It was late in the afternoon of the next day when the boys, following a well-defined cattle trail which led over range after range of hills and through broad valleys, came in sight of a collection of white buildings—the ranch-house and barns of Cattle King Irwin.
Eagerly they pushed ahead, watching with a satisfaction born of fatigue and hunger the outlines of the grim old structure slowly expanding before their eyes. It was a picturesque, time-stained building, L-shaped, two-storied, with a little tower rising from the center, rows of windows on all sides, and surrounded by a broad veranda.
The ranch-house wore a sleepy, deserted look, although a thin column of brownish smoke issuing from a chimney at the rear told of life within.
"Only hope he's home," murmured Jack, wearily. "Don't believe my back'll ever feel right again."
"It's been a mighty hard tug with all this stuff," admitted Bob, "but if everything goes right, Jack, we'll soon have a few sturdy broncs to take us the rest of the way. Hello! There's some one coming now."
The big square door of the ranch-house had suddenly swung open, and an enormous man stepped onto the piazza. He stood gazing earnestly in their direction, as if not quite certain of his eyes, then walked slowly down the steps to meet them.
"Gracious, isn't he a whopper?" whispered Dick.
"Talk about your giants," murmured Tom; "he's one."
But the big man's full-bearded face was lighted up with such a pleasant expression that any feeling of constraint which his size might have inspired was instantly dispelled.
"How do you do, sir?" Jack greeted him politely. "You are Mr. Cattle King Irwin, I suppose?"
"Bless me," exclaimed the ranchman, in a deep, rumbling voice, "where in the world did you boys come from?"
Dick chuckled at the familiar question, while the others repressed a smile with difficulty.
"Oh, we heard 'bout your havin' horses for sale, an' thought we'd drop over the hills an' take a look at a few."
"Horses! You're not dealers, are you?" Mr. Irwin's eyes twinkled. "Bless me, but this is the biggest surprise I've had for some time. Easy to see the lot of you have been living pretty much out in the open, too; brown as berries. Well, leave your stuff on the veranda and come in."
They followed his towering form into a great square apartment. The ceiling was raftered, and the walls paneled in oak. Near one corner stood a small table, while out in the room was another of greater length, with long benches on either side.
The big ranchman waved his hand.
"Plenty of chairs; a settee by the window—make yourselves at home, and tell me what all this means. How does it happen that youngsters like you are tramping around this lonely region?"
"I'll tell you," began Jack, easily; "my young friends here are out lookin' for a bit o' adventure, an' of course need some one to see after 'em; so I consented to come along an'—"
"Huh!" said Tom, in a voice so loud that general attention was attracted, whereupon Tommy, somewhat confused, jerked his finger toward Bob Somers. "He's the one, sir," he said. "Go ahead, Bob."
Jack grinned indulgently, and flopped down beside Dave, who was already comfortably installed on the settee.
The ranchman listened intently while Bob explained their errand. Sitting back in a chair which seemed to have been made expressly for him, his eyes ran over the group, an occasional "h'm" falling from his lips.
"Ever had any experience out in the wilderness?" he queried, presently.
"Well, I should rather say so," cried Dick. "Tell Mr. Irwin about the club, Bob, and some of our adventures."
With his hands clasped across his knees, the cattleman again assumed an easy attitude. His smile grew broader, and, as Bob finished, he broke into a deep, rumbling laugh.
"So this is the Rambler Club," he said. "Well, well! I hope your feelings won't be hurt, boys, when I say that I've never heard of you."
"Never even heard o' Jack Conroy?" snickered Tim—"that big chap sittin' over there? The gentleman never heard o' you, Jacky; did you hear?"
"Nobody outside the range of his voice ever did," laughed Tom.
"Perhaps the high hills in this part of the country stopped our fame from getting past," said Bob, with a smile. "How about those horses, Mr. Irwin?"
The ranchman stroked his beard thoughtfully, then his glance swept them again.
"The only horses I have for sale at present," he said, slowly, "are skittish animals not very well broken, and if anything happened to you boys I should feel myself responsible."
"Just the kind of horses we want," cried Bob, enthusiastically; "eh, fellows? You needn't have a bit of fear on our account, Mr. Irwin; the whole crowd are jolly good riders. We'll prove it, too, if you like."
"You bet we will," came from Tim.
"And then another question," said Mr. Irwin, easing his huge form into a more comfortable position and smiling genially; "just let us suppose, for instance, that I have—er—er—well, a suspicious nature: then I might be justified in thinking, perhaps, that your parents wouldn't approve—er—er"—his deep laugh boomed forth again—"have you anything to show me?"
"Oh, yes," laughed Dick, "lots of letters."
"And that stout chap over there," put in Sam, "is our historian, poet and artist. Speak for yourself, Dave. He's writing a great volume about our travels—subscriptions taken now."
"You can put my name down if you'll agree to send the book out here by mail," laughed the ranchman. "Letters from your father, eh? Your name is Bob, I believe?" He glanced over them quickly. "Oh, it's all right; I thought it would be. Well, come out to the corral, boys."
From a rear door of the ranch-house he led the way toward a long line of barns, and, passing these, they saw ahead a rambling collection of sheds and solidly-built corrals.
To their left, an undulating farm meadow was covered with thousands of towering yellow haystacks extending off until they formed an apparently solid line against the gray hills beyond.
"An important part of the cattleman's business," explained Mr. Irwin, noticing the boys' interest. "This is for the winter feeding."
"Don't you ever graze your herds on government land?" asked Tim.
"Formerly I did, by paying so much per head; but now I prefer to have the stock behind my own wire fences. It required the services of many men to keep them within the proper limits. The sheepmen, of course, have the advantage there, for even large flocks are easy to manage."
"And the sheep-raisers and cattlemen used to have fierce scraps for the range, didn't they?" said Sam Randall.
"Yes, there was much trouble; it sometimes breaks out, even now," answered Mr. Irwin. "But the building of railroads, the coming of homesteaders and farmers, have blazed a trail of civilization which has forced the stockmen further and further back in the interior. The open range is fast becoming ancient history."
"And towns are springing up, too," put in Dave.
"Yes, it was bound to come." The cattle king sighed, as if recalling old times, adding: "You can see that under these changed conditions land is far too valuable to be used merely as a feeding ground for herds of roving cattle. But here we are, boys."
He opened an iron gate leading into one of the smaller corrals, and they entered.
The boys had before them a collection of as wicked-looking little bronchos as they had ever seen. At the intrusion, there immediately followed a tremendous commotion among the animals. Those close to the gate galloped away, swung around, pawed the ground, danced and capered about. Tails were lashing; neighs and snorts filled the air; a dull thud of pounding hoofs sounded.
"Gee!" murmured Jack Conroy.
"A lively lot," said the ranchman. "Some of the boys will be along pretty soon; they'll lasso 'em for you." He turned toward the entrance. "Hello, Buckley!" he yelled.
In a few moments, a tall, slim man came hurrying into the corral, to stare in open-mouthed astonishment at the seven.
"When the boys get in, send them over," said the cattle king, tersely. "That's all, Buckley. See anything you like, Ramblers?—they're all good stock. Don't venture out too far—danger of getting bowled over, you know."
The ponies were all in motion again, now huddled together in a compact mass, then scattering over the turf, their swiftly-moving bodies intermingling, to form currents of changing color. As the din of hoofs grew louder, the yellow streamers of dust rose in thicker clouds.
Jack Conroy watched the interesting spectacle without bubbling over; his enthusiasm had never been at a lower ebb; indeed, he began to heartily wish they had never heard of Wanatoma or his gold mine.
Before very long several cowboys cantered up to the gate, entering in single file. They were garbed in the usual fashion—colored shirts, leather chaps, and broad-brimmed sombreros. From the pommels of their saddles flapped rawhide lariats.
A touch of their quirts, or whips, sent their ponies bounding past; but, in an instant, they pulled sharply up, huge grins overspreading their deeply-bronzed faces.
"Wal, wal, strangers!" exclaimed one. "If this hyar ain't the biggest collection o' tenderfeet I've ever seen to onct!"
"Tenderfeet!" echoed Tom, indignantly.
"We may look like 'em, pard," laughed Bob, "but it ends there."
"Let's see if you can toss those rawhides; we're going to thin out the corral," grinned Dick. "Broncs come cheaper by the dozen, don't they, Mr. Irwin?"
The cattleman laughed.
"Get busy, boys," he said. "We have a big deal on hand; the Rambler Club of Wisconsin is to be supplied with horses."
A tremendous guffaw came from the riders. They listened to the ranchman's instructions, unslung their lariats, and then rode further into the corral.
As the rawhide coils whipped and flashed through the air, the snorting bronchos fell back with lightning speed, crowding each other hard against the rough walls. Then, plunging and kicking, they spread out into a half-circle.
Zip! The noose settled down—one was caught; then another.
"Look out, fellows!" cried Jack, in sudden alarm.
The whole herd was stampeding in their direction.
Yelling like Indians, two of the cowboys galloped in front of the line of rapidly advancing horses, checked the mad rush, and when the seven, who had fallen back in undignified haste to the gate, looked around again the men were leading their unwilling captives toward them.
Fifteen minutes later, seven bronchos were tied to posts outside the corral.
Looking out for flying heels, the boys went eagerly from one to another studying their good points with critical eyes—that is, all but Conroy did. Jack had been hoping to find one broncho with nice, gentle, winning ways; but they all looked discouragingly alike, and he felt an almost irresistible desire to fall upon Cousin Tim, who, in an unnecessarily loud voice, was calling attention to their fiery dispositions.
The cowboys cantered back to the barns. They entered fully into the spirit of the occasion, glad to see new faces and have a crowd of boys to liven up the lonely ranch even for a short time.
In a few moments they returned on foot, loaded down with saddles and bridles. Then came another fight with the stubborn little animals which seemed to bring out all the wickedness in their make-ups.
Jack Conroy, leaning against the corral wall, felt his knees begin to tremble strangely. His eyes ran swiftly over the ponies, some curiously spotted, others evenly colored, and each vicious plunge they made sent an unpleasant thrill to his heart.
It wouldn't have mattered so much, he reflected grimly, if they were alone on the open prairie; but with all these grinning cowboys to see!
Jack gulped hard, trying to steady his unruly nerves; a fierce scowl puckered his forehead, for a curious grin had settled upon Tim Lovell's face, and Conroy felt pretty sure that he knew the reason why.
"Ready, boys?" the ranchman's deep voice boomed out.
Without an instant's hesitation, Bob Somers swung himself into the saddle. There was a loud snort, a flash of flying hoofs; a rearing pony pawed the air; but its rider coolly met every move. Down came his quirt on the pony's flank.
The animal gave a tremendous bound, and broke into a heart-breaking gallop. A murmur of admiration came from the cowboys as Bob was whirled off in the direction of the haystacks.
"Kin ride ter beat all creation," commented one.
"Bravo!" cried Mr. Irwin.
The rider was soon hidden behind the yellow piles, a moment later reappearing far down the valley. They watched him turn and canter lazily back, and gave him a hearty cheer when he slipped from the saddle.
One by one the boys proved their horsemanship, and Conroy's turn came last. Jack felt that all eyes were upon him. Making a desperate effort to appear as if he had never enjoyed anything more in his life, he approached a tawny sorrel whose ears were held threateningly back.
A pair of wicked-looking eyes glared into his own. Jack devoutly wished himself a thousand miles away.
"If this isn't the worst o' the bunch, I'm a scarecrow," he groaned inwardly. "Why in thunder did I let those chaps have first choice?" He vaguely wondered if there were any nice soft spots around for him to fall upon. Then:
"Whoa, boy, whoa!" he whispered softly.
The broncho, his sides quivering ominously, stood still.
"Whoa, boy, whoa!"
Desperately, Jack put his foot in the stirrup, and, with a do-or-die look, vaulted quickly on the animal's back.
Then the hearts of the onlookers were thrilled by a startling exhibition.
With a maddened snort, the sorrel bounded high in the air. Down came its four legs in a bunch, sharp hoofs sending a shower of flying turf. Jack found himself on the animal's neck, struggling frantically to keep his hold, then tossed violently against the high-backed cowboy saddle.
For a moment it was a question of which way he would be sent flying. But Jack fought with all the courage and determination that was in him. Each movement of the vicious little animal jarred and jolted him with terrific force. Spectators, buildings and grounds all flashed before his eyes in confused streaks of light and dark.
"Good for you, Jack!"
Bob Somers' loud yell carried encouragement to the big boy's heart. He dug his knees hard against the heaving form, and just as it seemed beyond human endurance to stand that nerve-racking bucking another instant the sorrel quieted down and stood stock still, his dilated nostrils sending up clouds of steam.
Before the yells of "Bravo!" and "Bully boy!" had subsided, Jack Conroy slipped to the ground, handed the reins to one of the cowboys, and walked unsteadily to the corral wall, his head in a whirl.
"You've done splendidly, Conroy," exclaimed Mr. Irwin.
The big boy's brain was clearing; he began to swell up with pride.
"I knew I could manage him," he remarked, modestly. "A chap only has to make up his mind to tame 'em. A bronc can tell who's his master every time—remember that, fellows. It's keepin' up your nerve that counts. You see—"
"Oh, you can cut it out, Jacky," roared Tom. "Don't lean against that wall so hard. You might push it over."
"Well, there's one thing I can't allow you to cut out, and that is having supper with us," interposed the ranchman, with a smile; "eh, boys?"
The cow-punchers stood around grinning cheerfully as Bob spoke up:
"We're certainly obliged, Mr. Irwin. You can just bet we'll stay."
"Those seven broncs pulling all together couldn't drag us away," declared Dave, solemnly. "I feel dreadfully in need of rest."
It was growing late when they again entered the big, inviting room at the ranch-house. Two huge hanging lamps were lighted before the glow from a flaming sunset sky had entirely left the walls.
While the table was being arranged for supper, the cattle king concluded with Bob a bargain for nine bronchos, two to be used as pack horses.
"How about your provisions?" asked Mr. Irwin, finally.
"I suppose we'll have to get them in Rawdon," answered Bob.
"You'll do nothing of the sort." Mr. Irwin's tone was emphatic. "You know, with such a number of men to feed, we have to keep a well-stocked storehouse. I can let you boys have what is necessary." His laugh rumbled again. "Why—I might even make a profit out of the deal."
Bob smiled with satisfaction. Heartily thanking Mr. Irwin, he accepted the offer.
"Say, fellows!" he cried, raising his head.
"I tell you there's nothin' hard 'bout this broncho bustin'," came in Jack Conroy's voice. "It's easy—why, I remember the first time I got on a pony, Dick, I was nervous to beat the band. But now it's a hop, skip an' a jump. Eh—what's that, Bob—won't have to go to Rawdon for the grub?"
Bob's explanation brought forth a cheer, which made drowsy Dave Brandon sit up with a start.
They spent a jolly time at supper, and afterward there was more noise and fun in the big dining-room of the old ranch-house than its walls had echoed to in many years.
Cowboys related tales of the range; several of them who couldn't sing tried to, just the same; Bob gave a recitation, and Jack Conroy whistled what he declared to be an operatic air, causing most of his hearers to feel glad that it was his only selection. Mr. Irwin politely refrained from telling him that he was better at riding bronchos.
The cattleman insisted upon their spending the night at the ranch; so they finally bade the men good-night, gathered up their blankets and were conducted up-stairs to a room in the wing.
"It's the only place I can offer you, boys," he said, regretfully. "Hope you'll be able to make yourselves comfortable."
The flashing rays of his lantern disclosed an apartment partly filled with odds and ends. Near one side a ladder led to the roof.
"Oh, we'll make out all right," laughed Bob.
A few minutes later the seven were alone. Two lanterns suspended from staples in the wall threw grotesque shadows over the rude board flooring.
"Isn't this the cheerful-looking place, though?" murmured Tom, shivering slightly. "Gee! Pretty near as bad as that bridge at Wild Oak."
"A heap worse, Tom," grinned Dick. "Inside spookiness beats outside ghostliness every time. But it won't bother me a little bit."
Their voices and footsteps echoed with a strange, hollow sound as they walked over the creaking boards.
"An' talkin' 'bout broncho bustin'," began Jack, suddenly, "why—"
"Who's talking about it?" chirped Tom, rudely. "Forget it, and let's turn in."
It wasn't very long before this advice was followed. They rolled themselves in blankets and selected the most comfortable places they could find. Conversation began to lag and soon stopped altogether.
Several hours must have passed, when Dave Brandon, turning over in an instant of wakefulness, caught through his half-closed eyes the vision of a dark form blurred against an open window.
With a startled exclamation, he hastily threw aside his blanket and sat up.
"That you, Dave?" Bob Somers' low whisper reached him. "Come on over."
The stout boy rubbed his eyes, grinned cheerfully at the recollection of his scare, and quietly arose.
None of the sleepers budged as he carefully stepped around them. One of the lamps had gone out, and the dim yellow rays of the other failed to penetrate into the far corners of the room.
"Well, Bob?" queried Dave.
"The biggest rat in Washington awakened me," grinned Bob; "heard a loud scampering, and raised up just in time to get a good look at him—a whopper! See anything, Dave?"
Brandon poked his head out in the fresh, crisp air, and gave an exclamation.
Rising in the east, over a range of rugged hills, the moon hung in a deep, somber sky. A tree top rose against its dull, golden surface, but everything else in the vast expanse of nature seemed dim and formless. Barns, sheds and corrals made mysterious, irregular patches, even the white walls but faintly seen against the darkened turf. A screaming hawk passed swiftly across the star-studded sky.
"Isn't it great?" began Dave, in cautious tones. "Wouldn't have missed this for a whole lot, Bob. Why—what's the matter?"
The other had pushed his shoulder gently around so that he faced the northwest.
"That isn't what I wanted you to look at. See anything else?" questioned Bob.
"See anything else! What—"
"A light!"
"A light! Where, for goodness' sake?"
"Over the top of that hill."
Dave peered eagerly through the gloom. Sure enough, a tiny glow was flaring against the blackness, sometimes disappearing, then coming into view again and shining as a faint reddish glimmer.
Some one was out there, and Bob Somers' lips framed the word, "Who?"
Dave shook his head.
There was something fascinating in the sight of that faint illumination which linked the wilderness with civilization; so the two watched it in silence for several moments. Finally Bob spoke up:
"Let's get out on the roof, Dave," he whispered, "and take a squint at it through the field-glass."
The literary boy, yawning, nodded assent.
Shutting the window, they tiptoed softly across the room, casting a look at the sleepers. Jack Conroy, partially aroused, began to mumble:
"No, I tell you; he couldn't have thrown me; no, sir; not in a hundred years!" Then his regular breathing told that he was fast asleep again.
The trap-door was mighty hard to budge, but Bob Somers, after some time, worked it loose, and they cautiously climbed out upon a gently-sloping roof.
The moon had now risen high enough to send a faint silvery sheen across the quiet landscape and light up in ghostly patches the ranch-house and its tower.
Bob raised the field-glass to his eyes and looked earnestly at the little spot of flaring color. Instantly it seemed to be flashed startlingly near.
A tracery of underbrush could just be distinguished rising in front, but the flames were still hidden by the hilltop.
"Wish to thunder it was on this side," murmured Bob. "Wonder who it can be—not cowboys, that's sure!"
"Hunters, perhaps," suggested the other.
"Don't you think it's a little odd, Dave? Hello! Gee!"
An indistinct form—unmistakably a man—had suddenly come into the field of view, a tiny speck between him and the light. Eagerly he kept his eyes fixed upon it, and gave a sigh when it dropped from sight.
The field-glass passed from hand to hand, while the boys speculated and watched the moonlight slowly changing the face of nature with its radiance. The silence of the night was oppressive. Occasionally a sound came from the corral, but that was all; even the breeze seemed stilled.
"Well, I guess it's no use to stay up here any longer." Dave's voice, almost stifled by yawns, came in a low tone. "Had enough, Bob?"
"Sure thing, Dave. I'd give a lot to know who those chaps are and what they're doing out here."
"So would I," grinned Dave, "but not the rest of our night's sleep. Hope that prize rat of yours doesn't get too familiar."
In another moment the two had descended the ladder and were steering a careful course through the dimly-lighted room toward their blankets.
The Ramblers were so pleased with the ranch-house and their new-found acquaintances that next morning they accepted the cattle king's invitation to remain another twenty-four hours.
Two days later they were lolling on the shore of a lake surrounded by magnificent hills. In places they saw almost perpendicular walls of glistening rock, wild-looking slopes covered with timber, and jutting crags. And all this appeared again, with wonderful clearness, in the still water of the lake.
The bronchos, tethered to trees close by, cropped the long tangled grass or drank from a shallow inlet which extended some distance back.
A noonday repast had just been finished, and the glowing coals were still sending out a grateful warmth, for the air was cold and penetrating.
"Where are we, I wonder?" murmured Jack for the tenth time.
"Somebody had better run over to the corner grocery and find out," grinned Tim. "Want to send some picture postals home?"
"How in the dickens shall we ever find our way back to anywhere?" went on Jack, grumblingly. "May take the rest o' our lives to do it. We haven't even seen a glimpse o' that mountain where Wanna's gold mine—"
"Hey, cut it out, Jacky," interposed Dick. "You're breaking rule number one again—that makes the seventy-eighth time."
"Suppose you think some bear, or little birdlet, or panther is listening!" jeered Jack. "Hang it! Bet nobody else would be silly enough to fight his way through walls o' bushes an' wade wet creeks like we have. How do you know we're goin' in the right direction, eh?"
"Compass tells us that, Jack," laughed Bob. "Don't worry yourself. By to-morrow we may sight it. Time's up, fellows!"
"Whoop!" cried Tim, suddenly springing to his feet. "Great Scott!" He stopped short, and bent forward, a hand to his ear, listening intently. "Did you hear that, fellows?"
The report of a gun had echoed faintly.
There was a murmur of surprise and interest.
Tim thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets, drew a long breath and stared blankly at the others.
"Can you believe it?" he said, softly.
Crack!
For a second time, the silence of the wilderness was broken.
All the boys were now on their feet, eagerly trying to locate the direction from which the sound had come. But opinions hopelessly disagreed.
"Jehoshaphat!" howled Dick, after a moment's tense silence. "That shows how much Jacky knows—and he thinking that we had this corner of the earth all to our little selves. Whoop!"
"What's that grunt for?" sniffed Jack.
Tommy's face was turned inquiringly toward Bob Somers.
"What do you think of it—hunters, eh?" he queried, earnestly.
"Search me, Tom."
"What in the dickens do we care who it is?" growled Jack, shrugging his shoulders. "This gold—er—er—Jabberwock, I mean, has you chaps all nervous; it beats the Dutch how you're actin'. Don't you all begin chirpin' 'bout me again; mind now."
"Perhaps it's the same crowd that was camping out near the ranch-house," remarked Dave, thoughtfully.
"I hardly suppose they would be keeping so close to us as that," said Bob.
"Unless they had a good reason to," hinted Tim, darkly.
"Oh, shucks! Listen to him!" scoffed Jack. "Didn't you ever hear o' hunters an' trappers before?"
"An' nine broncs plungin' through underbrush an' grass an' swampy ground have made a trail that any good woodsman could follow." Tim appealed to the others: "Eh, fellows?"
"Sure thing," answered Sam. "Still, we needn't worry; I guess there isn't any danger of anybody trying to track us, even if Ja—"
"Don't say it!" howled Jack. "Might think from the way you fellows talk I was the only one who had a word to say 'bout it."
"Quit scrapping," laughed Bob, good-naturedly. "There are a lot of hunters in this part of the country. Forget it, and help me stamp out this fire."
When they were certain that nothing remained but a heap of charcoal, the seven walked toward the bronchos.
"Oho," sighed Dave, with a glance at the tree-covered heights above, "I can see our jobs cut out for us. Whoa, Whirligig, whoa! Everything put back on the packhorses, Bob? Good! My turn to lead one, and Dick the other, eh? Well, such is life in the wilds. Here, Whirly!"
He untethered the restive broncho, and coaxingly patted a brown-patched neck. Then, with a nimble spring, Dave was astride his back.
"The lake shore route," quoth Bob; "hill's too steep yet to climb."
The seven horsemen rode in single file, the steady hoof-beats alone breaking the soft murmuring roar of the wind in the forest. At every turn the scenery became more wild and impressive. Dense masses of vegetation defied them to attempt a passage. Frowning reddish cliffs, where erosion had worn away the soft facing of whiter rock, towered high above, to deeply shadow the line of shore.
Passing around one of these crags, Bob Somers, at the head of the column, came to a halt.
"Here's a chance to force our way up, fellows," he said.
"I can feel myself gettin' cracked an' swiped by about a hundred dozen branches already," remarked Conroy, with a dubious glance at the hill. "Whoa—whoa! W-h-o-a, I s-a-y!"
Conroy's pony was hard to manage; suddenly he whirled about, crashing against the side of Dave's packhorse with unpleasant force, then backed toward the water's edge.
"Look out, broncho-buster!" yelled Tim. "This isn't swimming weather."
Jack brought his quirt down with stinging force, and the broncho, snorting angrily, leaped forward, landing with a jolt which almost unseated his rider.
"Confound the vicious little beast!" cried Jack, red-faced and flustered.
Bob Somers' broncho had already started up the hill, fighting bravely to force a passage through a mass of underbrush. In places trees grew so close together as to leave scarcely room enough to pass between; and frequently only quick and skilful dodging enabled them to escape low-hanging branches. Once Dick Travers was almost swept from his saddle by a sturdy limb which he imprudently tried to thrust aside.
Not long after, a yell came from Tommy Clifton. "Wow! My, oh, my, but that stung!" he sang out, as a branch pushed forward by the Rambler in advance suddenly came back and lashed his shoulder. "Look out, Jack; it'll swipe you, too."
The ascent soon became steeper and more open. The character of the soil seemed to change; showers of earth and stones rattled noisily down the slopes. Presently the bronchos were jammed together in the greatest confusion, the way being blocked by a great mass of broad-leafed prickly pears.
"Great Scott! Now we're all at sea on land," chirped Sam. "Gee! What queer-looking plants!"
"I could manage if I didn't have this confounded little packhorse to bother about," grunted Dick.
The bronchos, in the confined space, were fast becoming unmanageable. They started to buck and rear, dangerously close to the prickly leaves.
Bob, with a firm hand, wheeled his pony sharply about.
"We'll have to get out of this," he said, grimly. "It wouldn't be a bit healthy to take a header in among that mess."
Dave, leading his packhorse after him, was now crashing down the slope, and the others, with quirts and voices, succeeded in bringing their bronchos under partial control.
When they pulled up some distance below for a moment's rest, all seven were smarting from the effects of collisions with numerous obstacles.
"I wonder what I ever did to these trees, to have 'em treat me like this," chirped Dick.
"It's a dangerous landscape, son," laughed Bob, rubbing his shoulder.
"That last crack I got completed the first hundred dozen," grumbled Jack. "An' more to come! Whoa—whoa, you silly duffer. Quick, Sam—get out of the way, or this idiotic bronc'll sail right over top o' you."
Jack was passing through some anxious moments as Sam frantically tried to turn. His bronco threshed wildly about, threatening to pitch him headlong. Just as he began to have melancholy visions of what might presently happen, the other managed to get out of his way.
"Hello, fellows—this way!" came over the air in Dave Brandon's cheery voice. "I can see the top of the hill from here."
"Bully for you!" cried Bob.
He urged his pony ahead, jumped it over a fallen tree, and, after passing the edge of a dense thicket, found the forest again opening out, with the brow of the hill showing high above.
The riders slowly came together from different points, and allowed their horses to cover the intervening space at a slow walk.
At the summit they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. The hill had a broad flat top, extending off to their left for about half a mile, where it dropped almost vertically to the plain below. They could see the rugged end of the cliff joining a steep declivity which began only a short distance from where they had reined up.
By keeping to the right, the way led directly down into a wide rolling valley dotted with clumps of timber. In the distance, range after range of hills stretched off, the furthest to the north a hazy line of bluish-gray jutting against a higher form, which, at first glance, seemed to be but a cloud.
Bob was staring earnestly.
"Look, fellows!" His voice held a note of excitement. "What is that?"
"A—a mountain!" yelled Tim. "Sure as shootin'! Whoop!"
"You're up in the air, an' so is that," laughed Jack Conroy. "It's floatin' away."
"An' you float away, too," cried Tommy, whose eyes were shining with interest. "Whoop! It's—it's the unvarnished truth."
"Get Dave to rub a drop o' his varnish on it, an' see if it still looks the same," grinned Jack, with a wink. "That enlargin' affair o' yours, if you please, Bobby!"
"We'll give these broncs a rest, eh?" said Bob, dismounting.
He tethered his horse to a convenient sapling, and raised his field-glass.
"Yes, fellows," he announced, calmly, "it's a mountain."
"Whoop—hooray!" cried Dick, enthusiastically.
"Why, anybody could easily see that with only half an eye," laughed Jack. "Whoa—whoa! What's gettin' into this critter?"
All the bronchos were acting strangely, sniffing the air and beginning to prance wildly about. Jack Conroy's was snorting, showing every evidence of fear, and all his rider's efforts failed to quiet him.
"Whoa, w-h-o-a!" yelled Jack desperately tugging at the reins. "W-h-o-a!"
The sorrel whirled around in wide circles, showing the whites of his eyes; and each moment every broncho in the group seemed to grow more frightened.
"Thunderation!" cried Bob, springing toward his own mount, and seizing the bridle. "Wonder what's the matter?"
He looked hastily around.
A slight commotion suddenly sounded from behind a group of trees. All heard a low, ominous growl; and even before it had ceased Jack Conroy's broncho, rendered uncontrollable by fear, had bolted, and was fairly flying over the ground directly toward the bluff.
As the boys realized his danger, they gave a cry of alarm.
Without an instant's hesitation, Bob Somers vaulted into the saddle. His quirt came down with stinging force on the broncho's flank. Snorting, the animal bounded high in the air—a mad race was on.
A cold air rushed past Bob Somers' face as the ground began to fall behind at a rate which fairly made his head swim. Leaning almost upon the broncho's neck, he urged him forward with quirt and voice until the animal was galloping at a nerve-racking pace. Trees, bushes and rocks seemed to be falling together, and whirled by in the wildest confusion.
A single misstep, and the rider might be hurled with crushing force to the ground.
But Bob Somers gave little thought to this. He saw Jack Conroy just ahead, fighting desperately to swerve the broncho from his headlong course; and every instant the sorrel was carrying his rider nearer to the brink of the cliff.
The sight nerved Bob to the most desperate exertions. The blows of the rawhide quirt fell faster. Frowning brow and grim-set lips told of a determination which would never give up while the slightest hope remained. Faster, but not fast enough, tore his broncho.
From behind came the sound of a thundering cavalcade and shouts of encouragement. A cold chill seemed to strike his heart when the realization came to him that he was scarcely gaining on the runaway.
"Jump when you get the chance!" he yelled.
As his voice was flung to the breeze, Bob's broncho stumbled, and the rider, hurled violently forward on the animal's neck, felt its mane lashing his face. With a supreme effort, he recovered from the jarring shock.
"J-u-m-p!" he again shouted, in a ringing voice.
"J-u-m-p!" came high above the din of flying hoofs, as the five boys, perceiving that their leader's tremendous effort was doomed to failure, yelled with all the power of their lungs.
The cold, clear sunlight shone brilliantly on the whirlwind of dust and horsemen. Already the edge of the bluff stood before them with terrifying distinctness, and to the boys bringing up in the rear it seemed as if nothing now could save Jack Conroy from being dashed to pieces at the base of the cliff.
The steaming bronchos slackened their headlong pace—the race was over.
Meanwhile Jack Conroy was not as badly scared or helpless as every one imagined. He quickly saw that it was beyond his power to check the frenzied sorrel, and knew that his only chance to escape lay in keeping his wits about him.
Jolted and bumped, he still sawed desperately at the bit and struggled to keep his seat. Peering through narrowed lids, he kept his gaze fixed, with fascinated attention, upon the brow of the cliff. A mass of vegetation slightly to one side rose before him, and not a hundred feet beyond was the fateful goal.
Within that short space the outcome must be decided. In those moments of din and confusion, Jack felt his heart beating with painful force. His eyes were swimming, but his mind had never been more clear or determined.
"I've done my best to save the idiotic little beast from himself," he muttered, grimly, "but he's bound to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Now, it's up to me to take a leap for life."
The moment for quick action had come.
Pale faced, but resolute, Jack was slipping his feet out of the stirrups, when a sudden, astonishing vision confronted his eyes—a huge dark form had lumbered rapidly out from the bushes directly in the path of his onrushing horse.
Bewildered, the boy hesitated. Then came a glancing impact which sent him flying over the broncho's head.
A monster black bear had collided with Conroy's horse, sending the runaway to its knees.
The astounded leader of the Ramblers saw Jack catapulted into the air and bruin knocked flat on his back.
Then his own broncho, with a snort of terror, swerved abruptly, dashing off at right angles.
The riderless horse had turned, and was now thundering diagonally across the turf. Bob Somers' quick eye saw that nothing could prevent his own broncho and the terrified animal from crashing together. With lightning speed, he threw one leg over the pommel and jumped.
Jack Conroy lay stunned by the force of his impact with the ground. But the fresh breeze, together with his strong recuperative powers, almost instantly began to restore him to his senses.
Presently, scarcely realizing what had happened, his thoughts all oddly jumbled together, he half opened his eyes.
A low, rumbling growl brought the light of understanding back to his face. With a strong effort, he struggled to a sitting position, and stared in open-mouthed wonder at a remarkable sight.
"Great Cæsar!"
A black bear but several yards away was just clumsily regaining an upright position. Its little eyes were snapping with fear and anger. The big chap had been so jarred and shaken that only a realization of great danger could have induced him to move.