, not hurriedly, but walking slowly, keeping some distance between them, and in this way finally reaching the ridge and safety. Several shots were fired at them on the way, but all went wide of the mark. "Where is Stacy? Quick! Maybe he has been hit," urged Nora almost hysterically. Grace sprang back and peered around the corner of the rocks. "Oh, girls! Look at him, will you?" she cried. Leaning as far out from the rocks as they dared, the Overlanders discovered the missing Chunky. He was flat on the ground on his stomach, wriggling along in a fair imitation of a serpent. "Get up and walk, you tenderfoot!" laughed Hippy. "What are you afraid of?" "Nothing. I just happened to think how, when I was a baby, I used to creep to the pantry to pick up crumbs, so I thought I'd see if I had forgotten how," answered Stacy. "You are a fine hero, aren't you?" observed Emma sarcastically, when Stacy, having finally reached the protection of the rocks, got up and brushed the dirt from his clothes. "No. All the heroes are dead. I don't want to be a hero. What's the news from the front?" "Impossible!" muttered Tom, laughing in spite of himself. Tom had been pondering, wondering, trying to account satisfactorily to himself for this attempt on their lives. "What do you make of it?" asked Elfreda, nodding at him. "It may have been accidental," he replied. Grace shook her head. "No, they were shooting at us," declared Hippy. "I have been wondering, thinking about what Mr. Giddings told us at the 'Lazy J' ranch," said Miss Briggs. "You remember what he said about the mysterious Aerial Lake, don't you?" "It is my opinion that we have been bombarding that very same lake," declared Grace. "That, however, does not explain the shots." "Perhaps not," returned Elfreda, "but it does go a long way towards proving that there is something in what the foreman of the 'Lazy J' told us. I, for one, am in favor of giving that lake a wide berth." "No, no," protested Hippy and Grace. "Let's find out what the mystery is," added Grace. "I'll stay back and watch the horses while you are gone," offered Stacy. "Back to camp for us, now. To-morrow we shall decide what is best to be done," advised Tom. Having reached the safe side of the mountain, the party took a direct course for their camp, which was located close to what they had named "Bear Mountain," because its top strongly resembled an ambling bear. They found pretty rough going until they reached a point about a mile from the camp, and there Tom suggested that they move more cautiously, and not blunder into camp, not knowing what they might find there. They had approached within sight of their camp when Hippy halted and beckoned his companions to him. "What is it?" questioned Tom. For answer, Hippy pointed to a jutting rock which they knew lay just back of the camp itself. There, outlined on the rock, was a figure. It did not require very keen eyes to recognize the figure, even at that distance. "Woo! Thank goodness," exclaimed Miss Briggs. "I'll give him a yell," volunteered Stacy. "No, no!" protested Grace. There was that in the attitude of the Chinaman that appealed to Grace's bump of caution. "Wait until he sees us," she counseled. "Trust Woo to shout, unless there be good reason why he should not." The party moved on cautiously, thus far well screened by foliage, but the instant they appeared in the open, the guide saw them and began excitedly waving his arms. "Do you see?" nodded Grace. "He does seem to be excited about something," agreed Tom. "If there is likely to be trouble, perhaps I had better fall back as sort of reserve," suggested Stacy. "In case of trouble it is a wise plan to have reserves, you know." No one paid the slightest attention to Stacy's suggestion, nor did they increase their pace, not wishing to show that they shared the excitement of the guide, though there was a suspicion in their minds as to the cause of that excitement. As they drew nearer, Woo Smith clambered down from his perch and trotted out to meet them. His face expressed neither pleasure nor alarm. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith," greeted Emma with dignity. "Are the ponies all safe?" smiled Grace. "Him velly good." "Then what are you stewing about?" blurted out Stacy Brown. "Anything wrong, Smith?" asked Tom Gray anxiously. "Les. Bang, bang!" "You mean bing, bing, don't you?" cut in Stacy. "Me savvy bang, bang!" returned the guide. "Oh, let it go at that," urged Hippy. "It doesn't make much difference either way, whether it is 'bang, bang' or 'bing, bing'!" "Me savvy boom, boom, too," added Woo. "No, no. You mean bang, bang!" insisted Chunky. "For goodness sake, give the poor fellow a chance," begged Elfreda laughingly. "You will get him so befuddled that he will not know what he means. Woo, what _is_ the trouble? Have you seen strangers about?" The guide's queue bobbed vigorously, as he pointed to a ridge on the other side of the canyon. "Me savvy man there. Me savvy boom, boom! Bang, bang!" Grace's face lighted up. "We understand, Woo. You heard guns and you saw a man over there," she nodded. "Did the man see you?" The Chinaman shook his head. "Do you think he discovered the camp?" asked Tom Gray. Woo shook his head again. "He heard the boom of our bowling game and the shots following. That seems quite clear, but there appears to be no reason why we should be excited about it," said Lieutenant Wingate. Grace said she did not agree with him. "What the guide says, indicates to me that the stranger was not only seeking to wing us, but that he was looking for our camp. Was that all you saw, Woo?" "No. Me savvy woman." "What's that?" demanded Hippy sharply. The Overlanders' interest was aroused anew. "Me savvy woman. Woman come close and peek. Woman see camp, then go 'way. Br-r-r! Big piecee woman make ugly face!" "Discovered!" exclaimed Hippy Wingate dramatically. CHAPTER XXI THE FACE IN THE WATERS "A woman!" breathed Miss Briggs. "You must be mistaken," differed Nora. "What did she look like?" questioned Grace. "Me savvy no good," answered Woo with an emphasis that drew a laugh from the Overland Riders. "How strange," murmured Emma. "What could a woman be doing in this awful country?" "Perhaps she lives here," suggested Elfreda. "I should not be surprised at anything in the High Sierras." "Show me where she was when you saw her," requested Tom Gray. Woo led him to a huge boulder, about a hundred yards from the camp. "Me savvy piecee woman peek ovel locks," said the guide. "A woman peeked over the rocks there. Is that it?" asked Elfreda, the entire party having followed Woo out to the scene of his discovery. "Les." "What did she do then?" persisted Tom. "Him go 'way plenty quick." Grace and Hippy hurried forward and began examining the ground, but found no trace, no footprints, nothing that would indicate that a person had been there. "Woo, it is my opinion that you went to sleep and had nightmare," declared Hippy laughingly. "No one has been here. See! She would have left footprints at least." "Piecee woman go 'way," insisted Woo. "Don't wolly till to-mollow," imitated Stacy Brown. "Woo, got anything loose about the house? I've been living on pink snow for so long that I feel like a snowbird in distress. Food is what my system demands." "A bird, did you say?" questioned Emma. "I agree with you that you are something of a bird, but not of the snowbird species." Grace was the only one of the party who believed that their guide really had seen a human being spying on the camp. The others, after some discussion, dismissed the matter from mind, and devoted their attention to the supper which Woo had prepared and served. A much more comfortable night was spent in this lower altitude, and, with the rising of the sun, the Overlanders prepared to resume their journey. The party was still at a considerable elevation above the lake, which had sunk out of sight as if it had never existed, due to the fact that huge granite shelves intervened between them and the mysterious water. They judged that the lake must lie at an elevation of close to eight thousand feet above sea level. "I smell something," exclaimed Hippy as they were dismounting for luncheon and a rest that day. "So do I," agreed Stacy Brown. "Someone is baking bread and using salt yeast. Lead me to it, quick!" "What you smell is a dead campfire," Tom Gray informed the fat boy. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, the fire has not been out long, either. Come on, folks, help me to find it. It may give us some information that we need." By proceeding against the gentle breeze that was blowing they were enabled, after considerable searching about, to locate the dead campfire. "Here it is!" cried Tom, scraping aside a cover of leaves and grass that had been spread over the ashes to hide the tell-tale evidence. "See! The embers have been kicked aside and water poured over them. It is the water poured on the fire that produces the strong odor that we smell." "How long ago was that done, do you think?" asked Hippy. "Several hours ago, I should say." Hippy made a circuit of the camp site that they had come upon, and returning, announced that he had made a further discovery--the spot at which horses had been turned loose. "There appears to have been four of them, though I cannot be positive about that," he said. "I merely saw the footprints of four animals as they started on their way northward." "But suppose they are looking for us?" exclaimed Miss Briggs. "If they are headed north they are headed towards the place where we were fired upon, are they not?" "Oh, don't worry," laughed Hippy. "They have a nice, long, rough journey ahead of them. We seem to have missed each other very cleverly. However, they may be nothing more than an exploring party, and we have been so stirred up over what we have heard of the High Country that every little thing takes on an importance that doesn't belong to it." "I wish I could make a long speech like that and get away with it," observed Stacy admiringly. "Young man, you say altogether too much as it is," retorted Tom Gray. "I think that perhaps it might be well for us to take an inventory of our surroundings, as well as of what lies immediately ahead of us, before we start out," he added. Hippy volunteered to do a little scouting, and Grace said she would accompany him, as anything of that sort appealed to her, so they set out together, but soon separated and took different courses. Grace first of all sought a high point from which she obtained a very good view of the surrounding country, but saw nothing of a disturbing nature. A deer stood outlined on a shelf of rock a few hundred feet above and to the south of her; a bear ambled across an open space, zigzagging his way down. Bears do not like to go straight down a hill or mountain-side. The fact that their front legs are shorter than the hind legs makes going straight down a steep incline difficult, so, unless pursued, they ordinarily follow the switchback principle, zigzagging along until they reach the bottom. The Overland girl watched the ambling beast with interest until it finally disappeared. She had no doubt that it was descending to the valley in search of food, lured there, perhaps, by the scent of an abandoned camp. Except for these two animals, she was unable to discover any sign of life, nor was there a wisp of smoke within her vision that might indicate the presence of human beings. While Grace was making a general observation of the landscape, Lieutenant Wingate was endeavoring to follow the trail of the unknown horsemen to determine, as definitely as possible, the direction that they had taken. Their trail, which he followed for nearly a mile, still continued towards the peak, and it was his belief that that was their destination, or at least some other near-by point where they might hope to meet up with the Overland party. Hippy pondered over this, and found himself wondering what the motive of the horsemen might be. Still pondering, he began retracing his steps to meet Grace at a point decided upon before they started away on separate trails. Lieutenant Wingate was cautiously making his way through a thick growth of bushes, watching his step and listening for the familiar whirring warning of a rattler, when a sudden interruption occurred, an interruption that caused Hippy to throw himself on the ground, and lie still. The interruption was a bullet, a bullet that clipped his hat, nipping a piece out of the brim, and giving the Overlander a scare. At first he thought the shot might have been fired by one of his own party, and was about to call out a warning, but changed his mind and began wriggling away from the scene. He had, by this time, forgotten all about the snake peril, his one burning desire being to get as far away from that locality as possible in the shortest possible time. Hippy found it slow going, because he twisted and turned so much, following as crooked a trail as he could lay out for himself, for the purpose of confusing the author of that shot, should the fellow decide to follow him. Suddenly Hippy thought of Grace. She, too, might be in peril. His first inclination was to get up and run to their rendezvous, but upon second thought he came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to make an effort to discover the one who had shot at him. With this in view, Lieutenant Wingate began making a detour with the intention of coming up behind the shooter, Hippy having a good general idea of the position occupied by the man at the time the shot was fired. All his efforts came to naught. He had spent nearly an hour in stalking his man before he realized that he was wasting time. While he was engaged in his quest Grace had sat listening. She had heard the shot, and reasoned that it had been fired from somewhere in Hippy's direction. There being no answering shot, however, she forced herself to believe that her companion had shot at a snake, and decided to proceed on to the place where they were to meet before returning to camp. Grace took a different route to reach the spot, and this route took her near a swiftly moving stream of water that flowed down into the lake. The stream was wide where she came upon it, and to find a suitable fording place the Overland girl continued on further up-stream. Her way led her under an overhang of granite rocks several feet higher than her head. Beneath her was a pool, deeper than the stream below, and in the pool she saw fish darting. The pool seemed to be fairly alive with them. Grace's mind instantly turned to what the foreman of the "Lazy J" ranch had said about the golden trout in the High Sierras. "Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if I had discovered a pool of those live nuggets!" she cried, throwing herself down and gazing into the pool, on which the sunlight shone, mirroring her own face and the rocks behind her on its surface. "They aren't golden trout at all; they are mountain trout, and oh, what beauties! I must tell Hippy and have him get a mess for us. I reckon that golden trout story is a myth. However, golden or speckled beauties, it is all the same to the Overlanders. A mess of fish is what they need. I--" The Overland girl paused suddenly. The smile on the face she saw in the water faded and a catch interrupted her breath. "Wha--at is it?" she gasped. In the water, beside her own, another face was reflected. It was the face of a woman. At first, Grace believed that some trick of nature was showing her a double of her own face, distorted and unrecognizable, but she instantly realized that this could not be possible. The face that she was looking down into on the surface of the pool was as hideous a countenance as she had ever gazed upon, scarred, distorted and crowned by a head of matted hair that bristled at its top and hung in tangled skeins over the ears. The face was all that she could see. For an instant the eyes of the girl and the woman above her seemed to meet on the face of the waters. Grace whirled and sprang up, revolver in hand, for there was menace in the eyes that she had been looking into. Quick as the Overland girl was, Grace Harlowe found herself gazing up at a barren shelf of rock, unoccupied, silent as a tomb, with not a sign of life to be seen, either there or anywhere about her. It was inexplicable. A feeling of something akin to terror took possession of Grace Harlowe, then all at once, panic seized her, and, uttering a little cry, she fled on fleet foot back down the stream, unheeding where it might lead her, hoping and thinking only of getting away from that which had given her such a fright. CHAPTER XXII THE MYSTERY OF AERIAL LAKE Grace ran on until suddenly halted by a shout from Hippy Wingate. "Whither away, my pretty maid?" cried Hippy. "Oh! You gave me a start," answered Grace breathlessly. "I've had such a fright, Hippy. I have seen the most awful face that I ever looked upon." "In the words of the guide, 'don't wolly till to-mollow.' What did it look like? Tell me about it." Grace told him what had occurred and described as best she could the face that she had seen mirrored in the pool. "That sounds like the woman Woo saw watching the camp," he nodded. "I think we ought to go back to camp and tell the folks what you have discovered." "You mean it sounds like Woo's description of her," answered Grace laughingly. "You know what I mean. Come on!" The Overlanders listened breathlessly to Grace Harlowe's story of her experience, but no one had an explanation to offer. They asked her if she had gone up to the rock to see if anyone were hiding there, but Grace said she had not done so because she was too frightened. "I've never lost my head before, but I surely did this time," she added, smiling in an embarrassed sort of way. "I found a pool full of mountain trout--no, not golden trout--and I would suggest that one of you men go out and see if you can't catch a mess. Trout would be relished by all, including even myself, scared as I am." "Trout! Me for them," cried Hippy. "You come along, Tom, and perhaps, between us, we may be able to find the beautiful creature that gave Grace the first real scare of her life. I'm glad you have found something that frightens you," chuckled Hippy. "Me for the fish now." Tom accompanied Lieutenant Wingate, leaving Stacy with the girls, and with instructions to stay in camp. The two men returned two hours later with a mess of trout sufficient to last the party several days. Stacy was asked to assist in cleaning them, then the fish were broiled, and a delicious trout meal was enjoyed. Not since they started had they sat down to such dainty food. The Overland Riders were on the trail early next morning. This trail eventually led them up the side of a mountain, over places where they were obliged to hitch ropes to the ponies to assist them over particularly troublesome spots, yet it was all great fun. As the party went on, game become more plentiful. Quail scuttled away at their approach, with heads ducked low, and here and there a flash of brown and white told of a frightened deer fleeing to safety. No one ventured a shot. The party had sufficient provisions for present needs, and further, it was understood that, unless absolutely necessary, there was to be no shooting. Tom, however, killed a rattler that lay coiled on a shelf of granite buzzing away like an alarm clock, but that was the only exciting incident of the morning's ride. By noon they had worked their way up to an apparently impassable ridge. Tom went on ahead, soon returning with the welcome information that there appeared to be a break in the ridge about a mile to the south of them, and that he thought they could get through it. The Overlanders made camp late that afternoon, and on the following morning, now thoroughly rested, they followed rough and rugged trails, surmounting difficulties almost as great as the worst they had met above timber line. Their reward came later in the morning when they discovered that they had unerringly followed the right course. "There's the lake!" shouted Nora. Before them, framed in a rim of black forest and rock, lay a lake of the deepest emerald green they had ever gazed upon. About the shore, and extending down to the water, white pebbles formed a mat for the picture. "It is our Aerial Lake," declared Grace. "It is the same lake that we saw several days ago and that we bombarded with rocks." From somewhere in that vicinity the shots that had disturbed them undoubtedly had been fired. It was quite a large body of water, just how large they could not see, on account of a sharp bend in the lake, and intervening mountains. "Aren't we going down to make camp now?" asked Elfreda Briggs. "Yes, for I'm just dying to know what the secret, the great dark secret, of Aerial Lake really is," bubbled Emma. "From all accounts it's a homely woman," laughed Nora. "Oh, there are others," reminded Stacy. "That was not a nice thing to say, Stacy," rebuked Grace, laughing in spite of her efforts to be stern. "It was decidedly ungracious." "So are the kind I mean," retorted Stacy. "Hark!" A rifle shot echoed through the canyons, but, though ears were strained to catch the sound, no second shot was heard. "I wonder at whom they are shooting this time?" muttered Tom. "We are again reminded that we are not the only persons in the High Sierras, so let us be cautious." "Watch your step, ladies and gentlemen," warned Stacy as the party started on. The Overlanders chose a camp site back among the trees a few rods from the shore of the lake. This site was not only well screened from observation, but afforded an excellent view of the lake as far as the bend. Camp was quickly made, after which Stacy and Hippy shouldered their rifles and started out to get acquainted with their surroundings, as the party intended to remain at the lake for several days. The two had gone but a short distance from camp ere the Overlanders heard Chunky utter a shout. "I've found an ark," he cried, pointing triumphantly to a dugout canoe that lay on the shore. The dugout had been hewn from a solid log and bore indications of recent use. Stacy searched for a paddle but could not find one. While the Overlanders, who had hurried out to him, were discussing Stacy's find, Hippy was nosing about on the beach, closely observing the ground. He found boot tracks there, but they did not appear to have been recently made, so he decided that some days had elapsed since anyone had been on that particular spot. Stacy promptly forgot that he was out reconnoitering, and, cutting down a small tree with his hatchet, he proceeded to fashion a crude paddle from it. He then announced that he was going paddling. Tom said no, but Stacy said yes, whereupon Hippy read his nephew a sharp lecture on "respect to one's elders." To all this, Stacy made no reply, as he considered that he would gain nothing were he to protest too strenuously. "That's all," finished Hippy. "Thanks, Uncle Hip. But if anything should happen to me, you'll be sorry that you were so cruel." "Oh, take your old dugout and go on," exclaimed Hippy. "If you drown, don't blame me. If it were not that you are a good swimmer I shouldn't trust you in that cranky craft." "That is very kind of your Uncle Hippy," reminded Grace. "I hope you appreciate it." Stacy failed to answer. Still tinkering with the paddle, he watched his companions out of the corner of one eye, as they walked slowly back towards their camp. Lieutenant Wingate, rifle in the crook of one arm, continued on. An hour and a half later, as Hippy was returning, he saw his nephew paddling slowly down the lake. Hippy waved his hat and "hoo-hooed," to which Stacy paid no attention whatever. "Better keep in close. The wind is coming up," called Lieutenant Wingate. Stacy Brown was still silent, and Hippy, chuckling to himself, went on to camp, where he told his companions of things he had discovered on his jaunt, none of which were of importance, except that he had found further evidence of the presence of human beings and horses. At luncheon time, Stacy was still absent, but his absence excited no comment, because the boy was very fond of the water and probably in his enjoyment of it he had forgotten all about the passage of time. But when it came four o'clock in the afternoon and still no Stacy, someone suggested that they go out and look for him. Hippy was the one who went. He soon came running back, waving his hat to attract the attention of his companions. "Something has happened to Stacy!" he shouted. "What is it--what has become of him?" called Tom Gray. "Stacy's dugout is floating bottomside up on the lake, but he is nowhere in sight," answered Lieutenant Wingate. The Overlanders started at a run for the lake. "There it is! I see it," cried Emma. "Oh, Hippy, can't you do something?" begged Nora. "What is that floating out there?" "It's a log," answered Hippy. Despite the fact that the whitecaps were rolling up the lake, this log remained in one position all the time, but no one of the Overland party observed that fact. "I can swim out to the canoe. Who knows but that Stacy may be under it?" offered Grace. "No, no," protested the Overlanders in one voice. "Grace, the water is icy cold. To swim out in that water would be the death of you. If anyone does it, either Hippy or myself will," announced Tom. "Is that a hat I see floating there?" "It's Stacy's hat," cried Elfreda. "Oh, this is too bad. Cannot something be done?" "There he goes! He will be drowned. Somebody stop him!" begged Emma as Lieutenant Wingate plunged into the lake and began beating his way towards the overturned canoe. Hippy had not even paused to remove any part of his clothing. "Come back!" shouted Grace shrilly. "Come back!" urged Tom. "Even if he is there you can't help him now." "Don't worry. I am all right," came back Lieutenant Wingate's voice, sounding far away. "Me savvy plenty cold watel," piped Woo Smith, but no one gave heed to his words, and it is doubtful if any of the Overlanders even heard him. "I don't believe Stacy is drowned at all," declared Emma. "You will laugh at me, but I have a thought message that he isn't." "This is no time for nonsense, my dear," rebuked Elfreda. "It isn't nonsense, it's transmigration," protested Emma. About this time they observed that Hippy was close to the dugout, and all eyes were fixed anxiously on him. They saw him grasp the turned-over boat, then dive under it. Hippy was out of sight but a few moments when his head was seen bobbing up on the opposite side of the dugout. The Overlanders shouted to him, but the wind was against them and Hippy did not even know that they were calling. "Someone run to camp and fetch a bath towel," urged Grace. "Never mind, I'll go," she added, starting away at a run for the camp. Grace was back ere Lieutenant Wingate reached the shore. Tom was there to meet him, and assisted Hippy, dripping, and blue of face and lips, to his feet. "Here, Tom. Take the towel and give Hippy a brisk rub-down." "How--where?" gasped Tom. "Anywhere. Go out in the bushes, do it anywhere, but for goodness sake don't delay. What did you find?" "Nothing--not a single thing to indicate anything," answered Lieutenant Wingate dully. "Please hurry! Don't you see that Hippy has a chill, Tom?" Tom Gray hustled his companion out of sight, then stripped him and gave him a brisk rubdown, so brisk in fact that Hippy finally begged him to stop. "I shan't have any skin left if you go one rub further," he complained. "Here is Hippy's other suit," called Nora. "How is he?" "Skinned alive," answered Hippy with a groan. Tom ran out and snatched up the suit, which he immediately assisted Hippy to put on. "Are you still chilly?" questioned Captain Gray after his companion had gotten fully into dry clothes. "I should say not, after what you have done to me. I don't care anything about my own condition. What I am half crazy about is Stacy. I don't, for the life of me, understand how a fellow who can swim as well as he, _could_ drown. Tom, help me out. What do you think I had better do?" "Do? I think you have done enough--all that can be done. My advice is that we get back to camp. The girls have a good fire going, and my suggestion is that you sit by the fire and dry out your shoes while we decide what we should do next." "I don't suppose there _is_ need for hurry. If he is drowned he's drowned, and that's all there is about it, and if he isn't, he isn't. Yes, we will go back." When Tom and Hippy emerged from Nature's dressing room, Tom carrying his chum's wet clothing, they found the Overland girls awaiting them a short distance away. Nora embraced Hippy and wept on his shoulder, and, as a matter of fact, the other three girls of the party had difficulty in keeping their own tears back. "Oh, this is terrible!" moaned Nora. Emma pulled herself together. "I have a mental message that Stacy is all right, and that he will be back to-night," comforted Miss Dean. "False hopes, I am afraid," answered Tom. "Woo, how deep is that lake?" Woo consulted the skies. "No savvy. Mebby fish can tell." No more was said. It was a sober Overland party that slowly retraced its steps to the camp, but, as they stepped in among the trees and came in sight of the little camp, the Overlanders halted abruptly and gazed astounded. On a blanket that he had spread out sat Stacy Brown, his clothing wrinkled and dirty. Before him stood two cans of beans, open, and a plate of trout, while both cheeks protruded unnaturally as Stacy gazed soulfully at his companions. CHAPTER XXIII THE LAIR OF THE BAD MEN "Hulloa, folks!" greeted Stacy thickly. "Stacy!" cried Nora, running to him and throwing impulsive arms about the neck of her nephew. Lieutenant Wingate drew Nora away and stood gazing down sternly at the munching Chunky. No one said a word, except Woo Smith, who hummed his "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" "Where have you been?" finally demanded Hippy sternly. "I--I've been up there," pointing to the side of the mountain, at the same time getting to his feet. "Sit down! Now out with it. The whole story, sir!" "I was mad with you. I--I--I thought it would be fun to fool you all. There wasn't anybody in sight, so I tipped over and--" "Accidentally?" interrupted Hippy. "No. On purpose. Then I shoved the canoe out and threw my hat into the water, climbed up the side of the mountain and watched you all hunting for me," chuckled Stacy. "You all had been so hard on me that I didn't care if I never came back." "I don't understand how you could stand it to stay away at meal time," wondered Emma. "Oh, that was all right. I had some biscuit, then I found some dried venison in a cache in a cave up there. Somebody had been there. It was fine food, I tell you, but all the time I kept my eyes on the camp. I didn't think you would go away and leave me, but I wasn't taking chances. It was lots of fun watching you folks searching for Stacy Brown's body, and I laughed when I saw Uncle Hip swimming out to look under the canoe. Say, you can swim some, can't you?" Hippy bristled. Stacy's last words were the crowning ones. Lieutenant Wingate nodded to Tom. "Come, Stacy. We wish you to go down by the lake with us. Fetch your paddle," directed Hippy. "Wha--at are you going to do?" stammered the boy. "We three are going paddling, my beloved nephew," answered Lieutenant Wingate. "Don't be too hard on him," whispered Grace as the three were about to depart, Stacy going reluctantly, but not daring to offer further objections. "Give me that paddle," ordered Hippy when they had reached a point well out of sight of the camp. "Stacy Brown, you have done about the most unforgivable thing that a boy could do. You led us to believe that you had been drowned; you have caused us much mental anguish, and it is no more than right that we 'transmigrate' a little of it to you. Lie down on your stomach!" "I don't want to. Wha--at are you going to do?" "I am going to paddle you, young man. Tom, how many do you think would be about right?" "I should say that a paddle, one paddle, for each member of the Overland party would be about right," suggested Tom Gray. "There are six of us." A moment more and Hippy Wingate was delivering the punishment, not too hard, but just enough so as to make his plump nephew writhe. "Six! There!" announced Hippy. "You forgot to give him one for Woo Smith," suggested Tom. "You're right." Hippy remedied the oversight at once. "Get up! You made me swim in the cold lake, so I think I will give you a dose of the same medicine. I'm going to throw you in the lake." "Oh, wow!" howled Chunky. "No, no," protested Tom Gray. "Don't do that, Hippy. He might catch cold and be sick on our hands," grinned Tom. "I'll be even with you for this, Uncle Hip," threatened Stacy. "He hasn't had enough yet, Tom. Help me throw him in." "Yes, I have. I've had enough. I'll never play such a trick on you again. It was a low-down trick to play. Next time I'll do it in some other way, but if you let me alone I'll let you alone." "Don't make threats," warned Lieutenant Wingate. "I can tell you something you want to know, too. I know something that you don't know," answered Stacy. "First you had better come back to camp and apologize to the girls," suggested Tom. Stacy went along, rather timidly at first; then, as the thought of what he had discovered occurred to him, he swelled out his chest and began to boast. "Suppose you tell us what it is that you have discovered," suggested Grace after Tom had repeated to the girls what Stacy said. "Yes. I'll tell you. When I was trying to get where you folks wouldn't see me, I dodged behind some bushes and discovered that I was right in front of an opening in the rocks. At first I thought it was a bear den. Then I stumbled against a big bear trap that closed with a crash, but it didn't frighten me at all. You see I am not a bear." Emma said there might be a difference of opinion on that subject. "I lighted a match and found a lantern, just like the train conductors use. I looked about and found myself in a cave. I found a lot of stuff there, including some boxes of crackers and venison, that was cached to keep it away from the bears if they got past the trap." The Overlanders were keenly interested. Elfreda asked what else he had found in the cave. "Mostly things to eat and to eat with. I didn't bother about much of anything else. I reckon maybe it was the bad men's cave that I discovered. When it comes to making discoveries I don't suppose there is a human being who can equal myself. The only thing that I can't lay claim to having discovered is Emma Dean." "That is because your ideals and your instincts lack elevation," retorted Emma. Tom and Hippy glanced at each other and nodded. Both were of the same mind with reference to Stacy's discovery. Perhaps there lay the real secret of the Aerial Lake. "Let us go over and investigate," suggested Tom. "I'm with you," agreed Hippy. "Stacy, you will please lead the way to this bandit retreat, or whatever it may be, but if you fool us again, it's the lake for yours." All hands started for the cave, with Stacy Brown in the lead, full of importance. It was quite a rough climb to the scene of Stacy's discovery, and the boy took the worst course he could find to reach it, which the others of the party suspected ere they had gone far on their way. "Look out for bear traps!" warned Chunky. "You know I haven't looked about much on the inside. There! Look at that, will you?" he demanded, parting the bushes and revealing a small dark opening in the rocks. "You aren't going into that hole, are you?" cried Emma. "I went in, didn't I?" returned Stacy. "I didn't have a crowd of women with me, though." Hippy entered first, using his pocket lamp to light the way, followed by Stacy and Tom, then the others filed in, leaving Woo Smith on the outside to see that they were not surprised by the former occupants of the place. Once inside, the Overlanders found that the roof of the cave was high enough to permit them to stand erect, but beyond them the darkness was so deep that they could not see the end of the hole in the mountain. "Br-r-r! I'm afraid," cried Emma. "That's because you aren't a man," answered Stacy. "Hulloa! There's some stuff that I didn't see." "Pullman car blankets!" exclaimed Tom Gray. "This looks as if we had made a real discovery." "You mean I have," corrected Stacy. "Yes. It is plunder. No mistake about that," agreed Lieutenant Wingate. "Stacy, did you look around farther back in the cave?" "No. I didn't have time." "I think you were afraid of the dark," teased Elfreda. "Stacy is afraid of nothing at all, you know, Elfreda," reminded Grace laughingly, whereupon Stacy's chest swelled perceptibly. "I am not," he made reply. A systematic search of all parts of the cave failed to reveal anything of great value, but they decided that it might be wise to remove some of the blankets as proof of what they had found. "I know something else, too," spoke up Stacy Brown. "Well?" demanded Hippy, eyeing Stacy suspiciously. "The log is chained down." "What log?" questioned Grace quickly. "That log out in the lake," Stacy informed them. "It's funny that you folks haven't noticed that it has been in the same position ever since we got here. There's something queer about that log, too. I observed it the first time I walked along the shore, but it didn't make much of an impression on me at the moment, and--" "I doubt if it would have done so if it had fallen on you," interposed Emma. "Thank you. One would hardly notice the log at all unless the lake were quite rough, which would enable you to see the full length of the log when it was in a trough. I examined the log when I was out in the canoe, and there's something else about it that is queer." The Overlanders with one accord started for the shore to look at the log. "It's chained down," shouted Stacy. "I believe the boy is right," exclaimed Elfreda Briggs. "Where's that dugout?" called Hippy. "I reckon it has gone around the bend," answered Emma. "No. The wind is in the wrong direction," answered Tom. "I see it! There it is, at the upper end. It has drifted sideways to the beach." "I am going to have a look at that log," cried Hippy, starting at a run for the dugout. Tom and his companions followed. "Stacy, get the paddle," directed Tom. The fat boy obeyed without protest, which was rather unusual for him. "Me savvy plenty piecee fun," chattered Woo as they ran. "If I am a prophet, you will be savvying something besides fun before we have done with this affair," observed Elfreda Briggs soberly. "This is only the beginning." Stacy arrived with the paddle about the time that Hippy and Tom reached the dugout. The two men turned the boat over and shoved it out. "You girls remain on shore," ordered Hippy. "The boat will not hold more and give us room to work. Stacy, you sit still. Don't you dare rock the boat." The lake was still rough and Hippy found it hard work to handle the dugout, but after throwing off his coat and shifting his passengers to better balance the dugout, he made better headway, finally reaching the bobbing log. "Stacy is right. The log is anchored," exclaimed Tom. "What can that mean?" "We are going to find out right smart, Captain," answered Hippy. "Do you see? The thing is anchored with a chain about its middle, and from rings, bolted to the ends, ropes lead down into the lake. That must mean that something is at the other end of the ropes. Tom, you ballast the other end of the dugout while Stacy and I pull on the rope at this end. We will try not to upset you. For myself, I have had one ducking to-day and that is quite sufficient. Stacy has one coming to him. All right, Chunky, heave away." They hauled on the rope with all the strength they dared exert, for to pull with too strong a hand meant a ducking in the cold waters of the lake. Something came slowly to the surface. "Oh, fudge! It's an anchor--it is a piece of iron," grumbled Stacy. "Yes, but it isn't an anchor," answered Hippy excitedly. "Boys, you have pulled up an iron box. Can you get it aboard?" cried Tom. On the box, in yellow letters, was the name of a well-known express company. The box was securely locked, and apparently the lock had not been tampered with. "We've made a find!" cried Stacy. "Loot of some sort," agreed Tom. "That is a money chest, probably of the same sort that the Red Limited was carrying when the bandits attacked our train between Summit and Gardner. There is undoubtedly another one like it at my end of the log, but the question is what are we going to do with our find." "What are we going to do with it? Why, we're going to open it, of course," declared Stacy. "If there is loot in it, findin's is keepin's so far as Stacy Brown is concerned." Tom was of the opinion that they had no right to open the chest, but suggested that they take it and whatever else they might find, to a safe place and bury it, and then get word to the authorities. "I believe you have the right thought," nodded Hippy, after a moment's reflection. "There can be no doubt that this is stolen property, not the least doubt in the world. Therefore we are not taking another man's property--we are trying to save stolen property. Come, Stacy, let's give it another haul, then try to lift it aboard." "If I don't get any of the plunder, I don't haul," objected Chunky stubbornly. "Pull! If you don't I'll throw you overboard," threatened Hippy savagely. "I'll drop it if you do. I'll--" A bullet snipped the water not a dozen yards from the dugout, followed by the report of a rifle. "You're under fire! Look out!" shouted the voice of Grace Harlowe, shrill and piercing. "Let 'em shoot!" retorted Hippy. "Tom, are you game to go through with it?" "Yes." "_Bang, bang, bang!_" Three bullets hit the water close at hand, sending up little spurts of white spray. Another bullet went through the top of Stacy Brown's hat. "Wow!" howled Chunky. "You can get shot if you want to, but I don't." "Buck up!" urged Lieutenant Wingate. "We'll have the thing aboard in a moment." Another bullet sang past them, clipping a sliver from the side of the dugout. The sliver hit Stacy on his bare arm and drew blood. "I'm hit! Good-night!" yelled Stacy, suddenly letting go of the rope and diving head first into the lake. As Stacy let go of the rope and took his dive, the iron chest splashed and went to the bottom, causing the canoe to turn turtle. Lieutenant Wingate and Captain Gray were hurled into the icy waters of the Aerial Lake head first, with bullets spattering in the water all about them. CHAPTER XXIV MAKING A LAST STAND "You poor fish!" roared Hippy as he came up sputtering. Stacy was making for the shore at full speed, creating considerable disturbance in the water as he progressed. Tom Gray and Hippy, concluding that safety first was the motto for them, were hitting up a rapid gait. The bullets, however, did not cease falling about them. All at once reports of other rifles, apparently fired close at hand, reached the ears of the swimmers. "The girls are shooting!" cried Tom. The Overland girls had run to camp for their rifles, and with them were trying to search out the hidden mountain marksmen, trusting to drive the mountaineers off, or at least to check their fire until their three companions could reach shore. Hippy and Tom were swimming for the shore in the direction of the mountain cave. Observing this, the Overland girls ran forward to meet them. "Hurry! Oh, hurry!" shouted Nora in great distress. "They can't reach us with their bullets now," answered Hippy. "We are protected by the overhang of the mountain on their side." "Hippy is right. They have stopped shooting," announced Grace. At this juncture Stacy Brown floundered ashore and ran dripping towards the cave. "Here, here! Where are you going?" called Elfreda. "Into my bomb-proof shelter; that's where I'm going," flung back Stacy. "You had better hide," reminded Elfreda. "Where's that boy?" cried Hippy as he, too, floundered ashore. "Never mind Stacy now. We have other and more important matters on hand," answered Grace. "Hurry, Tom. I have sent Woo up among the rocks to act as lookout while we consider what to do next." "This is a fine mess. Here I am drenched to the skin, shivering like a man with the ague, and a band of scoundrels trying to shoot me up. Hospitable country, I must say," complained Tom Gray. "It might be worse. You and Hippy had better go into the cave and change your clothes," suggested Grace. "Change to what?" "That's so. It might be imprudent for any of us to go to camp for fresh clothing." "Come, girls, let's gather wood and build a fire," urged Miss Briggs. "We can build a small fire in the cave and let our men dry out in there and we will stand guard on the outside." "Good! That is real headwork," agreed Tom. "Give me a handful of sticks and I'll start a fire if you will provide the matches. Mine are soaked." Hippy had already started in search of Stacy Brown, but Stacy was not in sight. He had fled to the farther end of the cave, whence he was gazing apprehensively towards the opening. "You may come out," offered Hippy. "I'm too wet to have my interview with you now. When I get dried out I'll have a friendly conversation with you. Come out!" Stacy sidled out, watching Uncle Hip narrowly. Tom came in at this juncture, with an armful of twigs that the girls had gathered, and started a small fire. "I don't want to be smoked out," complained Stacy. "There is worse than that coming to you, young man," reminded Tom. "At present, however, we have other things to attend to. Strip and dry out." "I don't want to dry out. I want to be soaked," retorted Stacy. "Don't worry. You're going to be," warned Lieutenant Wingate. "If it hadn't been for me you folks never would have discovered anything," Stacy declared, turning a reproachful gaze on his two companions. "And if it hadn't been for you, I should not have been dumped into a lake of ice water twice in one day," returned Hippy. "Tom, what is your idea of this shooting?" "We have interfered with someone's business, that's plain," replied Tom. "When we hauled up that box of plunder, or whatever it may be, they let go at us with their rifles. Nor is that the worst of it--we are in for more trouble, and I should not be at all surprised to see it break at any moment, I--" "Tom!" cried Grace Harlowe with a rising inflection in her voice. "Yes?" "Woo is running towards the cave, waving his arms. I think he has discovered something." Hippy nodded at Tom and began drawing on his wet clothing. "May the girls go inside now?" called Grace. "No! Keep out! We will be ready in a moment," answered Hippy. A shot, followed by a howl from Woo Smith, caused the two men to redouble their efforts. Hippy finished dressing first and ran out, rifle in hand, just as the guide came running up. "Me savvy tlouble. Plenty men come 'long." "How many?" interjected Tom. "Sees." "Six, eh? We ought to be able to handle them," answered Hippy. "There probably are more than six. What shall we do?" questioned Grace. "All hands get inside the cave. From there we can watch the lake, and at the same time be fairly well protected," directed Hippy. Acting upon a hail from Tom that he was ready, the Overlanders hastened into the cave, where Woo was questioned in detail as to what he had observed. Having obtained all the information that the guide had to give, Hippy and Tom crept out, and lay secreted in the bushes in front of the cave to guard against surprises. They had been there but a short time when Lieutenant Wingate discovered a man on the rocks about a hundred yards to the right of them. At almost the same instant Tom Gray nudged his companion. "Two men are over in our camp," he whispered. "Don't shoot. Time enough for that. They don't know where we are. They--" Hippy paused abruptly. "They don't, eh?" jeered Tom Gray as a bullet flattened itself on the rocks just above the opening into the cave. "Keep down in there!" "I think they are merely trying to smoke us out," answered Hippy calmly. A scattering volley of bullets was fired at the cave opening as he spoke, but there was no response from the besieged Overland Riders. Elfreda called softly to know if the two men needed assistance, but both said all the assistance they needed just then was to be let alone. "There go the ponies!" exclaimed Tom Gray. When Hippy looked he saw three men leading the Overland saddle ponies into a defile in the mountains. Hippy threw up his rifle, but lowered it instantly. "It won't do any good to shoot. Then again I might hit a pony. What I want to do is to get a man. Sh-h-h-h!" The man that Hippy had seen, but who had disappeared immediately afterward, he now discovered lying on a slab of rock up high enough to give him a fairly good view of the entrance to the cave. "I see him. Don't move. He is looking this way," whispered Lieutenant Wingate. After a few moments of cautious observation, the man on the rock crawled back and disappeared. The day was rapidly drawing to a close and the two Overland men began to feel considerable concern. There was little hope in their minds that they were going to get out of their present situation that night. Tom and Hippy discussed the situation, and considered the idea of creeping away in the night, but finally concluded that their greatest safety lay in keeping out of sight and awaiting developments. "It is their move first," declared Tom. "And when they do start something we shall be on the job, though I am a little concerned about our ammunition. We have none to waste. It seems to me that there ought to be some in that cave, if the scoundrels are half as prudent as we think they are." Hippy called softly to Nora, asking her to have a thorough search of the cave made to see if ammunition might not be found. Half an hour later Nora reported that they could find none. "Then we shall have to get along with what we have," decided Tom Gray. "With what we have we ought to be able to give a pretty fair account of ourselves." Night fell, with the lake and the mountainsides bathed in a flood of moonlight, for the moon was full and well up. The fire in the cave had long since been put out so that the besiegers might not smell the smoke, and, shortly after dark, the girls passed out a luncheon, taken from the stores of food that Stacy Brown had discovered on his first visit to the cave. Tom and Hippy were munching this eagerly, when Tom uttered a suppressed exclamation. "Look yonder!" he whispered. "It's the dugout!" breathed Hippy. The dugout, with three men in it, was being rapidly paddled out into the lake, which was now quiet, a gleaming sheet of silver in the bright moonlight. The paddlers went straight to the log and began hauling up on the rope at one end. "They are after the chests. What would you advise, Tom?" asked Hippy eagerly. "We are going to shoot, that's what," answered Tom Gray, leveling his rifle. "I don't want to hit anyone, but I do want to give them a scare." Taking careful aim at the canoe, he fired--and missed. Tom shot again, and this time his bullet reached its mark--the dugout. Hippy Wingate tried a shot and scored a hit the first time. The men in the dugout showed indications of panic. "Let 'em have it hard," urged Tom, whereupon both men began shooting, but the shooting was not confined to their own rifles. From somewhere on the mountain-side other rifles spoke, and bullets spattered against the rocks that stood out white in the moonlight, hard by the cave. "They've located us!" cried Tom Gray. "Stacy, come out here, but creep out," he ordered. The fat boy came wriggling out, rifle in hand. "See if you can find the fellows who are shooting at us; then stir them up," directed Tom. A few moments later, Chunky's rifle spoke. In the meantime Tom and Hippy had been shooting at the boat, taking their time, aiming with deliberation, until finally the fire became too hot for the men in the dugout, and they paddled rapidly shoreward to the other side of the lake. Soon after their arrival there they began to shoot at the cave-mouth. Hippy and Tom then turned their rifles in that direction, but with what result they were unable to determine. Stacy shot slowly and steadily, without apparent nervousness, and the two men began to feel respect for the irrepressible Chunky. After a time the fire on both sides died down and silence settled over the scene. Finally, Grace suggested that she and Elfreda relieve the men of their watch, which, after reflection, was agreed to. After a vigil of some hours Grace called for Tom and pointed towards the lake, that was shining in the moonlight. "Is not something moving out there?" she questioned. "Yes. It is those scoundrels after the chests again. Call Hippy!" After watching the shadowy shape of the dugout for some moments the two Overland men again opened fire, and once more the dugout was hurriedly paddled ashore. No further disturbance occurred that night. The girls went to sleep, but Lieutenant Wingate and Captain Gray remained on duty from that time on. All of the following day was spent in the cave, not a shot being fired on either side. The Overlanders were of the opinion that their adversaries were keeping out of sight for the purpose of luring the party out into the open, so they remained where they were. Another night came on, and at about ten o'clock the Overland Riders were treated to a deluge of rifle bullets, which was not returned, as the ammunition supply was now too low. "Grace, have you taken an inventory of the food?" asked Tom, after the firing had died down. "Yes. We have enough for present needs, but have you considered that we may be held here until either we starve or are shot? I, for one, am in favor of making our escape. Take my word for it, our besiegers will play some trick that will prove our undoing," declared Grace with strong conviction in her tone. "We will stick it out another day," answered Lieutenant Wingate. "And walk all the way back to Gardner," finished Elfreda Briggs. "I am of the opinion that--" "Hark!" warned Nora, holding up a hand for silence. A faint tapping sound was heard by all. It seemed to be somewhere over their heads, but no one was able to interpret the sound, and after a time it ceased. "Something is doing. Get your rifles ready," ordered Tom. The words had no sooner left his lips than a heavy detonating explosion sent a shower of rock and dirt down over their heads. None of the pieces was large enough to injure the Overlanders, but the dust set them coughing and choking so that instinctively all crowded towards the cave entrance for air, and further, because of fear that the rocks above might cave in on them. "That was dynamite!" exclaimed Tom Gray. "Either they are trying to bury us here or to drive us out." "And I am going out," declared Lieutenant Wingate. "Tom, you stay here, but for goodness sake make the folks keep down. The first head I see I am going to shoot at. Give me some cartridges, each of you." Five minutes later Lieutenant Wingate was crawling out on his stomach as silently as an Indian. Once more he heard that familiar tapping on the rocks above the cave. "The fiends!" he muttered. "I've got to get up to their level or go above them." He decided to proceed to the left of the cave, then ascend and approach the rocks above it. This he succeeded in doing. About the time he came within sight of the rocks over the cave the ground was shaken by another explosion. In the bright moonlight, he saw three men running towards the scene. Hippy threw up his rifle and fired. One of the three men plunged forward and rolled over the edge of the rocks, landing, as Lieutenant Wingate thought, near the entrance to the cave. The other two men instantly disappeared. "One!" growled the Overland Rider, hurriedly removing himself from that particular locality. Reaching a point where he could look across the cave entrance, Hippy made a startling discovery. The second charge of dynamite had been fired close to the edge of the rocks overhanging the cave entrance, so that the falling rocks had blocked it entirely. Lieutenant Wingate now crawled to the entrance, not knowing what instant he might be the target for a bullet, and, placing his lips close to a crevice, called softly. His hail was answered from within. To his great relief, he learned that none of his companions had been injured, but that they dared not try to remove the wreckage from the inside fearing they might bring down a mass of rocks. Hippy advised them to remain quiet until later when he would try to work his way in. "Just now, I must keep a sharp lookout," he added. Not another shot did he get at their adversaries, however, but just after daylight a rattling fire sprang up. Listening attentively, Hippy concluded that two parties were engaged in the shooting--at it "hammer and tongs," as he expressed it. A few minutes later he saw two men running for the lake--saw them leap into the dugout and paddle excitedly towards the anchored log. He waited until they began to haul in on the rope at one end of the log, and then opened fire. One bullet bowled a man over. The other man grabbed the paddle and struck out for the shore with all speed. He had nearly reached it when a burst of fire from among the trees near where the Overland camp was located knocked the man over. He fell over backwards in the dugout, which slowly drifted ashore. A group of horsemen at this juncture rode out into the open, and an instant later a bullet whistled past Hippy's head. "Gee whiz!" exclaimed Lieutenant Wingate. "I reckon the whole community has it in for me. I've got to have a look at those people." With that Hippy worked his way cautiously through the bushes until he got an unobstructed view of the newcomers. The Overland Rider gazed, and as he did so his under jaw sagged. "Ye-o-o-o-w!" yelled Hippy, leaping to his feet. A rifle bullet answered him, but he was down ere it reached him. Once more he sprang up and fired three quick shots straight up into the air, then went down again. This time there was an interval, then the welcome answer--three signal shots--was fired. Hippy got up and waved his hat. He had recognized one member of that party. That member was Sheriff Ford. "Overland!" shouted Lieutenant Wingate upon getting to his feet. Sheriff Ford did not recognize him at once, but the party of horsemen rode towards him with rifles at ready, Hippy standing out in the open with hands held up. Sheriff Ford then uttered a shout as he recognized the Overland Rider. It was a happy meeting--for Hippy Wingate. It took but a moment for explanations. A posse, with two sheriffs, including Ford, and five husky citizens of Gardner, had come out in search of the bandits who had tried to rob the Red Limited, and who were supposed to have held up and robbed another treasure train a week earlier. On their way to release the Overland party, Hippy confided to Sheriff Ford the discovery of the iron chests secured to the log in the lake. "I suppose there is a reward for the recovery of the plunder, but if there is, you take it. We don't want it," said Hippy. Sheriff Ford protested, but Hippy said the Overland Riders could not consider accepting a reward under any circumstances. Ford said that in such event, the reward would be shared by the members of the posse, and that, in fact, the reward offered by the express company was the principal motive for the posse coming out to try to accomplish what the Pinkertons had thus far failed to do. The Overlanders were, after considerable hard work, released from their imprisonment in the cave, and it was then that Ford told them of the fight with the bandits, who, he said, were all members of the Jones Boys' gang. Of ten bandits, the posse had killed or wounded four. They found two who had been wounded before the arrival of the posse, one of whom, Hippy believed, was the fellow he had shot on the shelf of rock, and took four prisoners, including Mother Jones, the mother of the leaders of the gang. Four bandits had succeeded in escaping. "Mother Jones!" exclaimed the Overlanders. As it later developed, it was Mother Jones whose face had so frightened Woo, and which Grace Harlowe had seen reflected in the pool. Mother Jones had done the shooting at the Overlanders, following the Overland party's discovery of the chests in the lake. It was Mother Jones who had fired at them when they were bombarding the lake with boulders. No time was lost in getting the chests from the bottom of the lake, and none was more interested in the contents than were the original discoverers, the Overland Riders. The chests were found to contain something more than half a million dollars in gold and banknotes, but two other chests stolen from the same shipment never were found, though the lake was dragged from end to end. It was believed that the contents of the missing chests had been divided among the bandits and secreted somewhere in the mountains, but not a man of the Jones gang would admit this to be the fact. The Overland ponies were found secreted in a mountain defile, and that night there was a jollification in camp, a real feast of venison and trout, songs and story-telling, even Woo Smith indulging in his familiar song, to which no one now objected. Stacy Brown overlooked no opportunity to call attention to the fact that he was the one who had discovered the treasure chests, discovered the log to which they were anchored, and said he supposed that the railroad or the express company owed him a hundred thousand dollars. "How much do you want? Come now," urged Sheriff Ford. "Want?" exclaimed Stacy. "I don't want anything from you, but I want these unfortunate Overland Riders to appreciate what I have done for them, and I want them to apologize to me for the abuse they heaped on me while I was seeking to transmigrate trouble from their doors." Sheriff Ford laughed heartily at Stacy's remarks. "For he's a jolly good fellow," began Nora Wingate, in which the Overland Riders joined whole-heartedly, even Emma Dean, for the moment, forgetting her feud with Stacy Brown to the extent of keeping time with her lips, Woo Smith independently chattering his "Hi-lee, hi-lo!" shouts of laughter winding up the tribute to the fat boy's hold on their affections. The Overland Riders decided to accompany the sheriffs and their party to Gardner. Being well satisfied with their vacation they were now ready to go home. The prisoners and the treasure were taken along to Gardner, which was reached several days later. Then the Riders entrained for home after the most interesting journey they had ever taken. On their way east they elected the irrepressible Chunky to full membership in the Overland Riders, and he promised to accompany them on their next season's ride. The story of that ride will be found in a following volume entitled, "GRACE HARLOWE'S OVERLAND RIDERS IN THE YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK." The mysterious loss of the Riders' ponies, the raid of the grizzlies, the puzzling robbery at the Springs Hotel, a night of terror on Electric Mountain, the hold-up of the Cumberland coach, and the solving of the Yellowstone mystery, are among the many experiences that befell Grace Harlowe's Riders on their never-to-be-forgotten journey through the great National Park. THE END