"Have a heart," said "Buck" Evans incredulously. "Don't fill us up with anything like that."
"Them newspaper fellers is awful liars," sagely commented "Chip" Bennett.
"But it gives the names," persisted Pete. "They wouldn't go as far as that if it wasn't so. Let's see," he went on as his stubbed finger moved slowly over the lines. "Here they are—Wilson, Trent, Henderson—say," he exclaimed with a quick look at the boys, "ain't them the handles you fellers carries?"
All eyes were fixed in astonishment on the visitors, who blushed as though they had been detected in a fault. Their embarrassment carried conviction. The paper was thrown aside and the men gathered about them in a chorus of eager questionings. They made them tell in every detail the story of the fight, which the boys tried to minimize as much as possible.
"And yer never said a word about it," commented Pete when they had extracted the last scrap of information.
"Why should we?" retorted Dick. "As you said about the broncho busting, it was 'all in the day's work.'"
They tore themselves away at last, leaving the cowboys grouped about the door and looking after them with eyes from which the last vestige of distrust and reserve had vanished.
"Not a maverick in the bunch," commented Pete.
"Every one of them carries the man brand," added Chip.
"They shore can warm their beans at my fire," concluded Buck.
"A dandy day for fishing," remarked Bert as he was dressing a few mornings later.
"Just right for the speckled beauties to bite," acquiesced Dick as he looked out of the window and saw the clouds that obscured the sun.
"What do you say to trying it?" suggested Tom, who was an enthusiast on the subject. "I'd like nothing better than to whip some of these mountain streams for trout."
"Or troll for pickerel in the lake Mr. Melton was telling us about," amended Bert. "He says there are some whopping big fellows up there. We'll find plenty of bass, too, and they're fighters from way back."
At breakfast the matter was broached and met with the hearty approval of Mr. Melton.
"I don't think it will rain before night," he said, "and on a hazy day like this they'll keep you busy pulling them in. How about tackle? Did you bring any along?"
"Plenty," answered Bert. "Each of us has a rod and reel. The pike and pickerel will bite at the spoon, and we can get plenty of bait for the bass right out here in the garden. Let's hurry up, fellows, and get busy," he continued, pushing his chair away from the table. "Won't you go along, Mr. Melton."
"Like to," said their host. "Nothing would suit me better than to pull in some of the sockdolagers you'll find in that lake. But I've got a date with a horse dealer to-day, who's coming up to look at some of my bronchos, and I can't get off. Don't catch them all to-day," he laughed, "and some day soon I'll go with you. Of course, you'll take your guns along."
"Why, yes, if you think it necessary," replied Bert. "But we'll be pretty well loaded with tackle and fish if we have any luck."
"Never mind the load," he adjured emphatically. "Never go into the mountains without your gun. Of course, you may have no use for it. Chances are that you won't. But it's a mighty wise thing to have a good rifle along wherever you go in this country. And if you need it at all, you'll need it mighty bad and mighty quick."
So that when the boys left the house a half hour later, they took with them not only all that was necessary to lure the finny prey from their lurking places, but each as well carried on his shoulder a Winchester repeating rifle and around his waist a well-stored cartridge belt.
Mr. Melton gave them explicit directions as to the route they were to follow to find the lake, which lay in the hollow of a broad plateau about five miles back in the mountains.
"You'll find a canoe hidden in the bushes near a big clump of trees on the east shore," he said. "That is, if nobody has swiped it. But I covered it up pretty well the last time I was there, and I guess it's safe enough. If not, you'll have to take your chance in fishing from the shore. There's an island a little way out in the lake, and you'll find the pike thick around there if you can get out to it. And don't wait too long before starting for home. That mountain trail is hard enough to follow in the daytime, but you'd find your work cut out for you if you tried it in the dark."
They promised not to forget the time in their enthusiasm for the sport, and, stowing away in their basket the toothsome and abundant lunch put up by Mrs. Melton, they started off gaily on their trip.
For a little distance from the house the road was fairly level. Then it began to ascend and soon the trees that clothed the slopes shut them in, and they lost sight of the ranch and of everything that spoke of civilization.
"'This is the forest primeval,'" quoted Dick.
"'The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,'" added Tom.
"Primeval's the word," said Bert as he looked in awe at the giant trees, towering in some instances to a height of two hundred feet. "I suppose this looked just as it does now ten thousand years ago. The only thing that suggests man is this trail we're following, and that gets fainter and fainter as we keep climbing. This is sure enough 'God's out-of-doors.'"
The balsam of the pines was in their nostrils and the path was carpeted by the fragrant needles. Squirrels chattered in the trees and chipmunks slipped like shadows between the trunks. As they were passing a monster oak, Bert's observant eye noted something that brought him to a sudden halt.
"Look there, fellows," and he pointed to a place on the bark about fifteen feet from the ground.
"Well, what about it?" demanded Tom.
"Those scratches on the trunk," said Bert. "What made them?"
They looked more closely and saw two rows of scratches that had torn deeply into the bark. Each row consisted of five marks at an equal distance apart. It was as though two gigantic rakes had been drawn along the rough surface, each tooth of the rakes peeling off a long vertical strip.
The boys looked at each other in wonder. Then they peered into the surrounding woods a little uneasily.
"Some animal made those marks," said Bert at last. "And, what's more, there's only one animal that could have done it."
"And that's a grizzly bear," said Dick.
Again the boys looked at each other, and it almost seemed as though they could hear the beating of their hearts. Then Tom measured again with his eye the distance from the ground to where the scratches began.
"Sixteen feet if it's an inch," he decided. "Nonsense," he went on, with a tone of relief in his voice. "There's nothing that walks on four feet could do it. A horse even couldn't stand on his hind legs and strike with his fore hoofs the place where those scratches begin. Some of those pre-historic monsters, whose skeletons we see in the museums, might have done it, but nothing that walks the earth nowadays. You'll have to guess again, Bert."
"They might have been made by some animal in climbing," suggested Dick. "He might have slipped in coming down and torn off those strips in trying to hold on."
"But grizzlies don't climb," objected Bert.
"Who said it was a grizzly?" retorted Tom. "It might have been a black or brown bear. You've got grizzlies on the brain. The very biggest don't measure more than nine or ten feet from the nose to the root of the tail. Allowing a couple of feet more for his reach, and you have eleven or twelve altogether. How do you account for the other four or five? Unless," he went on with elaborate sarcasm, "you figure out that this pet of yours is about fourteen feet long."
The argument certainly seemed to be with Tom, but Bert, although he had no answer to it, still felt unconvinced.
"The scratches are too deep to have been made by any animal slipping," he persisted. "The beast, whatever it was, had a tremendous purchase to dig so deep. And he couldn't have got such a purchase except by standing on his hind legs."
"Marvelous," mocked Tom. "A regular Sherlock Holmes! Perhaps he stood on a ladder or a chair. I've heard that grizzlies carry such things about with them when strolling in the woods. Come along, old man," he bantered, "or these squirrels will think you're a nut and carry you off. There's nothing this side of a nightmare that'll fit your theory, and you'd better give it up and come along with us sensible people."
"But what did do it, then?" asked Bert obstinately.
"Search me," answered Tom flippantly. "I don't have to know. I'm not cursed with curiosity so much as some people I could mention. What I do know is that we're losing time and that I'm fairly aching to bait my hook and fling it into the water. We've promised Mrs. Melton a big mess of fish for supper, and we've got to get busy, or she'll think we're a lot of four-flushers."
They picked up their traps that they had laid aside while they were studying the bark. Tom and Dick kept up a steady fire of jokes, their spirits lightened by the evidence that the "ghost" of the grizzly had been "laid." But Bert answered only in monosyllables. He would have been as relieved as they had he been able to convince himself that he was wrong. He "hadn't lost any bear," and was not particularly anxious to "meet up" with one, especially a monster of the size indicated. Suddenly he dropped the basket.
"I've got it," he exclaimed eagerly.
"No, you haven't," contradicted Dick. "You've just dropped it."
"What have you got?" mocked Tom. "A fit?"
"The answer," said Bert.
"Prove it," challenged Dick.
"I'm from Missouri," said Tom skeptically.
"Why, it's this way," hurried on Bert, too engrossed in his solution to retort in kind. "Sandy was telling me a little while ago about the habits of grizzlies, and he mentioned especially the trick they have of standing on their hind legs and clawing at trees as high as they could reach. But I remember he said they did this only in the spring. They've just come out of winter quarters and they feel the need of stretching their muscles that have got cramped during their long sleep. In the spring, the early spring. Don't you see?"
"Not exactly," confessed Dick.
"No, Sherlock," murmured Tom, "I don't follow you."
"Why," said Bert impatiently, "don't you boobs realize that up in the mountains here the snow is often four or five feet deep in the early spring? How could the grizzly reach that high?Because he stood on a snowbank."
"By Jove," exclaimed Tom, all his self-assurance vanishing, "I believe you're right."
"You've hit the bull's-eye," cried Dick. "Bert, old man, you're a wonder."
"Of course," Bert went on, too generous to gloat over their discomfiture, "that only proves that he was here then. He may be a hundred miles off by this time. Still, it won't do a bit of harm to keep our eyes peeled and make sure that our guns are in good working order. He's probably got a perpetual grouch, and he might be peevish if he should turn up and find us poaching on his hunting grounds."
They moved along, a little more soberly now, and their eyes narrowly scanned the trees ahead as though at any moment through the forest aisles they might discover a giant form lumbering down upon them. They did not think it at all likely, as there had been no rumors for some time past of a grizzly having been seen in the locality, nor had the mutilated body of some luckless steer borne traces of his handiwork. Still it was "better to be safe than sorry," and their vigilance did not relax until they came out of the thicker forest onto a more scantily wooded plateau and saw before them the shining waters of the lake that marked the goal of their journey.
Under the cloudy sky the waters had the steel-gray luster of quicksilver. It seemed to be about three miles in length, although this they could not clearly determine, owing to a curve at the upper end, which concealed its limits in that direction. It was not more than three-quarters of a mile wide, and the expanse was broken by a small wooded island about half way across. Nothing living was in sight, except a huge fish hawk that waited expectantly on a dead branch overhanging the water. Even while they looked, it darted downward, cleaving the air and water like an arrow, and reappeared a moment later with a large fish struggling in its jaws. Resuming its seat upon the branch it tossed the fish in the air, caught it cleverly as it came down, and swallowed it at a gulp.
"Talk about juggling," laughed Tom. "That fellow would make a hit upon the vaudeville stage."
"I'd like first rate to have him at the end of a cord," said Dick.
"Like those natives we saw in China, eh?" suggested Bert. "Do you remember how they used to fasten a ring about the throat so that they couldn't swallow them? It always seemed to me a low-down game to make them fork over as soon as they caught the fish."
"Well, at any rate, that fellow has shown us that there are fish to be had for the taking," said Tom. "I'll hunt up that canoe while you get the rods and reels ready. What are you going to try for first, pickerel or bass?"
"Suppose we take a hack at both," suggested Dick. "I'll get out the spoon bait and try for pike and pickerel. You and Bert can use the live bait and see what luck you have with the bass."
A careful search revealed the canoe, so cunningly hidden by its owner under a heap of brush and sedge-grass, that only the explicit directions they had received enabled them to find it. It was in good condition, about eighteen feet in length and two paddles lay in the bottom. Tom got in, pushed off from the shore, and with deft strokes brought the slender craft down to where his friends were waiting.
Bert eyed the frail boat dubiously.
"A canoe is a dandy thing for cruising in, especially if you want to get somewhere in a hurry, but it was never meant for a fishing party," he commented. "We'd have to be so careful in moving about that we couldn't keep our mind on the sport. You couldn't play a bass from one without danger of upsetting. I tell you what we'd better do. Let one of us fish from the shore for bass, while the two others in the canoe troll for pickerel. Two lines can be put out over the stern and one can paddle gently while the other keeps a sharp eye on the lines. Between us all we ought to get a mess in less than no time. We'll toss up to see which shall do the lonesome act while the others use the canoe. At noontime we'll have a fish fry right here on the shore to help us out with the lunch. The one who catches the first fish gets out of doing any of the work. The one who gets the next will have to do the cooking and the one that trails in last will have to clean the fish. What do you say?"
There was no dissenting voice, and the spinning coin decreed that Tom and Dick should do the trolling, while Bert remained on shore and tried for bass.
With the polished spoons twinkling in the water behind, the canoe shot out to the center of the lake. Bert carefully baited his hook and cast it far out from shore. Then, with the happy optimism of the average fisherman, he settled back and waited for results.
Contrary to the usual experience, those results were not long in coming. Tom was the first to score. The spoon at the end of his line dipped violently, and, hauling it in rapidly, he yanked in a big pickerel. He did not dare to shout, for fear of scaring the wary denizens of the lake, but he held it up for Bert to see, and the latter responded with a wave of the hand in congratulation.
The next instant he had to grab his own rod with both hands, while the cord whistled out over the reel. He had made a "strike," and the frantic plunges at the other end of the line told that he had hooked a fighter. Back and forth he darted, until it seemed as though the slender rod would break under the strain. Bert's fighting blood responded to the challenge, and he played his opponent with all the skill and judgment in which he was a past master. It was fully ten minutes before, carefully shortening his line, he was able to land on the bank a magnificent striped bass.
From that time on, the sport was fast and furious. The lake was full of fish, and it had been visited so rarely that they had not learned the danger of the bait that trailed so temptingly before them. In half an hour they had caught more than they could eat and carry home, and Tom, whose appalling appetite was clamoring for satisfaction, suggested that they wind up and pull for shore. Dick was nothing loath, and the canoe, more heavily loaded than when they had started out, glided shoreward until its nose touched the bank where Bert was standing, surrounded by a host of finny beauties that bore witness to his skill.
They fastened the boat securely and spent a few minutes comparing their catches. Then they gathered a heap of dry brush and burned it until they had a glowing bed of embers. They had no frying pan, but Bert improvised an ingenious skillet of tough oaken twigs, that, held high enough above the fire, promised to broil the fish to a turn.
Tom, who, in accordance with the agreement, had nothing to do, stretched himself out luxuriously and "bossed the job."
"See that you don't burn the fish, my man," he said to Bert, affecting a languid drawl. "And you, my good fellow," he added, turning to Dick, "be sure and clean them thoroughly."
He dodged just in time to avoid a fish head that Dick threw at him. It whizzed by his ear, and his quick duck detracted somewhat from his dignity.
"The growing insolence of the lower classes," he muttered, regaining his equilibrium. "You're fired," he roared, glaring at Dick.
"All right," said Dick, throwing down his knife.
"No, no," corrected Tom hurriedly, "not till after dinner."
Before long the fish were sputtering merrily over the fire and the appetizing smell was full of promise. It even induced Tom to abandon his leisurely attitude and "rustle" the good things out of the basket. They made a royal meal and feasted so full and long that, when at last old Nature simply balked at more, they had no desire to do anything but lie back lazily and revel in the sheer delight of living.
"If I've an enemy on earth, I forgive him," sighed Dick blissfully.
"Old Walt Whitman's my favorite poet," said Tom. "Isn't he the fellow that tells you to 'loaf and invite your soul'?"
"Soul," grunted Bert disdainfully. "You haven't any soul. Just now you're all body."
"Always pickin' on me," groaned Tom resignedly.
In complete abandonment to their sense of well being they drew their hats over their eyes and stretched out under the shadow of the trees that came down almost to the water's edge. A brooding peace enveloped them, and the droning of insects and the faint lapping of the water on the shore lulled them into drowsiness. Insensibly they lapsed into slumber.
A half hour passed before Bert started up and rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to realize where he was. His eyes fell on his sleeping companions, and he made a movement as though to awake them. Then he checked the impulse.
"What's the use?" he said to himself. "There's plenty of time before we need to start for home."
He yawned and lay back again. But now the desire for sleep had left him. After a moment he sat up again.
"I haven't tried the canoe yet," he thought. "I'll take a little spin across to the island. They'll be awake by the time I get back."
Noiselessly he walked down to the water's edge, unfastened the canoe and took up the paddle.
There was scarcely a ripple on the lake except that made by the sharp bow of the canoe. There was an exhilarating sense of flying as his light craft shot away from the shore. Almost before he knew it he had covered the distance and was drawing up the canoe on the sloping beach of the island.
It was larger than he had thought, at a distance, and toward the center was heavily wooded. There was a dense tangle of undergrowth, and in order to avoid this he skirted the shore, intending to make a complete circuit before returning to the canoe.
His surprise was great when on reaching the further side he found that it was not an island at all. A narrow strip of land connected it with the mainland beyond. It was not over a hundred feet in width, but he noticed that there was a very distinct path that had been beaten through the undergrowth. The discovery for a moment startled him. Then he realized that the woods were, of course, full of all sorts of harmless animals, who had to come down to the water to drink. This would explain the beaten path, and in some measure it reassured him.
Still his gait was quicker as he sped along, intent on regaining the canoe. It would have perhaps been just as well if he had put his rifle in when he started. He listened attentively now as he hurried on, but not a sound broke the stillness of the woods.
And now his pulses began to drum with that subtle sixth sense of his that warned of danger. Again and again in his adventurous career he had felt it, and it had never misled him. It was something like the second sight of the Highlander. His nature was so highly organized that like a sensitive camera it registered impressions that others overlooked. Now some "coming event" was casting "its shadow before," and the mysterious monitor warned him to be on his guard.
It was with a feeling of intense relief that he came again in sight of the canoe and saw that it was undisturbed. He looked across and saw his friends waving at him. He waved back and stooped to unfasten the canoe.
Then something that struck him as odd in their salutation caused him to look again. It was not simply a friendly greeting. There was terror, panic, wild anxiety. And now they were shouting and pointing to something behind him.
He turned like a flash. And what he saw made his heart almost leap from his body.
Tearing down upon him in a rapid, lumbering gallop was a monstrous bear. It needed no second glance to tell that it was a grizzly. The little eyes incandescent with rage, the big hump just back of the ears, the enormous size and bulk could belong to none other than this dreaded king of the Rockies.
For an instant every drop of blood in Bert's body seemed to rush to his head. It suffused his eyes with a red film and sounded like thunder in his ears. Then the flood receded and left him cold as ice. He was himself again, cool, self-reliant, with his mental processes working like lightning.
He had no time to unfasten the canoe. Long before he could get in and push off, the bear would have been on top of him. The beast was not more than thirty feet away and two or three more lunges would bring him to the water's edge.
Bert's first impulse was to dive into the lake and seek to escape by swimming. But this he discarded at once. Fast as he was, he knew that the grizzly could outswim him.
With a quick turn to the left, he plunged into the woods, running like a deer. The bear lost a second or two in trying to check his momentum. Then he turned also and went crashing through the underbrush in pursuit.
Had the going been open Bert might have made good his escape. His legs and wind had once won him a Marathon from the fleetest flyers of the world. But here conditions were against him. Vines reached out to trip him. Impenetrable thickets turned him aside. He had to dodge and twist and squirm his way through the undergrowth.
But the bear had no such handicaps. His great body crashed straight through all obstacles. The fearful padding of those monstrous feet came nearer and nearer. Bert's legs worked like piston rods, but to no avail. The distance between them steadily decreased, and now he could hear the labored breathing of his enraged pursuer close on his heels. It was like a hideous nightmare, and gradually the conviction began to force itself upon him that he was running his last race. Once in the grip of that monster, nothing could save him from a frightful death.
But he would not give up. The old "never say die" spirit that had carried him through so many tight places still persisted. On, on, he ran, putting every ounce of speed and strength in one last spurt. He could feel the hot breath of the grizzly and the padding feet were terribly near. Then, just as the beast was ready to hurl its huge bulk against him, Bert swung on his heel like a pivot, doubled in his tracks and flashed back past his pursuer, just escaping a lunge from the outstretched paw. But that marvelous swaying motion of the hips that had eluded so many tacklers on the football field stood him in stead, and he just grazed the enormous claw that tried to stop him.
That strategy proved his salvation. The grizzly plunged along for many feet before he could turn, and in that instant's respite Bert saw his chance.
Right in front of him was a tall oak whose lowest branch was full twenty feet from the ground. Like a streak Bert reached it, whirled around to the farther side and swarmed up it like a monkey. He reached the fork and swung himself out on the branch with not a second to spare. The grizzly, frothing with rage and hate, had hurled himself against the tree and his up-reaching claw had torn the bark in a vain attempt to clutch the leg that he only missed by inches.
But he was balked. He could not climb, and the tree was too big for him to tear down, as he might have done had it been slenderer or younger. By the narrowest of margins he had failed to add one more victim to those who had already fallen before his ferocity.
Not that he had relinquished hope. He had lost in the open attack, but he still had the resource of a siege. Soon or late he was sure his victim would have to descend. His victory was only deferred. Back and forth and round and round the tree he paced, growling fiercely, at times rearing himself on his hind legs and tearing savagely at the trunk. His open jaws, slavering with foam and showing his great yellow fangs, were full of fearful menace, and his wicked eyes glowed like a furnace. His temper, evil at all times, had been rendered worse by the fury of the chase and disappointment at his failure. Baffled rage bristled in every hair of his shaggy hide. At that moment he would have charged a regiment.
Bert settled himself in the crotch of the tree and gazed at his thwarted enemy with a sensation of indescribable relief. He was drenched with sweat, his clothes were torn by that wild race through the brush, his breath came in gasps that were almost sobs, and his heart was beating like a triphammer. He had looked into the very eyes of death and almost by a miracle had escaped. For the present, at least, he was safe. His giant adversary could not reach him.
Had he been entirely alone in this wild section of the mountains, or had his whereabouts been unknown, his situation would have been hopeless. The bear might settle down to a siege of many days, and he had powerful allies in sleep and hunger. If wearied nature should assert her rights and Bert in a moment of drowsiness topple from his perch, or if, driven by starvation, he should make a last despairing effort to escape, the chances would be all against him. The instinct of the grizzly told him that, if not interfered with, time alone was all that was necessary to bring his foe within his grasp.
But there were Dick and Tom to be reckoned with, and beyond them was Melton, who would surely organize a party and come to his aid. He knew that his comrades would not leave him in the lurch and that they would risk their lives to save him from his perilous position. No doubt but at that moment they were working with might and main to devise some plan of rescue.
But what could they do? He had taken the canoe and they had no means of getting over to him. Had they known of the narrow peninsula on the farther side, they might have worked their way around the end of the lake. But they thought the place was an island, only to be reached by water. Both were strong swimmers and could easily win their way over. But they couldn't do that and keep their guns dry, and without weapons they could do nothing.
In the wild dash through the woods he had described almost a perfect circle, and the tree in which he was sheltered commanded a view of the canoe and the shimmering water beyond. It maddened him to see the boat rocking there idly, as useless to him at that moment as though it were a thousand miles away.
If he had only brought his rifle with him! How thoughtless of him to take such a chance! The words of Mr. Melton at the breakfast table recurred to him and he fairly writhed in an agony of self-reproach.
The grizzly had by this time realized that nothing could be done for the present but wait. He ceased his restless swaying to and fro and squatted down on his haunches, his murderous eyes never leaving Bert for an instant.
On the other side of the lake Dick and Tom were working with feverish energy, almost beside themselves with fear at their comrade's terrible plight.
They had awakened soon after Bert's departure, and had been startled for a moment at finding him gone. The absence of the canoe, however, followed by a glimpse of it on the shore across the water, had reassured them, and they had waited more or less patiently for his reappearance.
Suddenly Dick started to his feet.
"What's that?" he cried, pointing to the woods near the water's edge.
"Where?" exclaimed Tom, startled out of his usual calm by the evident alarm in Dick's voice.
"In that big clump of trees over to the right," was the answer, and then his voice rose to a shout: "Great Scott! It's a grizzly."
"And there comes Bert," yelled Tom. "Bert, Bert," they shouted wildly, rushing down to the shore and waving their hands frantically.
They had seen Bert dart off into the woods with the bear in hot pursuit, but the outcome of the chase had been hidden from their view. They did not dare to think of what might have happened, and they looked at each other in helpless anguish.
"Quick!" yelled Dick, wrenching himself loose from the paralysis that had seized him. "A raft. We've got to get over there with the guns. We've got a paddle left and we can push ourselves over. Oh, Bert, Bert!" he groaned.
But Tom intervened.
"No good," he said hurriedly. "It'll take too long to make it and we'd be too slow in getting across. The canoe's our only chance. You get the guns ready."
He kicked off his shoes, tore off his clothes, dived head foremost into the lake, and with long, powerful strokes headed for the farther shore.
He had an almost amphibious love for the water and the task he had set for himself was easy. But his fear for Bert and his impatience at the delay before he could help him made it seem to him as though he were going at a snail's pace, although in reality he was cleaving the water like a fish.
Bert, looking out from his perch in the tree, suddenly had his attention attracted by something on the smooth surface. He thought at first that it was a water fowl. Then he looked more closely, and his heart gave a great bound as he recognized that it was one of his comrades, although he could not tell which one at that distance. He saw that the swimmer was headed straight for the canoe, and he surmised the plan in an instant.
"Good old Dick and Tom," he exulted to himself. "They're two pals in a thousand. I knew they'd get me out of this or die in the trying."
But the bear, too, seemed to realize that something was happening. His scent was phenomenally keen, and the wind was blowing directly toward him from the lake. He sniffed the air for a moment and then, with a threatening growl, looked toward the water. Then he rose slowly and backed in that direction, still keeping an eye on Bert.
The latter took alarm at once. Here was a new complication. If the bear should discover the swimmer, who was now nearing the shore, it might be fatal. At all events his attention must be distracted.
With Bert, to think was to act. He grasped the branch tightly and swung himself down at full length, so that his dangling feet were almost within the bear's reach. The grizzly, with an exultant "whuff," galloped clumsily back to the tree and made a ferocious swipe at his enemy, who pulled himself up just in time. Snarling and mouthing horribly, the bear once more moved toward the lake, torn between the desire to investigate and the fear that his victim might escape. Once more Bert worked the same maneuver and again the bear "fell" for it.
But the crisis was past. There was no need now to repeat. Tom had reached the canoe, climbed into it, and with powerful strokes of the paddle sent it flying toward the mainland. Not, however, till his heart had been thrilled with joy by Bert's yell that rang far out on the water.
"I'm up a tree, old man," called the voice that Tom had feared he might never hear again, "but I'm all right."
"Thank God," answered Tom, and tried to add something else, but couldn't.
Once more on shore he jubilantly reported to Dick, whose delight at the news of Bert's present safety passed all bounds.
The first rejoicing over, they hastily laid their plans.
"Are the guns ready?" asked Tom as he got into his clothes.
"They're all right," answered Dick. "To make sure, I unloaded and filled them up with new cartridges. Everything's in perfect shape."
They did not underestimate the task before them. They were taking their lives in their hands in attacking this monster of the wilds. But had he been ten times as big or ten times as savage they would not have hesitated an instant, with Bert's life as the stake.
Knowing that the wind was blowing toward the bear from where they were, they deemed it wise, as a plan of campaign, to paddle to the other side of the island and come upon the foe from the rear. If they could take him unawares, and pump a bullet or two into his great carcass before he had time to charge, their chances of success would be immensely greater.
Moving as warily as Indians, they dipped their paddles in the water and made for the upper end of the supposed island. They rounded the point and disembarked. Clutching their guns firmly and straining their eyes, as they gazed into the dark green recesses of the woods, they advanced, scarcely daring to breathe.
"I'm going to signal," whispered Dick. "That'll warn Bert that we're coming and he'll keep the bear busy." And the next instant the mournful cry of the whippoorwill floated through the forest.
It was an accomplishment that the boys had frequently practised, and the counterfeit was perfect enough to deceive the birds themselves.
They waited an instant, and then they heard Bert's answering "whippoorwill."
The bear paid no attention to the familiar sound, and it was evident that his suspicions had not been aroused.
Guiding themselves by the repetition of the cry Dick and Tom pressed forward, their guns ready for instant use at the first sight of the enemy.
Bert had promptly grasped the meaning of the signal. It was imperative that the bear's attention should be centered on himself alone. The only thing he found in his pocket was a jack-knife, but he threw this with such precision that it struck the bear full on the point of the nose and evoked a roar of fury. A shower of twigs and branches added insult to injury, until the great beast was beside himself with rage. He had no thought or eyes or ears for anything but Bert.
And now the whippoorwill was close at hand.
Two spurts of flame leaped from the forest on the right. With a ferocious snarl the grizzly whirled about in the direction of the shots. As he did so two more bullets plowed their way into his breast. He tore savagely at the wounds, and then plunged fiercely in the direction of his unseen foes.
But his hour had struck. Another volley halted him in his tracks. He sagged, coughed, and fell in a crumpled mass to the ground.
With a wild hurrah, Dick and Tom broke from cover, dropped their guns and threw their arms about Bert, who had slid down to the foot of the tree.
The strain had been so great and the reaction was so tremendous that none of them for a moment knew what he was doing. They shouted, laughed and grasped each others' hands, too excited for coherent speech. They had been through many perils together, but none so great and terrible as this. And now all three were together again, safe and sound, and the grizzly——
"Look out," screamed Bert, his face going white.
They jumped as though they had been shot.
Not ten feet away was the grizzly coming down on them like a locomotive. His mouth was open, his eyes blazing, and with the blood flowing from his wounds he made a hideous picture as he rushed forward. They had forgotten to reckon with the wonderful tenacity of life that makes a grizzly bear the hardest thing in the world to kill. Six bullets were embedded in his carcass and his life was ebbing. But his fiendish ferocity was unimpaired, and he had gathered himself together for one last onslaught.
There was no time to think, no chance to resist. The guns were on the ground, and merely to stoop for them meant that the bear would be upon them before they could rise. With one bound the boys leaped aside, and scattered through the woods at the top of their speed.
The bear hesitated a second, as though undecided whom to follow, and then put after Bert.
But it was a very different race this time from that of an hour before. Then the odds had been against the fugitive; now they were with him. The rage of the bear was greater, but his speed and strength were failing. Bert easily increased his distance, and as he ran his quick mind formed a plan of action.
Running in a circle, he gradually drew his pursuer around to the tree where he had sought refuge. He had figured on grabbing one of the guns and shinning up to the friendly crotch, there to despatch his foe at leisure. But as he rose with the rifle in his hand he saw that there was no time for this.
Dropping on one knee he took careful aim, and as the grizzly rose on its hind legs to grasp him, fired point blank at the spot just below the fore leg that marked the heart. Then he jumped aside.
The bear spun around once, toppled and fell with a tremendous crash on the spot where Bert had been a moment before.
Once more Bert raised his rifle, looking narrowly for any sign of life. But the last bullet had done the work. A convulsive shudder ran through the bear's enormous length. Then he stiffened out and a glaze crept over the wicked eyes. He had fought his last fight.
And as Bert looked down at him, his relief and exultation were tempered by a feeling of respect for the brute's courage. Never for a moment had he shown the white feather. He had fought gallantly and gone down fighting.
Tom and Dick, who had now rejoined him, shared his feeling.
"Nothing 'yellow' about that old rascal but his hide," commented Dick.
"A fighter from Fightersville," added Tom.
When their jubilation had somewhat subsided, they measured their quarry.
"Ten feet four inches, from the tip of the nose to the root of the tail," announced Tom. "Gee, but he's a monster."
"The daddy of them all," said Dick.
"He must weigh over half a ton," judged Bert.
They looked with a shudder at the terrible claws and fangs.
"They say that a grizzly has forty-two teeth," remarked Tom, "but I thought he had forty-two thousand when he was bearing down upon us with his mouth open."
"Well, now the question is what are we going to do with him," said Dick.
"That's a pleasant way to put it," laughed Bert. "A little while ago the question was what was he going to do with us."
"I don't know," he mused, "what we can do. We can't skin him, because we haven't the proper knives, and then, too, it takes an expert to get that hide off without spoiling it. On the other hand, we can't leave it here and expect to find it in the morning. The other animals will feast on the carcass, and the skin won't be any good when they've got through tearing it. If it were a deer we could hang it up out of reach. But we couldn't even move this mountain, let alone lift it."
"Of course we can come back and get the teeth and claws, anyway," put in Dick. "But I hate like thunder to lose the skin."
"I tell you what," suggested Bert. "Let's hustle around and get as many big stones as we can find. We'll pile up a sort of funeral mound around him that the animals can't work through or pull away. Then in the morning we'll get some of the boys from the ranch to come up with us and get the hide. It may not work, but I think it will, and, anyway, we've got to take the chance."
Luckily for the carrying out of the plan, big stones abounded in the vicinity and a few minutes of hard work sufficed to gather together enough to make it probable that the body would remain undisturbed till they came for it.
"And now, fellows," said Bert, gazing at the sun, "it's the quick sneak for us if we want to get back to the ranch before dark. Forward, march."
With a last look at the scene of their thrilling experience, they boarded the canoe, shot across the lake, and, packing up their traps, set out for the ranch. They made quick time of it, as the road was now familiar and led downhill all the way. Yet, despite their speed, dusk was settling down when they reached the house, to receive a hearty greeting from their hosts, who were becoming a little anxious at the delay.
Mrs. Melton paled as she heard the story of their frightful danger, and Melton himself was deeply stirred at their narrow escape. He, better than any one else, realized all the horror of the case had victory declared on the side of the bear.
"You'll never be nearer death than you were to-day, my boys," he said gravely; "and a kind of death that I don't care to think about. I'll send Sandy and some of the men up to-morrow to get the skin, and I hope that hide will be the nearest you ever come to seeing a grizzly again. You came through all right to-day, but it's the kind of stunt a man doesn't get way with twice. But now," he added more lightly, "I'll bet that you're hungry enough to eat nails. Hurry up and wash and get down to the table."
"By the way," said Mrs. Melton, her eyes twinkling, "where are those fish you promised me for supper?"
The boys looked at each other in consternation.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Bert. "We forgot to bring them."
After the boys had been on the ranch some two or three weeks a new topic of interest came up. It seemed that every Fourth of July a great celebration was held in Helena, in which cowboys and ranchmen from many miles around took part. All sorts of competitions were held, such as roping, throwing, target shooting, and so on. As the day drew near, it became the chief topic of conversation about the ranch, and everybody, with the exception of two or three who would have to stay to take care of the stock, intended to go and take part in the festivities.
Quite a feature of the present celebration was to be a one-mile running race. As a rule ranchmen and cowboys are not noted for their running abilities, generally being more at home upon the back of a horse than upon their own feet. But among the neighboring ranches there were several fair runners, and among the townspeople there were others. The last year or two a hot rivalry had existed between the ranchmen and "townies" over the outcome of the running race, for in this event everybody, no matter what his daily occupation, could be interested.
The last year one of the men from the Bar X Ranch had taken the prize money, and the ranchers had all been jubilant. They imagined they had a fair chance to win this year's event with the same runner, and Mr. Melton's men thought so too. But one day late in June Chip returned from a trip to town with clouded brow.
"What do yuh think them low-down Piutes that calls themselves citizens of Helena has been an' done now?"
"What's bitin' yuh, Chip?" asked Sandy. "Did somebody get your wad, or what?"
"No, nothin' like that," answered Chip. "I'll tell it to you jest the way one o' the boys handed it to me. He says t' me, 'Waal, Chip, I reckon you boys on the ranches hereabouts won't pick off the prize money this year in the footrace, will yuh?'
"'Oh, I don't know,' I answers him. 'Yuh never kin tell what's going to happen, but we-all have a sneakin' idea that our man is jest goin' to run away from any shorthorn you guys kin put up.'
"'Oh, is that so?' he jeers, real triumphant-like, 'well, I got a little piece o' change that I'm willin' to put up on our man. How do yuh feel?'
"Waal, I wasn't goin' to let the guy bluff me, so I covers his money to the tune o' fifty bucks. 'I s'pose Jenkins, the feller that nearly pulled down the prize last year, is goin' to run fer you, ain't he' I asks, never suspicionin' that he'd say anythin' but 'yes.'
"'Not any,' he answers, grinnin' satisfied like; 'we've got another man this year, an' a streak o' greased lightnin' is plumb slow an' ploddin' alongside him.'
"'An' who is this yere maverick?' I asks him, feelin' like somebody'd hit me when I wasn't lookin'.
"'Johnson is his brand,' says the sport; 'stick around a while an' I'll point him out t' yuh. There he is now,' he says sudden-like, pointin' to a guy amblin' along the sidewalk with half a dozen kids taggin' at his heels, 'there's the guy what's goin' to make your runners look like candidates from a young ladies' finishing school. Take a good look at him, Chip, so yuh'll know him the next time yuh see him.'
"Waal, boys, I took a good look, as this sport suggests, and I'm a pop-eyed tenderfoot if I didn't recognize the guy right off. I couldn't jest place him at first, but in a few seconds I remembered where I'd seen him last."
"An' where was that?" questioned Sandy, while everybody listened eagerly for his answer.
"It was at a function thet come near bein' a lynchin' party," answered Chip. "I was up in a little town over the Canada border at the time, an' they had jest had a race like this yere one we-all has on the Fourth o' July, only they ain't no sech institution there, them folks bein' nothin' but benighted Britishers and Frenchmen. Howsum-ever, they'd had a race, and this maverick what's pointed out to me in Helena had won the race, together with most o' the loose change in the town. Suddenly a guy in the crowd yells out: 'That feller's a 'ringer.' I seen him run in an Eastern professional race onct.'"
"Waal, thet was like puttin' a match to powder, and them people was goin' to string the guy up, only the sheriff came along jest then and stopped the proceedin's. So that's when I see this party last."
"Yes, but he might not have been a 'ringer'," suggested Bert, who had come up and joined the group while Chip was speaking. "He might have been square, but the man that accused him probably had lost money, and may have accused him just to get even. You don't have to prove much to an angry mob when they want to believe what you're telling them, anyway."
"Yes, I thought o' that," replied Chip, "but a few weeks arterward I come across an old newspaper with this party's picture engraved on the sportin' page, an' underneath it said, 'Albert Summers, the well-known professional one-mile runner,' or words meanin' the same thing. I'd clean forgot about it, though, until I sees this yere hoss thief paradin' the streets o' Helena followed by the admirin' glances o' the populace."
The cowboys exchanged indignant glances, and Sandy said, "Mebbe the folks in Helena don't know this maverick's a professional."
"I suppose most o' them don't," replied Chip, "but the officials thet have charge o' the race are wise, all right. It looks as though I was goin' to be out fifty hard-earned dollars, but it will keep the rest o' yuh boys from losin' any o' your money, anyhow."
"Seems t' me it's up to us t' give this here shell game away," remarked Buck; "it riles me plumb fierce t' think of anybody puttin' over a game like that an' gettin' away with it."
"The best thing to do, I should think," remarked Bert, "would be to let this Summers, or Johnson, or whatever his name is, run, and get somebody to beat him. That would be doing things artistically, as you might say."
"What do yuh mean?" queried Sandy, speaking for his surprised companions, "yuh think we ought t' get a 'ringer' on our own account to beat this professional sharp?"
"Not at all," said Bert with a grin. "I don't want to seem to boast, but I've done a little running myself at times, and I think if I entered against this 'profesh' I might be able to give him a run for his money."
The cowboys looked somewhat incredulous, and Chip said, "I seen this feller run, m' lad, and he sure is fast, I got to admit that much. Have yuh ever done much runnin'?"
"Quite some," replied Bert with a curious little smile. "The next time you talk to Trent or Henderson ask them about it, if you don't believe me."
He strolled off, and after he had gone the men held a consultation. Chip was openly skeptical regarding Bert's offer to run. "He's a fine lad an' all that," he opined, "but it takes more than an amateur to beat this sharp. The boy would be out of his class, I reckon, if he came up against this yere sprinter."
The others seemed inclined to agree with Chip's view of the matter, but Sandy demurred. "I've been watchin' that lad," he said, "an' I've noticed he don't usually go around shootin' off his mouth about nothin'. Seems t' me before we pass up his proposition it might be a good idea to look up his friends an' see what they say about it."
"Waal, thet's only fair," remarked one of the cowboys known to his mates only as "Bud." "I vote we make Sandy an' Chip a committee o' two to see Trent an' Henderson an' question them on this yere p'int. Yuh don't want to fergit thet if wecouldfind somebody thet could beat this Helena candidate we'd have it on them effete citizens so bad they'd wear mournin' fer a year."
This consideration had great weight with the others, and they all assented to Bud's proposition. It was agreed that at the first opportunity Sandy and Chip should question Tom and Dick on the subject of Bert's running abilities, and so the matter was dropped for the present.
The "committee," however, kept it in mind, and when, as they were returning to the bunkhouse that same evening, Chip and Sandy espied Dick and Tom at no great distance, riding along in leisurely fashion, they immediately hailed them.
On hearing their names called the two friends looked around, and, seeing the ranchmen beckoning to them, cantered over in their direction, and quickly reached the spot on which they were standing.
"What's up?" questioned Dick, "anything wrong?"
"No, not 'specially," answered Sandy, slightly at a loss as to the best way to bring up the subject. "Yuh see, it's this way. Some o' the boys has heard thet your pal, Wilson, is somethin' of a runner, and we was jest cur'ous to know ef it was so. Can you wise us up on this yere mooted p'int?"
Dick looked over at Tom and grinned. "You tell 'em, Tom," he said; "tell them whether Bert can run or not."
"Well," said Tom, "Bert isn't such an awful good runner, no. He's never done a thing in that line except win the Marathon run at the last Olympic games, break every college record from one to twenty-five miles, and set up a new world's record for the five mile distance. Outside of that he can't run worth a cent, can he, Dick?"
For a moment Dick was too amused watching the faces of the two ranchmen to answer. "Wh-what are yuh tryin' t' hand us, anyhow," demanded Chip. "Do yuh really mean he's the same Wilson thet won the big Marathon race?"
"Straight goods," answered Dick; "if you don't believe it, ask Melton."
"Whoop-ee!" yelled Sandy, throwing his sombrero high in the air and catching it deftly as it descended. "No wonder he seemed so confident when he offered to run fer us. At thet time I kind a' thought he was jest stringin' us along."
"You'll find that when Bert says a thing he generally means it," remarked Dick, "but what is it all about, anyway? What was it that he offered to run in?"
Sandy then proceeded to explain all that had occurred that morning, and when he had finished both Tom and Dick gave a long whistle.
"So that's how the land lies, is it?" exclaimed Dick; "the old sinner's never satisfied unless he's winning something or other, is he?"
"You said something that time," acquiesced Tom, a note of pride in his voice; "if excitement won't come to him, he goes looking for it. That's his style, every time."
The two cowboys did not stop to hear any more, but hurried off excitedly to take the news to their companions. They burst into the bunkhouse, where the men had already sat down to supper.
"Boys, we're all a bunch o' locoed Piutes," yelled Sandy. "Do you know who this boy Wilson is, eh? He's the feller that won the Marathon fer Uncle Sam at the Olympic games, an' we never knew it. Somebody kindly make the remarks fer me thet 're approp'rite on sech an occasion."
For a few seconds, astonished exclamations of a very forceful character filled the air, but soon the cowboys quieted down somewhat, and began to discuss the surprising news in every detail. Everybody was jubilant, and already they could picture the chagrin of the townspeople when their favorite was beaten.
"But we don't want to be too certain of winnin', at that," cautioned Bud; "arter all, that Helena runner is a professional, an' Wilson is only an amateur, no matter how good he may be. A feller thet makes a livin' out of a thing is likely to do it better than the sport thet does it fer fun, leastwise, thet's the way I figger it out."
"Thet's all right," spoke up Reddy, "but ef yuh can remember that far back, you'll rec-lect that his pals told us he held a world's record fer five miles. Waal, now, they must 'a' been lots o' professionals runnin' thet distance, and in spite of everythin' they never did no better'n thet. What've yuh got to say t' that, eh?"
Thus the discussion raged, and the cowboys stayed up much later than usual that night arguing every phase of the forthcoming race pro and con. As is usually the case in such discussions, they reached no decision, beyond unanimously agreeing that the best man would win, a proposition that few people would care to argue.
In the meantime the three comrades had met at Mr. Melton's hospitable board, and Dick and Tom recounted with great mirth the surprise of the cowboys on hearing of Bert's athletic prowess.
"It was better than a circus," laughed Dick. "I never saw two more surprised faces in my life."
"I either," said Tom. "I guess they must have thought Bert was champion of some hick village before they consulted us."
"I could see that was their idea when I offered to run," grinned Bert; "that's why I referred them to you."
"The boys place a lot of importance on the foot race," said Mr. Melton; "in the other events they're chiefly competing against each other, but in that they meet the townspeople on common ground, and it means a lot to them to win. And if the winner comes from their own particular ranch, that makes the victory all the more sweet."
"Well," remarked Bert, "if I do run in that race, as it seems very likely I shall, I'll certainly do my best to win for the ranch. I don't suppose there'll be much competition outside of this 'ringer,' anyway."
"No, I don't think there'll be much competition foryou," smiled Mr. Melton, "but just the same there'll be some pretty fair runners in that race, and they may make you hustle a little at that."
"I hope they do," said Bert, "but the only thing I'm going in the race for is to show up that crooked runner. It's such fellows as he that give the sport a bad name. I'll do everything in my power to discourage it whenever I get the chance."
"That's the talk," encouraged Tom, "go to it, old boy, and show him up. Besides, it will put you in more solid than ever with the cowboys here. They've got a pretty good idea of you already, I imagine, and this will cinch matters."
"It will give me an awful black eye if I should happen to get licked," laughed Bert; "you never seem to think of that side of it."
"No, we'll have to admit that we don't take that into consideration much," said Dick; "you seem to have such an inveterate habit of winning that we rather take it as a matter of course."
"I don't take it as a matter of course, though, not by a long sight," said Bert; "many a fellow's got tripped up by being over-confident, and not waking up until it was too late. I go into anything like that with the idea that if I don't do my very best Imaylose. And then, if a person does lose a race, that excuse of 'over-confidence' doesn't go a long way, I've noticed."
"No, it's better to be on the safe side, I guess," admitted Dick. "But are you going to train at all for this race?"
"Nothing to speak of," answered Bert. "The life we're living these days keeps a fellow about as fit as he can be, anyway. I feel as though I could start running at a minute's notice and give a good account of myself."
They talked over matters in this fashion until they had discussed the forthcoming event at every angle, and then separated for the night.
From that time on little else was thought or talked of about the ranch. Even the roping and riding contests were relegated to the background. News that the Bar Z boys had a promising candidate had been circulated among the neighboring ranches, and there was almost as much excitement rife on them as on Mr. Melton's. The cowboys were always questioning Dick and Tom in regard to Bert's "past performances," and never tired of hearing his exploits as told by his enthusiastic friends.
Never was a day so looked forward to as the Fourth of July that year, and never did a day seem so long in coming. The last days of June were checked off one by one on a highly colored calendar suspended against the wall of the bunkhouse, and at last the impatient ranchers tore the June sheet off, or, as Chip put it, "took a month off."
Saddles were gone over, oiled and polished, and when at last the longed-for day arrived every preparation had been made to celebrate it fittingly. Everybody on the ranch was up before the sun, and after a hasty breakfast they sallied forth to town.
The three comrades rode with them, and the cowboys surrounded them as a sort of bodyguard. Mr. Melton was not able to accompany them, as he had some pressing business affairs to attend to, but he had promised to reach town before the running race, which was not to take place until the afternoon, was "pulled off."
It was a beautiful day and the ranchmen were in high spirits. They laughed and shouted and indulged in rough horse-play like a crowd of school-boys out for a lark, and the boys did their full share to add to the general gaiety. The long miles slipped unnoticed behind them, and the sun was not far above the eastern horizon when the party cantered into Helena.
The town was gaily bedecked in honor of the occasion. The houses were draped with flags and bunting, and in many cases long colored streamers fluttered from the windows and roofs.
The cowboys set spurs to their ponies, and swept down the street like a veritable cyclone. They met other parties who had just arrived, and exchanged greetings with the many friends among them. There was an air of merry-making and good-fellowship in the air that was infectious, and everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves.
"They certainly know how to have a good time," remarked Dick. "I guess it's because they have so few holidays that they enjoy them all the more when they do come."
Along the streets booths were lined, selling anything from a ten-cent pocket knife to a blue-barreled Colts revolver. The numerous saloons were going full blast, and were doing a profitable business. Nobody is more of a spendthrift than your true cowboy when he is out on pleasure bent, and the fakirs and saloon-keepers were taking full advantage of that fact.
The party from Melton's ranch, with the exception of the three boys, lost no time in slaking the thirst occasioned by their ride over the prairie, and then they all repaired to the scene of the first event on the entertainment programme, which proved to be a roping and tying contest. Chip entered this and narrowly missed winning the prize.
"Tough luck, old timer," consoled Sandy, "but better luck next time. You made a good stab at it, anyhow."
Other events were run off in quick succession, with the excitement running high and keeping everybody at fever heat. The boys from the home ranch won their share of the honors and a little over, and were proportionately jubilant. "An' ef Wilson wins that race this arternoon," said Sandy, "the boys from the ranch will feel so dawgoned good thet they won't be able t' kick about nothin' fer a year t' come."
"Thet's a good one, thet is," jeered one of the townspeople who had overheard this remark. "Why, that guy Wilson ain't got even a look-in. Our champ will make him look like an also ran."
"Is that so?" replied Sandy sarcastically. "Well, yuh just stick around this arternoon, an' yuh'll realize what a plumb egreg'us idjut a feller can become by livin' in town a spell. Why, yuh poor boob, the feller you're backin' to rake in the chips ain't got even a ghost of a show."
Others of the citizens began to join in the argument, and words were beginning to run high when Hotchkiss, the sheriff, galloped up on his horse. "Here, here, boys," he exclaimed, "no hard feelin' on the glorious Fourth. We're all here to have a good time, an' anybody that don't think so can talk to me."
"All right, Bill," said Sandy soothingly; "we warn't allowin' to have a scrap, but the people o' this yere town is got too big a idea o' themselves, thet's all."
"Come away, Sandy," advised Dick, laughing. "Maybe we'll take a little of the starch out of them this afternoon."
Sandy at last allowed himself to be persuaded, and the cowboys rode off. Soon afterward the three boys left them, for they had arranged with Mr. Melton to lunch with him at the principal hotel.
When they entered its doors he was waiting for them in the lobby, his genial face beaming.
"Well, my lads," he exclaimed, "how do you like the way we spend our holidays out here, eh?"
"Great!" exclaimed Bert, speaking for the others; "the boys certainly know how to make things hum when they get started. There's something doing every minute."
"Yes, they're a great lot," said Mr. Melton. "They're hot tempered and inclined to jump too quickly into a quarrel, but their hearts are always in the right place, and they're loyal to the core. But how do you feel, Bert?" suddenly changing the subject. "Have you got your winged shoes on to-day?"
"Never felt more like running in my life," smiled Bert. "Anybody that beats me to-day will have to travel a little, I think."
"Good!" exclaimed the rancher, "that's the kind of talk I like to hear. Everybody I've talked to in the hotel here seems to think that this Johnson is going to have things all his own way, and I want you to give them the surprise of their lives."
The fact that Bert was a Marathon winner was not generally known, and everybody in town thought that their candidate would have an unknown runner pitted against him, whom he could easily vanquish. It was, therefore, with feelings of the utmost confidence that they streamed toward the place where the race was to be held. They bantered the cowboys they met unmercifully, but the latter kept their own counsel, and only smiled in a knowing fashion. Money was bet freely on both sides, and those who lost stood to lose heavily.
After the boys had finished luncheon, they and Mr. Melton repaired to the meeting place. The race was to be run around a one-mile oval track, and five men were entered as contestants. Besides Bert and Johnson, the winner of the previous race, Jed Barnes, was to race, and two other men from neighboring ranches. As soon as the boys and Mr. Melton reached the track they parted, the former seeking out the dressing room, and the latter securing a seat in the grand stand.
Bert got into his racing togs immediately, and his comrades left him and walked out to secure seats for themselves. This was soon done, and they settled themselves, waiting as best they could for the start.
The stand and field filled rapidly until at last, when the gates were closed, every available space was occupied by a tightly packed, expectant throng. Suddenly a whistle blew and a few seconds afterward the runners walked out and proceeded to draw lots for the choice of position. Bert drew third from the inside rail, Jed Barnes second, and Johnson secured the best place next to the rail.
"That makes a rather bad handicap for Bert," said Tom anxiously. "I wish he could have gotten a better position."
"Oh, well, it might be worse," said Dick, but it must be confessed he was a little worried also. Johnson was a well-built athlete, and seemed to be in the best of condition. Dick recalled that Bert had not gone through any special training, and was assailed with misgivings. However, he had not long to wait. The runners took their places, and the starter raised his pistol in the air.
"Get set!" he called, and amid a breathless silence the racers crouched over, their fingers barely touching the ground.
Crack! went the pistol, and amid a roar from the spectators the five athletes sprang ahead as though released from a catapult. Elbows pressed against their sides, heads up, they made a thrilling picture, and the crowd cheered wildly. At first they kept well together, but they were setting a fast pace, and soon one of the men began to lag behind. But little attention was paid him, for interest was concentrated on Bert, Johnson and Barnes. Before they were half way around the oval the fourth man had dropped out, so the race had narrowed down to these three.
Suddenly Bert increased his stride a little, and spurted ahead. A wild shout went up from the spectators, and those who had not already done so leaped to their feet. "Wilson! Wilson!" chanted the cowboy contingent, while the townspeople no less vociferously reiterated the name of their favorite.
But the "ringer" was not to be shaken off, and he in turn put on a burst of speed that carried him into the lead. As the runners rounded the three-quarter mile mark he was still leading, and Barnes was lagging far to the rear, evidently done for as far as the race was concerned. Chip had said that Johnson could "move some," and the professional did not belie his reputation. Apparently, Bert was unable to close up the gap of nearly a yard that now separated him from his rival, and the yells and cheers of the citizens redoubled, while those of the cowboys died down. Mr. Melton chewed the end of his cigar fiercely, and swore softly to himself.
But Tom and Dick were not deceived. "The old reprobate's only stalling," yelled Dick into Tom's ear, at the same time pounding him frantically on the back. "He isn't going his limit, by a whole lot. Watch him, now, just watch——" but his words were drowned in the shrill cowboy yell that split the air. "Yi, yi, yi!" they shouted, half crazy with excitement. For Bert, their champion, suddenly seemed to be galvanized into furious action. He leaped ahead, seeming to dart through the air as though equipped with wings. Johnson gave a startled glance over his shoulder, and then exerted himself to the utmost. But he might as well have stood still as far as any good it did him was concerned. Bert was resolved to make a decisive finish, and show these doubting Westerners what a son of the East could do. Over the last hundred yards of the course he exerted every ounce of strength in him, and the result was as decisive as even Dick and Tom could desire. Amid a tremendous pandemonium he dashed down the stretch like a thunderbolt, and breasted the tape sixty feet in advance of his laboring rival.
Words fail to describe the uproar that then broke loose. A yelling mob of cowboys swept down onto the field, and, surrounding Bert, showered praise and congratulations. Swearing joyfully, Reddy, Chip, Bud and several of the others of the cross diamond outfit elbowed their way through the crowd at one point, while Mr. Melton, Dick and Tom edged through at another.
"All right, boys," laughed Mr. Melton, "give him a chance to get his breath back, though, before you shake his hands off altogether. Let's work a path to the dressing room for him."