"There is no doubt," smiled Walter Perkins good-naturedly. "That is what this meeting was called for—to tell you about it. It was left to me to announce it to you boys, because it is my party, if you want to call it that. And you want to know where you are going?"
"Yes, of course we do," they shouted.
"Boys, we are going to the Rocky Mountains! We are going over the roughest and wildest part of them. Perhaps we shall go where no white man's foot ever has trod. We shall be explorers. What do you think of it?"
For a full moment no one spoke.
Each was too full of the wonderful news to do more than gape at the speaker. Only the sound of their labored breathings broke the stillness.
"Will—will there be bears and things there?" asked Stacy, hesitatingly.
"I presume so," smiled Walter.
"Ugh! And snakes?"
"Maybe."
"Rattlers. I've read about them out there," added Ned.
"I—I guess I'll stay home," stammered the president.
"Don't be a baby," jeered Ned. "I rather think you'll be able to stand it if the rest of us can. And, besides, Walt's professor will be along. He'll fix the animals and reptiles with, his cold, scientific eye till they'll be glad to run away and leave us to ourselves."
"You boys are to come over to my house tomorrow night, when father is going to tell you more about it. He has not told me everything yet. But he directed me to give you the main points of the plan, which I have done."
"I propose three cheers for Walter Perkins and his father," cried Ned, springing to his feet. The boys joined in the cheers with a will, Tad no less loudly than the rest, though there was no joy in his face now. The boy's disappointment was keen, yet he determined that his friends should not see it. And, as quickly as he could do so, Tad slipped away and went home to fight out his boyish sorrow all alone.
Tad's mother found him out in the barn half an hour later, vigorously grooming the old mare. Mrs. Butler smiled to herself as she observed that he studiously managed to keep the mare between himself and her as he worked.
"Do you want to sell Jinny?" she asked after a little.
"What?"
Tad was all attention now.
"I said, do you want to sell your horse?"
"No. That is, I might if I got enough for her. But I can't say that I am anxious to. Why, I am making plenty of money with her," answered Tad coining out from behind the mare. "What made you ask that question, Mother?"
"I didn't know but you might be willing to part with her. And then, with the money you might be able to purchase a better one—a horse that you would be able to earn more money with."
Tad studied his mother's face a moment inquiringly.
"Not with any money that I could get for Jinny."
"How much do you think you could get for her?"
"Not more than ten dollars. I doubt if any one would be willing to pay that, even. Who wants to buy her?"
"Yes; Mr. Secor, the butcher, spoke to me about it while I was at his house this afternoon. His delivery horse broke a leg yesterday and they had to shoot the animal to-day."
"Too bad," muttered Tad.
"He thought Jinny was just the horse he wanted, because she is so gentle and will stand without hitching. It takes too much time to hitch a delivery horse at every stop, you know!"
Tad nodded his understanding.
"Did you tell him what ailed Jinny?" asked Tad.
"Yes, as well as I could. But he said he knew all about her, and was willing to take all chances. Mr. Secor said he believed Jinny was good for ten years yet, with the kind of work he would require of her."
"Make an offer?" asked Tad, with an eye to business.
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Twenty-five dollars."
"W-h-e-w! He must be crazy. All right, he can have her so far as I am concerned. I'll go over to see him this evening."
That night Tad Butler came home with twenty-five dollars in his pocket, which, added to what he already had earned, made the tidy sum of forty dollars—a little fortune for him.
He dropped the handful of bills into his mother's lap, and, going out to the porch, sat down with his head in his hands, to think. Mrs. Butler followed him after a few moments.
"Do you think you would like to go with the boys on their jaunt this summer?" she asked, innocently enough, it seemed.
"Yes, but I can't."
"Why not, my boy?"
"First place, I've got no pony."
"Don't be too sure about that."
"What do you mean, Mother!"
"Run out to the stable and see," smiled Mrs. Butler.
Wonderingly, Tad did as she had directed. And there in a stall stood a sleek Indian Texas pony, quite the finest little animal he had ever seen.
"Wh—whe—where did he come from!" gasped the astonished boy.
"You earned him, Tad, and the money you brought home this evening will complete the purchase price. You shall accompany the Pony Riders on their trip to the Rockies——"
"But——"
"Mr. Perkins has arranged to have you go with Walter to look after him. You will be his companion, and for this service Mr. Perkins agrees to pay you the sum of five dollars a week and all expenses. Understand, you are not going as a servant—he wished that made very clear—but as the young man's companion. You can easily get someone to do your work at the store for another month, when your agreement will be worked out."
"Yes—but—but you, Mother?"
"I am invited to spend the summer with Aunt Jane, so you need have no concern whatever about me."
Tad's eyes grew large as the full significance of it all was home in upon him.
"Mother, you're a brick," he cried, impulsively throwing his arms about Mrs. Butler.
But Tad had no thought of the thrilling experiences through which he was destined to pass during the coming eventful journey.
A sudden bright flash lighted up the camp, throwing the little white tents into hold relief against the sombre background of the mountains. It was followed after an interval by a low rumble of distant thunder that buffeted itself from peak to peak of the Rockies.
The Pony Riders stirred restlessly on their cots and tucked the blankets up under their chins.
Close upon the first report followed another and louder one, that sent a distinct tremor through the mountain.
"What's that?" whispered Stacy Brown, reaching from his cot and grasping Tad Butler by the shoulder.
"A mountain storm coming up," answered the boy, who for some time had lain wide awake listening to the ever increasing roar. "Go to sleep."
Yet, instead of following his own advice, Tad lay with wide-open eyes awaiting the moment when the storm should descend upon their camp in full force.
He had not long to wait.
With a crash and a roar, as if the batteries of an army had been suddenly let loose upon them, the elements opened their bombardment directly over the camp.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Chunky in a muffled voice, as he crawled further down under the blanket to shut out the glare of the lightning.
For a few moments the boys lay thus. Then Tad, rising, slipped to the opening of the tent and looked out wonderingly upon the impressive scene. Each flash appeared to light up the mountains for miles around, their crests lying dark and forbidding, piled tier upon tier, the blue, menacing flashes hovering about them momentarily, then fading away in the impenetrable darkness.
The camp appeared to be wrapped in sleep, and, by the bright flashes, Tad observed that the burros of the pack train were stretched out sound asleep, while, off in the bushes, he could hear the restless moving about of the ponies, their slumbers already disturbed by the coming of the storm.
The Pony Riders had been out three days from Pueblo, to which point they had journeyed by train, the stock having been shipped there in a stable car attached to the same train. In the city of Pueblo they found that all preparations for the journey had been made by Lige Thomas, the mountain guide whom Mr. Perkins had engaged to accompany them.
Besides the four ponies of the boys there were the Professor's cob, Thomas's pony and a pack train consisting of six burros, the latter in charge of Jose, a half-breed Mexican, who was to cook for the party during their stay in the mountains.
It was a brave and joyous band that had set out from the Colorado city in khaki trousers, blue shirts and broad-brimmed sombreros for an outing over the wildest of the Rocky Mountain ranges.
By this time the boys had learned to pitch and strike camp in the briefest possible time—in short, to take very good care of themselves under most of the varying conditions which such a life as they were leading entailed.
They had made camp this night on a rooky promontory, under clear skies and with bright promise for the morrow.
Tad gave a quick start as a flash of lightning disclosed something moving on the far side of the camp.
"What's that!" he breathed.
With quick intuition, the boy stepped back behind the flap of the tent, and, peering out, waited for the next flash with eyes fixed upon the spot where he thought he had observed something that did not belong there.
"Humph! I must be imagining things tonight," he muttered, when, after three or four illuminations, he had discovered nothing further.
Tad was about to return to his cot when his attention was once more attracted to the spot. And what he saw this time thrilled him through and through.
A man was cautiously leading two of the ponies from camp, just back ofProfessor Zepplin's tent.
The boy paused with one hand raised above his head, prepared to pull the tent flap quickly back in place in case the stranger chanced to glance that way, all the while gazing at the man with unbelieving eyes.
Was he dreaming? Tad wondered, pinching himself to make sure that he really was awake.
Once more, impenetrable darkness settled over the scene, and, when the next flash came the camp had resumed its former appearance.
Tad Butler hesitated only for the briefest instant.
"Ahoy, the camp!" he shouted at the top of his voice, springing out into the open. "Wake up! Wake up!"
As if to accentuate his alarm, a twisting gust of wind swooped down upon the white village. Accompanied by the sound of breaking ropes and ripping canvas, the tent that had covered Professor Zepplin was wrenched loose. It shot up into the air, disappearing over a cliff.
Now the lightning flashes were incessant, and the thunder had become one continuous, deafening roar.
Stoical as he was, the Professor, thus rudely awakened, uttered a yell and leaped from his cot, while the boys of the party came tumbling from their blankets, rubbing their eyes and demanding in confused shouts to know what the row was about.
But Lige, experienced mountaineer that he was, instinctively divined the cause of the uproar, when, emerging from his tent, he saw Tad darting at top speed across the camp ground.
"The ponies! The ponies!" shouted the boy, as he disappeared in the bushes, regardless of the fact that he was clad only in his pajamas, and that the sharp rocks were cutting into his bare feet like keen-edged blades.
"What about the ponies?" roared Ned Rector, quickly collecting his wits and following in the wake of the fleeing Tad.
"Stolen! Two of them gone!" was the startling announcement thrown back to them by the freckle-faced boy.
By this time the entire camp, with the exception of Professor Zepplin and Stacy Brown, had set out on a swift run, following on the trail of Tad.
Ahead of him, the boy could hear the ponies' hoofs on the rocks, and now and then a distant crash told him they were working up into the dense second growth that he had seen in his brief tour of inspection earlier in the evening. He realized from the sound that he was slowly gaining on the missing animals.
Tad's blood was up. His firm jaw assumed the set look that it had shown when he won the championship wrestling match at the high school.
The shouts of the others at his rear, warning him of the danger and calling upon him to return, fell upon unheeding ears. So intent was the boy upon the accomplishment of his purpose that he gave no heed to the fact that the sounds ahead had ceased, and that only the soft patter of his own feet on the rocks broke the stillness between the loud claps of thunder.
Yet, even if Tad had sensed this, its meaning doubtless would have been lost upon him, unused as he was to the methods of mountaineers. So the boy ran blindly on in brave pursuit of the man who had stolen their mounts while the Pony Riders slept.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Tad felt himself encircled by a pair of powerful arms, and, at the same time, he was lifted clear of the ground.
But even then the lad's presence of mind did not desert him, though the vise-like pressure about his body made him gasp.
All his faculties were instantly on the alert. But he realized now that his only hope lay in attracting the attention of the others of his party, who could be only a short distance away, for he could still hear their shouts.
"Help!"
Tad's shrill voice punctuated a momentary lull in the storm.
"Coming!" answered the voice of the guide, its strident tones carrying clearly to Tad, filling him with a feeling as near akin to joy as was possible under the circumstances.
With a snarl of rage the boy's captor suddenly released his hold around the waist and grasped Tad quickly by the knees. So skilfully had the move been executed that Tad Butler found himself dangling, head down, before he really understood what had occurred. His head was whirling dizzily. He felt his body swaying from side to side, his head describing an arc of a circle, as he was rapidly being swung to and fro.
"Where are you, Tad?"
"Here!" came the muffled voice of the boy, too low for the others to catch.
Tad knew that they would have to hurry if they were to save him, for as soon as the dizzy swinging of his body began he had understood the purpose of his captor. At any second the boy might find himself flying through space—perhaps over a precipice. It plainly was the intent of the man to hurl the boy far from him, as soon as Tad's body should have attained sufficient momentum to carry it.
However, before the fellow was able to put his desperate plan fully into execution, Tad, with the resourcefulness of a born wrestler, suddenly formed a plan of his own.
As his body swung by that of his captor, the boy threw out his hands, clasping them about the left leg of the other and instantly locking his fingers.
It seemed as if the jolt would wrench his arms from their sockets. Yet Tad held on desperately. And the result, though wholly unexpected by the mountaineer, was not entirely so to Tad. He had figured—had hoped—that a certain thing might occur. And it did.
The man's left leg was jerked free of the ground, and before he was able to catch his balance the fellow fell heavily on his side. Tad, with keen satisfaction, heard him utter a grunt as he struck. But before the boy could release himself he was grabbed and pulled up over his adversary by the latter's left hand, his right still being pinioned under his own body. Yet the mountaineer's move had not been entirely without results favorable to his captive.
"I'll kill you for this!" snarled the man, fuming with rage.
Tad, groping for a wrestler's hold, felt his hand close over the hilt of a knife in the man's belt. And, as the boy was hauled upward, the blade came away from its sheath, clasped in Tad's firm grip.
But not even with this deadly weapon in hand did Tad Butler for a second forget himself. He flung the knife as far from him as his partly pinioned arms would permit, and, with keen satisfaction, heard it clatter on the rocks several feet away.
"You'll do it without that cowardly weapon, then!" gasped the boy.
Though thoroughly at home in a wrestling game, Tad knew that he would be no match for the superior strength of his antagonist. So, resorting to every wrestling trick that he knew, he sought to prevent the fellow from getting the right arm free. However, the most the lad could hope to accomplish would be to delay the dreaded climax for a minute or more.
With an angry, menacing growl, the mountaineer threw himself on his hack, hoping thereby to free the pinioned arm.
"Now, I've got you, you young cub!"
Instantly, both of Tad's knees were drawn up and forced down with all his strength on his adversary's stomach. From the growl of rage that followed, Tad had the satisfaction of knowing that his tactics had not been without effect.
"You—you only think you have," retorted the boy, breathing heavily under the terrible strain.
The mountaineer might now have hurled the boy from him. To do this, however, would have been giving Tad an opportunity to escape, of which he would have been quick to take advantage; and so, gulping quick, short breaths, and struggling with his slightly built adversary, Tad's captor finally managed to throw the lad over on his back.
So heavily did Tad strike that, for the moment, the breath was fairly knocked from his body.
Recovering himself with an effort, he raised a piercing call for help.
All grew black about him. He no longer saw the brilliant flashes of lightning that at intervals lighted up the scene, nor heard the voices of his companions frantically calling upon him to come back. The mountaineer's sinewy fingers had closed in an iron-grip over Tad Butler's throat.
"There they are!" cried Ned Rector, a flash of lightning having disclosed the man kneeling over Tad Butler. "He's got Tad down!"
But Lige Thomas did not even hear the warning words. He, too, during the momentary illumination, had caught the significance of the scene.
With a mighty leap he hurled himself upon the body of the crouching mountaineer, both going down in a confused heap, with the unfortunate Tad underneath.
Ned Rector was only a few seconds behind the guide. While the two men were straggling in fierce embrace, he sprang to them, and, grabbing Tad by the heels, drew him from beneath the bodies of the desperate combatants. But Ned's heart sank when he saw Lige drop over backward, with the mountaineer on top.
With a courage born of the excitement of the moment, Ned clasped both hands under the fellow's chin, jerking his head violently backwards. So sudden was the jolt that the lad distinctly heard the man's neck snap, and, for the moment, believed he had broken it entirely.
However, the mountaineer's tough coating of muscle made such a result impossible. Yet he had sustained a jolt so severe that, for the time being, he found himself absolutely helpless, and wholly at the mercy of his antagonists.
Lige leaped upon the thief with the lightness of a cat, quickly completing the job which Ned Rector had begun. In a moment more the guide had thrown several strands of tough rawhide lariat about the body of the dazed mountaineer, binding the fellow's arms tightly to his side.
"I guess that will hold him for a while," laughed Ned. Then, bethinking himself of Tad, whom in the excitement of conflict he had entirely forgotten, Rector dropped down beside his comrade.
"Tad! Tad! Are you all right?"
Tad made no response. He told Ned afterwards that he had heard him distinctly, though to save his life he could not have answered.
Ned pulled him up into a sitting posture, and shook the boy until his teeth chattered. Tad gulped and began to choke, his breath beginning to come irregularly.
"How's the boy?" demanded the guide, rising after having completed his task of binding the captive.
"He'll be all right in a minute. Is there any water about here!"
"No; not nearer than the camp. Wait a minute; I'll bring him around without it," announced Lige.
In this case, however, Tad felt that the remedy was considerably worse than the disease itself. Lige brought his brawny hand down with a resounding whack, squarely between Tad's shoulders, which operation he repeated several times with increasing force.
"On—ouch!" yelled Tad, suddenly finding his voice under the guide's heroic treatment. "Wh—where am I?"
"You're in the woods. That's about all I know about it," laughed Ned, assisting his companion to his feet, and supporting him, for Tad was still a bit unsteady from his late desperate encounter. "You're lucky to be alive."
"What—what has happened!"
"That," answered Ned, pointing to Lige as the latter roughly jerked the captive mountaineer to an upright position.
"Find the ponies!" commanded the guide sharply. "I hear them in the bushes there. Will they come if you whistle!"
"Depends upon which ones they are. Mine will."
But, though Ned whistled vigorously, neither of the animals appeared to heed the signal.
"Jimmie isn't there. I'll go get them." And Ned ran off into the bushes, where they could hear him coaxing the little animals to him. In a few moments he returned leading them by their bridle reins.
"Whose ponies are they?" asked Tad, leaning against a tree for support.
"Texas and Jo-Jo. The fellow picked a couple of good ones. But then, all the ponies are worth having," added Ned, realizing that he was placing the others ahead of his own little animal. "What do you propose to do with that fellow over there, guide?"
"Depends upon you young gentlemen. Just now I am going to tie him on one of the ponies and take him back to camp. I suppose you know what they do with hoss thieves in this country, don't you?" asked Thomas.
"Never having been a horse thief, and never having caught one, I can't say that I do," confessed Master Ned. "What do they do with them?"
"Depends upon whether there are any large trees about," answered Lige significantly. "We must be getting back now. Master Tad, you get on your pony, and I will lead Jo-Jo behind with the thief."
The mountaineer had been securely tied to the back of Walter Perkins's mount, and the procession now quickly got under way, Tad riding ahead, Ned Rector bringing up the rear, that he might keep a wary eye on their prisoner on their way back to camp. Ned was armed with a club, a stout limb of oak, which he had picked up before the start, and which he covertly hoped he might have an opportunity to use before reaching camp.
However, no such chance was given him, and, after picking their way cautiously over the rocky way, for trail there was none, they at last reached their temporary home.
Ned gave a war whoop as a signal to the camp that they were coming, which was answered with a slightly lesser degree of enthusiasm by Stacy Brown.
The storm had died down to a distant roar and the camp was in darkness.
"Get a fire going as quickly as possible," directed the guide.
Ned quickly procured dry fuel, and in a few moments had a crackling fire burning.
Professor Zepplin and Stacy Brown now came forward into the circle of light. After the sudden departure of his tent the Professor had taken refuge in one of the other tents, where he had remained, not knowing exactly what had happened.
In the excitement of losing his own little home he did know that all the boys, save Stacy, had rushed out of camp, shouting about the theft of the ponies. Chunky averred that all the stock had run away. Still there seemed nothing left for the two to do except remain where they were until the return of the others of the party. They would have been sure to lose themselves had they ventured away from camp in the darkness.
Both paused suddenly when they observed the figure of a man tied to the back of Jo-Jo.
"What's this? What's this?" demanded the Professor in puzzled accents. "A man tied to a horse? What is the meaning of this, sir?"
Lige Thomas smiled grimly.
"That's our prisoner," declared Tad, who, sitting upon his horse in his bedraggled, torn pajamas, presented a most ludicrous figure.
"You certainly are a sight, sir," declared Professor Zepplin, surveying the boy with disapproving eyes. "What is the meaning of all this disturbance? First, my tent goes up into the air; then you all disappear, though where I am not advised. And now, you return with a man tied to a pony."
"The man's a thief—" began Ned.
"It was this way, Professor," Tad informed him. "I saw some one walking away with Jo-Jo and Texas. I ran after and caught up with the fellow. Then the others came and we nabbed him. That's all."
"Yes, sir; if it hadn't been for Master Tad's quickness we might have lost both the ponies," added the guide. "He caught the fellow and handled him as well as a man could have done until we got there. When you get your full strength, you'll be a whirlwind, young man," glowed Lige.
Blushing, Tad slipped from his pony.
"The man is a thief, you say, Thomas?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, well; I am surprised. I should like to take a look at him."
Thomas dumped the prisoner on the ground in the full glare of the torches, still leaving his arms bound, and taking the further precaution of securing the fellow's feet.
"Who are you, my man!" demanded the Professor sternly, peering down into the prisoner's dark, sullen face.
There was no response.
"Humph! Can't he talk, Thomas?"
"I reckon he can, but he won't," grinned Lige. "There ain't no use in asking him questions. He knows we've caught him in the act, and he knows, too, what the penalty is."
"The penalty—the penalty? You refer to imprisonment, of course?"
"No; that ain't what I mean."
"Then, to what penalty do you refer?" inquired the Professor.
"We usually hang a hoss thief in this country," replied the guide, grimly. "But, of course, it's for you and the boys to say what shall be done."
"Hang him? Hang him? Certainly not! How can you suggest such a thing? We will turn him over to the officers of the law, and let them dispose of him in the regular way," declared the Professor with emphasis.
"That's all right, but where are we going to find any officers?" askedTad. "They don't seem to be numerous about here."
"The young gentleman has hit the bull's-eye, sir. It's sixty miles, and more, to a jail. You don't want to go back, do you?"
"Certainly not."
"That's how we men of the mountains come to take the law into our own hands, sometimes. We have to be officers and jails, all in one," hinted the guide significantly.
"Then, there remains only one thing for us to do, regrettable as it may seem," decided the Professor after a moment's thought.
"Yes, sir?"
"Let the fellow go, but with the admonition not to offend again."
Lige laughed.
"Heap he'll care about that," he retorted, his, face growing glum.
However, at the Professor's direction, the prisoner was liberated. No sooner was this done than the fellow leaped to his feet and started to run.
"Catch him!" roared Lige.
Tad promptly stuck out a foot. The mountaineer tripped over it, measuring his length on the ground. Lige jerked the fellow to his feet and stood him against a tree, the thief becoming suddenly meek when he found himself looking along the barrel of a large six-shooter.
"I reckon you can run now, if you want to," grinned the guide suggestively.
"Admonish him," urged the Professor.
"Now, you see here, fellow," said Lige in a menacing tone, "you've struck a rich find tonight. Next time, I reckon you won't get off so easy. I've got you marked. I'll find out what your brand is, then I'll tell the sheriff to be on the lookout for you. Now, you hit the trail as fast as your legs'll carry you. If I catch you up to any more tricks—well, you know the answer. Now, git!"
And the late prisoner did. One bound carried him almost out of camp. The boys shouted derisively as they heard him floundering through the bushes as he hastily made his escape.
"Where is Walt? Did he go hack to bed?" asked Tad, after the excitement had subsided.
"To bed? No; he followed you," replied Stacy Brown.
"Followed us? You are mistaken. Did you see anything of WalterPerkins, Mr. Thomas?"
The guide shook his head.
"Did not go with you? I think you must be in error," spoke up theProfessor, with quick concern.
"He certainly was not with us," insisted Ned. "I did not even see him leave his tent."
"Why, he must have gone. With my own eyes I saw him running after you," urged Professor Zepplin in a tone of great anxiety.
"Guide, get torches at once. The boy surely is lost."
Alarmed, the boys needed no further incentive to spur them to instant action. Grasping fagots from the fire, they lined up, standing with anxious faces, awaiting the direction of Lige Thomas, to whom they instinctively looked to command the searching party.
"Wait a minute," commanded Lige in a calm voice. "Which way did you see him go, Professor?"
"Let me reflect. I am not sure—yes, I am. I distinctly remember having seen him run obliquely to the left there. It was just after I had lost my tent——"
"Over that way?" asked Lige, pointing.
"Yes, that was the direction. I am positive of it now. But, if he went that way, he didn't follow you?" added the Professor hesitatingly.
"Do you know what lies there, less than ten rods away?" asked the guide, gravely.
"I don't understand you."
"There's a cliff there that drops down a clear hundred feet," answeredLige, impressively.
A heavy silence fell over the little group.
Professor Zepplin's face worked convulsively as he sought to control his emotions.
"You—you can't mean it, sir. You cannot mean that Walter has come to any real harm? I——"
"I don't know. I'm only telling you what to expect."
"Then do something! Do something! For the love of manhood, do—" exploded the Professor, striding to the guide.
But Lige, having turned his back on the German tutor, was giving some brief directions to the boys, who were now fully dressed. They assented by vigorous nods, then promptly fell in behind him and held their torches close to the ground as if in search of something.
Reaching the bushes at the point where the Professor thought he had seen Walter Perkins disappear, they halted, the guide making a careful examination while the boys waited in silent expectancy.
Lige nodded reflectively.
"Yes; he went this way. You boys spread out, and if any of you observe even a broken twig that I have missed, let me know. The trail seems plain enough here."
And, the further he proceeded, the more convinced was Lige Thomas that his fears were soon to be fully realized.
Suddenly he paused, dropping onto his knees, in which position he cautiously crawled forward a few paces.
"Huh!" grunted the guide.
The boys, realizing that he had made some sort of a discovery, started forward with one accord.
"Stop!" commanded their guide sternly. "Don't you know you are standing on the very edge of the jumping-off place? Get down and crawl up by me here, Master Ned. But, be very careful. Leave your torch."
Ned quickly obeyed the instructions of the guide, lying down flat on his stomach, and wriggling along in that way as best he could.
Lige took a firm hold of his belt.
"I can't see anything," breathed the boy.
At first his eyes were unable to pierce the blackness. But after a little, as they became more accustomed to it, he began to comprehend. Below him yawned a black, forbidding chasm.
Ned shivered.
"Walt didn't—didn't——"
Lige inclined his head.
"Are you going to keep me in this suspense all night?" demanded theProfessor irritably. "What have you discovered?"
The guide, before replying, assisted Ned back to his feet, leading him to a safe distance beyoud the dangerous precipice.
"There's no doubt of it at all, Professor. He has left a trail as plain as a cougar's in winter. He must have stepped off the edge at the exact point where you saw me lying."
"Then—then you think—you believe——"
"That he has been dashed to his death on the rocks a hundred feet below," added Lige solemnly. "Nothing short of a miracle could have saved him, and miracles ain't common in the Rockies."
The boys gazed into each other's eyes, then turned away. None dared trust his voice to speak. It was some moments before the Professor had succeeded in exercising enough self-control to use his own.
"Wh—what can we do?" he asked hoarsely.
"Nothing, except go down and pick him up——"
"But how?"
"By going back a mile we shall hit a trail that will lead us down into the gulch. But we'll have to leave the ponies and go down on foot. Not being experienced, I'm afraid to trust them. Only the most sure-footed ponies could pick their way where one misstep would send them to the bottom."
Returning to camp, and piling the fire high with fresh wood, the boys secured the ponies, and, led by Lige, struck off over the hack trail. It was a silent group of sad-faced boys that followed the mountain guide, and not a syllable was spoken, save now and then a word of direction from Lige, uttered in a low voice.
After somewhat more than half an hour's rough groping over rocks, through tangled underbrush and miniature gorges, Lige called a halt while he took careful account of their surroundings. His eye for a trail was unerring, and he was able to read at a glance the lesson it taught.
"Here is where we turn off," he announced. "Follow me in single file. But everybody keep close to the rocks at your right hand, and don't try to look down. I'm going to light a torch now."
The guide had had the forethought to bring a bundle of dry sticks, some of which he now proceeded to light, and, holding the torch high above his head, that the light might not flare directly in their eyes, he began the descent, followed cautiously by the others of the party. Yet, so filled were the minds of the boys with their new sorrow that they gave little heed to the perils that lay about them.
At last they came to the end of the long, dangerous descent, and, turning sharply to the right, picked their way through the cottonwood forest to the northwest.
Not a word had the Professor spoken since they left the camp, until observing a faint light in the sky some distance beyoud them, he asked the guide what it was.
"That's the light from our camp fire. We are getting near the place," he answered shortly.
Professor Zepplin groaned.
Now, realizing the necessity for more light, Lige procured an armful of dry, dead limbs, all of which he bound into torches, and, lighting them, passed them to the others. With the aid of these the rocks all about them were thrown up into hold relief.
The boys were spread out in open order and directed to keep their eyes on the ground, remaining fully a dozen paces behind their leader, who of course, was the guide himself.
Peering here and there, starting at every flickering shadow, their nerves keyed to a high pitch, they began the sad task of searching for the body of their young companion.
Finally they reached the point which Lige knew to be almost directly beneath the spot where Walter was supposed to have stepped off into space.
"Remain where you are, please," ordered the guide.
Continuing in the direction which he had been following for several rods, Lige turned and made a sweeping detour, fanning the ground with his torch, as he picked his way carefully along.
"Wh—wha—what do you find?" breathed the Professor as Lige turned and came back to them.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? What does that mean?"
"That the boy's not here. That's all."
"Not—here!" marveled the three lads, and even that was a distinct relief to them. If Walter had not been dashed to death on the rocks at the bottom of the gulch, then there still was hope that he might be alive. However, this faint hope was shattered by Lige Thomas's next remark.
"The body may have caught on a root somewhere up the mountain side," he added. "I am afraid we shall have to go back and wait for daylight. But we'll see what can be done. I don't want to give it up until I am sure."
"Sure of what?" asked the Professor.
"That the boy is dead. Look!" exclaimed the guide, fairly diving to the ground, and rising with a round stone in his hand. He held it up almost triumphantly for their inspection.
But his find failed to make any noticeable impression upon either the boys or Professor Zepplin. They knew that in some mysterious way it must be connected with the loss of their companion, though just how they were at a loss to understand.
"I don't catch your idea, Lige," stammered the Professor. "I understand that you have picked up a stone. What has that to do with Walter?"
"Why, don't you see? He must have dislodged it when he fell off the mountain."
"No; I do not see why you say that."
"And up there, if you will look sharply, you will observe the path it followed coming down," continued Lige, elevating the torch that they might judge for themselves of the correctness of his assertion.
But, keen-eyed as were most of the party, they were unable to find the tell-tale marks which were so plain to the mountaineer.
"What do you think we had better do, sir?" asked Tad Butler anxiously.
"Go back to camp. I should like to leave someone here—but——"
"I'll stay, if you wish," offered Tad promptly.
"No, I couldn't think of it. It's too risky, There is no need of our getting into more trouble. If you knew the mountains better it might be different. If I left you here you might get into more difficulties, even, than your friend has. No; we'll go back together. It is doubtful if we could do anything for poor Master Walter now. No human being could go over that cliff and still be alive. A bob-cat might do it, but not a man or a boy," announced the guide, with a note of finality in his tone.
Sorrowfully the party turned and began to retrace their steps. But the necessity for caution not being so great on the return, most of the way being up a steep declivity, they moved along much faster than had been the case on their previous journey over the trail.
The return to camp was accomplished without incident, and the boys slipped away to their tents that they might be alone with their thoughts.
Professor Zepplin and the guide, however, sat down by the camp fire, where they talked in low tones.
Tad, upon reaching his tent, threw himself on his cot, burying his head in his arms.
"I can't stand it! I simply can't!" he exclaimed after a little. "It's too awful!"
The boy sprang up, and going outside, paced restlessly back and forth in front of the tent, with hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, manfully struggling to keep hack the tears that persistently came into his eyes.
A sudden thought occurred to him.
With a quick, inquiring glance at the two figures by the fire, Tad slipped quietly to the left, and nearing the scene of the accident, crept cautiously along on all fours. He flattened himself on the ground, face down, his head at the very spot where his companion had, supposedly, taken the fatal plunge.
For several minutes the boy lay there, now and then his slight figure shaken by a sob that he was powerless to keep back.
"I cannot have it—I don't believe it is true. I wish it had been I instead of Walt," he muttered in the excess of his grief. "I——"
Tad cheeked himself sharply and raised his head.
"I thought I heard something," he breathed. "I know I heard something."
He listened intently and shivered.
Yet the only sounds that broke the stillness of the mountain night were the faint calls of the night birds and the distant cry of a roaming cougar.
"H-e-l-p!"
Faint though the call was, it smote Tad Butler's ears like a blow. Never had the sound of a human voice thrilled him as did that plaintive appeal from the black depths below.
He hesitated, to make sure that it was not a delusion of his excited imagination.
Once more the call came.
"Help!"
This time, however, it was uttered in the shrill, piercing voice of Tad Butler himself, and the men back there by the camp fire started to their feet in sudden alarm while Ned Rector and Stacy Brown came tumbling from their tents in terrified haste.
"What is it! What is it?" they shouted.
Instead of answering them, Lige Thomas, with a mighty leap, cleared the circle of light and sprang for the bushes from which the sound had seemed to come. He was followed quickly by the others. Both the guide and Professor Zepplin had recognized the voice, and each believed that Tad Butler had gone to share the fate of Walter Perkins.
Yet, when Lige heard Tad tearing through the underbrush toward him, he knew that this was not the case.
"What is it?" bellowed the guide in a strident voice.
"It's Walt! He's down there! Quick! Help!"
Lige thrust the excited boy to one side. Running to the edge of the cliff, he leaned over and listened intently.
A moment more and he too caught the plaintive cry for help from below.
It was the first time thus far on the journey that Lige Thomas had manifested the slightest sign of excitement. Just now, however, there could be no doubt at all that he was intensely agitated.
"Keep back! Keep back!" he shouted, as the boys and Professor Zepplin began crowding near the masked edge of the cliff. "You'll all be over if you don't have a care. We've got trouble enough on our hands without having the rest of you jump into it."
"What is it?" demanded the Professor breathlessly.
"It's Master Walt," snapped the guide. "Stand still. Don't move an inch. I'm going back for a torch," he commanded, leaping by them on his way to the camp fire.
"Where—is—he?" stammered the Professor, not observing that the guide had left them.
"Down there, sir," explained Tad, pointing to the ledge of rock over which Walter had fallen.
"I know—I know—but——"
"I heard him call. Walt's alive! Walt's alive! But I don't know how we are going to get him."
The shout of joy that had framed itself on the lips of Ned Rector andStacy Brown died out in an indistinct murmur.
"Is it possible! What are we going to do, Thomas—how are we to rescue the boy?"
Lige Thomas made no reply to the question as he ran past them, and, dropping down, leaned over the cliff, holding the torch he had brought far out ahead of him.
"See anything?" asked Tad tremulously, creeping to his side.
"Looks like a clump of bushes down there. But I ain't sure. Can you make it out?"
"No. All I can see is rocks and shadows. Where is it that you think you see bushes?"
"Over there to the right, just near the edge of the light space made by the torch light," answered the guide.
"Yes," agreed Tad, "that does look like bushes. I'll call to Walter and tell him we are coming. Hey, Walter! Where are you?" "H—e—r—e," was the faint response. "All right, old man. Stick tight and don't get scared. We'll have you out of that in no time."
"Don't move around. Lie perfectly still," warned the guide. "Are you hurt?"
To this question Walter made some reply that was unintelligible to them.
"Now, what are we going to do, I'd like to know?" asked Ned.
"I don't know," answered Lige, frowning thoughtfully. "It's a tough job. If I had a couple of mountaineers who knew their business, we'd stand a better chance of pulling him up."
"Why not get a rope and let it down to him," suggested Tad.
"Yes, that's the only way we can do it. Run over to the cook tent and tell Jose to give you those rawhide lariats that he will find behind his bunk. Hurry!"
Tad was off almost before the words were out of the mouth of the guide, and in the briefest possible time came racing back with the leather coils, which he tossed to Lige before reaching him, that there might not be even a second's delay.
The mountaineer quickly formed a loop in one end of the rope, making it large enough to permit of its slipping over the shoulders of a man. This he dropped over the brink, after splicing two lariats together, and directing Ned Rector to make the other end fast about the trunk of a tree by giving it a couple of hitches.
"Hello, down there! Let me know when the rope reaches you. Can you slip it over your shoulders and under your arms?" called the guide.
There was no response.
"I say, down there!" shouted Lige.
"That's funny," wondered Tad. "H-e-l-l-o-o-o-o, Walt!"
But not a sound came up from the black depths in answer to the boy's hail. They gazed at each other in perplexity.
"Has—he—-gone?" asked the Professor weakly.
"No. We should have heard him if he had," answered Lige. "If I could see him I'd lasso him and haul him up. But I don't dare try it. Then again, these roots on a wall of rock ain't any too strong usually. I don't dare try any experiments."
"What do you think has happened to him?" asked Tad in a troubled voice.
"Fainted, probably. He ain't very strong, you know. And that tumble's enough to knock the sense out of a full grown man. Ain't no use to expect him to hook himself onto the line, even if he does wake up," decided the guide with emphasis, beginning to haul up the lariat, which he coiled neatly on the rock in front of him.
"Then what are we going to do? We've got to get Walt up here, even ifI have to jump over after him," said Tad firmly.
"Right you are, young man. But talking won't do it. Something else besides saying you're going to will be necessary."
"What would you suggest!"
"One of us must go down there," was the guide's startling announcement. "That's the only way we can reach him," explained Lige, dangling the loop of the lariat in his hands as he looked from one to the other.
"D—do—down in that dark place? Oh!" exclaimed Chunky.
"In that case, you will have to go yourself, Thomas," decided the Professor sharply. "I could not think of allowing any of my charges to take so terrible a risk, and——"
"Let me go, Mr. Thomas," interrupted Ned Rector, stepping forward, with almost a challenge in his eyes.
"No; I am the lighter of the two," urged Tad. "I am the one to go after Walt, if anyone has to. I'll go down, Mr. Thomas."
"Master Tad is right," decided the guide, gazing at the two boys approvingly. "It will be better for him to go, if he will——"
"And he most certainly will," interrupted Tad, advancing a step.
"I protest!" shouted the Professor. "You yourself should go, Lige. You are——"
"I am needed right here, sir," replied the guide, shortly. "You'd have both of us at the bottom if I left it to you to take care of this end."
"I'm ready, sir when you are," reminded Tad.
The guide, without further delay, and giving no heed to Professor Zepplin's nervous protests, slipped the noose over Tad's shoulders, and, drawing it down and up under his arms, secured the knot so that the loop might not tighten under the weight of the boy's body.
"Now, be very careful. Make no sudden moves. And, if you meet with anything unlooked for, let me know at once. You know, you will have to stay down there while we are drawing the boy up. But, before removing the rope from your own body, make sure that you are safe. If you find the support too weak to bear your weight, let me know. I'll send down another rope to which you can tie yourself until we get Master Walter to the top. Be sure to fasten him securely to the loop before you give the signal to haul up," warned the guide. "Here, put my gun in your pocket."
"I understand."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
Tad tossed away his sombrero and sat down on a shelf of rock at the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling over.
The lad's face was pale, the lines on it standing out in sharp ridges; but not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray the slightest nervousness. Yet Tad Butler realized fully the perilous nature of his undertaking, and that the least mistake on his part or on the part of those above him might mean a sudden end to his earthly ambitions.
Lige shortened the hitch about the tree, until the line drew taut. After winding the end tightly about his own arm, he handed a lighted torch to Tad.
It was a trying moment for all of them, and naturally more so for the boy who was about to descend into the unknown depths of the mountain canyou.
"Right!" announced the guide in a reassuring voice.
Tad made no reply, but, turning so that he faced them, let himself carefully over the ledge, his right hand holding the torch, his left firmly gripping the ledge so that there might be no jolt on the line by a too sudden stepping-off.
"Good!" approved Lige encouragingly, beginning to let the rawhide slip slowly around the trunk of the tree. As he did so, Tad felt himself gradually sinking into the sombre depths.
He tilted his head to look up. The movement sent his body swaying giddily from side to side.
Cautiously placing a hand against the rocks to steady himself, Tad wisely concluded that hereafter it would not pay to be too curious.
"Hold a torch over the edge of the cliff, Master Ned," directed the guide. "Better lie down so you, too, don't take a notion to fall off. Keep your eyes shut till I tell you to open them."
Slowly, but steadily, the slender line was paid out, amid a tense silence on the part of the little group at the top of the canyou. After what seemed to them hours, a sharp call from the depths reached their ears.
Lige quickly made fast the line to a tree.
"Yes? Got him?" he answered, leaning over the cliff.
"I see him," called Tad, his voice sounding hollow and unnatural to those above. "He's so far to the right of me that I can't reach him. Will it be all right for me to swing myself?"
"Where is he?"
"Lodged in the branches of a pinyon tree, I think it is. But he doesn't answer me."
"Wait a minute," cautioned the mountaineer.
Lige searched until he found a limb some three inches in diameter, and this he placed under the rope so as to relieve the strain of the rock upon it, that there might be no danger of the leather being sawed in two by contact with the ledge.
"All right. Now try it."
The creaking of the rawhide told them that Tad Butler was swaying from side to side, fifty feet below them, at the end of a slender line. Lige, leaning over the brink, was able to follow the boy's movements by the aid of the thin arc of light made by the torch in Tad's hand.
At last, the thread of light contracted into a point, and the watching guide knew that the courageous boy had finally reached the pinyon tree.
Then followed a long period of suspense. But from the cautious movements of the light far below them, the guide understood that the lad was at work carrying out his part of the task of rescue to the best of his ability.
"Why doesn't he say something?" cried the Professor, unable to restrain his impatience longer, his overwrought nerves almost at the breaking point.
"Keep still! Don't bother him. The boy's doing the best he can. Mebby you think he's having some sort of a picnic down there, eh?" glared Lige.
"A—l—l right!"
Tad's voice, now strong and clear, rose from the depths of the canyou.
"Shall we haul up?" asked Lige, making a megaphone of his hands.
"Yes; haul away. Tell them Walt's all right. He can talk now," was the answer that carried with it such a note of gladness that Ned and Stacy were unable to resist a shout of joy.
"Lend a hand here," commanded Lige, taking firm hold of the line, and stepping to the edge that he might command both ends of the operation. "Are you all safe down there, Tad?"
"Sure thing!" answered the boy.
Very slowly, restraining their inclination to haul the rope in with all speed only because the warning eyes of the guide were upon them, the two boys, assisted by Professor Zepplin, began hoisting Walter Perkins toward the top.
In a few moments the sinewy hands of the guide gripped Walter by an arm and dragged him safely to the table rock.
Walter had fully regained consciousness by this time, and a brief examination showed that he had sustained no serious injury, he having struck on the yielding branches of the pinyon, which broke his fall and saved his life. Beyond sundry bruises, a black eye and a thin crimson line on the right cheek where a branch had raked it, Walter Perkins was practically unharmed after his perilous experience.
But it was a trying moment for Tad Butler, down there alone in the branches of the pinyon tree, with fifty feet of nothingness beneath him and a sheer wall that extended an equal distance above him.
Nor was his sense of security increased when, in shifting his position, the torch fell from his grasp, the fagots scattering as they slipped down between the limbs of the tree and whirling in ever-diminishing circles until finally he heard them clatter on the rocks below.
The boy could not repress a shudder. Closing his eyes, he clung to the slender support with grim courage until a hail from above told him that the rawhide loop was rapidly squirming down toward him.
This time Lige had allowed for his mistaken reckoning when Tad had first descended, and the boy grasped eagerly at the leather as he felt it gently slap against his cheek.
A few moments more, and he, too, had been hauled safely to the top, amid the wild cheers of his companions and the congratulations of the guide and Professor Zepplin.