A cavalcade of horsemen was rapidly approaching the edge of the timber in which the lumbermen's camp was situated, the thud of hoof-beats alone breaking the silence of early morning.
With faces grim and determined, the six, at a word from Bob Somers, reined up.
"Remember, fellows, we don't want to have any scrap with Pete," he said, casting a significant look toward Jack Conroy. "Now that we know he's trailing us, it ought to be easy to throw him off the track."
"Pete's camp must be close here," added Sam. "Gracious, but don't I hope Dick is with him! Ready?"
Bob waved his hand. In a moment nine ponies crashed noisily between the trees. There were now no signs of fire or smoke to guide them, but the boys, having judged its position carefully, rode ahead without hesitation.
Within a few minutes their ears were assailed by the sound of loud voices, while a crashing of many feet jarred crisply through the air.
"Great Scott!" cried Bob Somers. "What does that mean?"
Uttering a whistle of amazement, he jerked his horse back almost upon its haunches. The others followed his example.
Presently six silent and motionless horsemen confronted a crowd of lumbermen.
The boys gazed at the familiar, bronzed faces before them as if their minds could not grasp the reality of the scene, while the men, fully as astounded as themselves, stared earnestly back. The heads of Pete Colliver and Jimmy of Sellade were seemingly supported by a mass of shrubbery.
"Gee! If we had only done a bit of reconnoitering first," flashed through Bob Somers' brain. "What silly chumps to run blindly into a thing like this!"
"Wal—wal!" It was Pete Colliver who broke the tense silence. His face wore the most ludicrous expression of dismay. "Whar did you fellows drop from, hey? Never expected ter see nuthin' like this."
"I guess that's right, Pete," answered Bob, dryly.
"Howdy, boys!" Big Jim Reynolds' manner betrayed his embarrassment. "We've been a-campin' right here," he added, awkwardly, "an' if ye'd like to have a bit o' grub, why—yer as welcome as the flowers in May, eh, boys?"
"I reckon they be," came from Bart Reeder, while Tom Smull and Alf Griffin nodded a surly assent.
"Thanks, Jim; we've had our breakfast," answered Bob.
"See here, Pete Colliver," exclaimed Jack, in his usual abrupt fashion, "have you seen Dick Travers?"
"Have I saw Dick Travers, hey?" Pete assumed an attitude which had a decided suggestion of belligerency, then whirled around on one foot, nodding his head knowingly, and exchanging peculiar glances with some of the men. "Wal, I ain't seen none o' yer Dick Travers," he said, facing Jack again, "but—but—" Catching a warning look from Jim Reynolds, he paused; a queer light had kindled in his eyes. "Has he went an' lost hisself?" he finished.
"We don't know what he has went an' did," answered Jack, with tremendous scorn.
"Come up to the clearin', boys," interposed Jim. "Ye ain't in no all-fired hurry, are ye? 'Twon't cost nuthin' ter have a sociable chat."
"Mebbe they think as how we ain't good nuff fur 'em," growled Tom Smull disagreeably, in an aside, to Griffin.
"We don't have a chance to pay many calls out here," said Bob; "eh, Dave? What's that, Jimmy—did we fire those shots you heard?—Sure thing. Whoa, boy!"
He sprang from the saddle and picketed his broncho, the others following an instant later.
With gloomy feelings, more from their failure to find any trace of Dick Travers than the knowledge that from now on a battle of wits would have to be played, the boys trailed after their conductors. They had recognized all but one, having seen them several times at Cap Slater's lumber camp. The exception was a large, rotund person with flabby cheeks, a snub nose, and a long, flowing mustache of a tawny yellow. His attire was strikingly different from that of his companions. He wore a loud, checkered suit, and a vest which had once been white covered his capacious chest. A bright crimson tie fluttered in the breeze, while a derby hat, looking ridiculously small, was perched on the back of his head. The men addressed him as Buck James.
"Bet he never swung an axe in any lumber camp," whispered Sam to Bob. "Looks like a horsy chap—a sport—to me. Cracky! Wonder what Jack thinks now?"
"Judging by that awful scowl he's wearing, a whole lot," said Bob. "I can't bother about anything but Dick. Look out, Jack."
The big boy's elbow had poked him sharply in the ribs.
"Can you beat it?" exclaimed Conroy, in a hoarse whisper. "Did you ever hear of such nerve in your life? Are you going to put up with it, Bob Somers?"
"Only providing we can't put it down. It's for us to show 'em what kind of stuff we're made of."
"An' we'll do the trick, too," snapped Tim Lovell. "Jacky, can we break your rule number one, now? An', say, Pete C-o-l-l-i-v-e-r!"
A friendly bush aided him to avoid the big boy's hand.
"Never mind, Smarty," warned Jack. "Hello! Look at this horse show!"
A number of mustangs, already saddled, were packed together in a bunch on the edge of the clearing.
"Make yerselves to hum," said Big Jim, as they emerged from the timber. "A purty big room, with a high ceilin', ain't it?" Reynolds chuckled at his bit of humor. "Hello!" he straightened up, "thought you was all here. Who's that a-comin'?"
The crowd of men and boys heard the sound of footsteps crashing through the brush, and caught glimpses between the trees of a form pushing steadily toward them.
"By the great horn spoon, I believe—I believe it's actually Dick Travers!" cried Bob, with an earnest look.
"That's just who it is!" almost yelled Tim, delightedly. "Whoop! Hello, you old scamp! Where in thunder—"
"Cut out any questions," advised Bob, in low tones.
Dick Travers, with easy unconcern, stepped out into the clearing, nodding calmly toward the group.
"Morning, everybody!" he saluted, waving his hand.
"Wal, bust it, if thar he ain't!" Pete stood staring as though he had never been quite so surprised in his life, then, with a couple of strides, planted himself before the newcomer. "Look hyar, young feller, what ye been doin'?"
"What I pleased, Pete Colliver," snapped Dick.
"Wal, mebbe it don't please me."
"Cut it out!" roared Jim, angrily. "Leave 'im alone!"
The young lumberjack folded a pair of muscular arms; a fierce scowl wrinkled his forehead into a network of lines.
"D'ye think I'm skeered o' you, Big Jim?" he demanded, defiantly. "I'll show yer how much I be. See hyar, young feller," his hand fell hard on the Rambler's shoulder, "was you a-skulkin' 'round the camp 'arly this mornin', hey?"
"You're a nice one to talk about skulking, Pete Colliver," retorted Dick, hotly.
"That don't answer my question none, feller."
"Well, I was; and what have you to say about it?"
Pete's arm dropped to his side; his eyes sought those of Tom Smull's.
"Wal, wal! If that ain't the limit. Says as how he done it; that's sumphin fur you, pard."
Smull, whose ill-favored visage was crisscrossed with scratches, clenched a huge fist.
"D'ye know what ye done, boy?" he demanded, fiercely.
"If you'll tell me, I will," answered Dick.
"He carries his spunk with him, all right," remarked Buck James, admiringly.
This frank opinion did not find favor with Tom Smull. Placing himself before Dick Travers, and waving a stubby finger beneath his nose, he snarled, angrily:
"D'ye see them scratches on me face, boy?"
"Guess I could see 'em a mile away," answered Dick, coolly.
"Ha, ha—ho, ho!" roared Mr. James, slapping his knees. "Ho, ho! Ye ain't smart nuff for 'im, Tommy; ye'd best quit it."
Smull, taking no notice of the interruption, went on in louder, more warlike tones:
"Wal, I was a-huntin' fur a painter when I fall'd, nigh head fust, inter a hole all kivered up with vines an' sich truck—an' you was the kind o' a painter it were, eh?"
"An' ye kin see how he's went an' scratched hisself," added Pete. "Griffin said he seen some one 'arly this mornin' sneakin' 'bout; an' now we know 'twas ye. Git ready, feller!"
"Ready for what?"
Pete dashed his slouch hat violently on the ground, and pushed Tom Smull aside.
"Bust it! Ye've got ter wrastle with me fur that, feller," he yelled, "an' thar ain't nobody here what's big nuff ter prewent it—see?"
His muscular arms were suddenly wrapped around Dick Travers' shoulders, when:
"Let that boy alone, Colliver!" sounded a ringing voice.
Instantly the stocky lad's hand was stayed. Turning swiftly, he saw Dave Brandon confronting him.
For a second, Pete Colliver stared blankly at Dave, whose usually good-natured and smiling visage wore an expression which he had never seen upon it before.
Dick Travers was quick to take advantage of the opportunity. An energetic shove broke the lumberjack's hold, and he stepped aside.
"Wal, wal, fat un! An' what has you got ter say 'bout it, hey?" howled Pete.
"Nothing, now," answered Dave, calmly.
"Oh, ye ain't; but mebbe some one else has, hey? Ye can't bluff me none, feller."
"Quit it, Colliver!" commanded Jim Reynolds, sternly.
"Leave Pete alone, Jim," growled Smull.
"I'll show ye how I quit it, Big Jim," cried Pete, trembling with excitement. His right hand flew around, knocking Dave Brandon's sombrero into the bushes.
The Ramblers sprang forward. But Buck James interposed his big form.
"Git back, boys," he ordered, sharply. "Ye ain't got no call ter stop a squar', stan' up wrestlin' match. I'll see fair play."
"But we—" began Bob.
"Don't bother about me."
Dave spoke as quietly as though there was no one present but himself and his friends.
The boys looked at the literary youth in astonishment. All knew that Dave Brandon had plenty of courage, but they had never seen his easy, indolent air fall away from him more completely. He stood erect and alert, his eye keenly measuring his heavily-built antagonist.
Dave was inches taller than Pete, but the wide shoulders of the lumberjack indicated unusual strength. Pete's red face expressed all the joy and satisfaction he felt at having at last forced one of the boys to wrestle with him.
"I'll show ye plum quick, big un!" he cried, springing to the attack.
Dave was ready. He nimbly dodged the flail-like arms, and warily circled away, eluding another clumsy effort to seize him by the waist.
HE NIMBLY DODGED
HE NIMBLY DODGED
HE NIMBLY DODGED
"Yer skeered ter stan' up ter me," scoffed Pete, "but I'll git ye good an' hard in a minute, feller."
"He's a-turnin' pale," said Griffin, with a hoarse laugh.
"His legs is weak a'ready, Pete," chimed in Tom Smull.
Dave was moving his arms like a skilled boxer, and, by nimble footwork, continually evaded Pete's bull-like rushes.
"He must think the movin' pictur' fellers are takin' a crack at the show, an' want him ter draw it out," commented Buck James. "Move in close, you Pete. Watch yerself, now—ah!"
Pete had at last succeeded in getting a hold, and the two were at it in deadly earnest, kicking up the turf, as they struggled back and forth over the clearing.
The boys shouted encouragement to Dave, while Smull and Griffin, highly excited, crowded so close to the contestants that Buck James felt called upon to interfere.
"Give 'em room!" he commanded. "Ah! Sarves ye jist right, Tom Smull!"
Dave, by a tremendous effort, had broken Pete's hold, and sent him spinning back, to bring up with great force against Tom Smull. The latter, swept off his balance, uttered a howl of anger, and fell in a heap upon the ground.
Pete Colliver had never dreamed of such resistance. It began to dawn upon him that his antagonist was of a different kind from any he had ever met in the lumber camp.
With a yell of rage, he dashed headlong toward Dave, intending to end the contest by one supreme effort.
Pete managed to plant an elbow under the stout boy's chin, forcing his head back. Then, putting forth all the power of his muscular body, he followed up the advantage.
A groan came from the Ramblers as they saw Dave yielding.
"Ye've got 'im a-goin' sure, Pete," yelled Smull, whose feelings had been considerably damaged by his tumble.
"Don't crowd 'em!" again warned Buck James, his flabby face shining with pleasure. "I didn't expect to see no sich a go as this 'n."
"Get out! Fatty only needs nuff room ter fall in," piped Jimmy of Sellade, hilariously. "Oh!"
By a dexterous twist, Dave had wriggled out of danger again, and dropped on all fours, with his opponent clinging to his back.
Pete Colliver, with disheveled hair wildly tossing in the breeze, paused, puffing heavily. A curious, dumfounded look, which all the rough shouts of encouragement flung toward him failed to remove, had settled over his brick-red face.
"Pete's lost his nerve," cried Jack.
"He couldn't throw you in a hundred years," shouted Tim, gleefully.
Dave unexpectedly fell flat on his face, his surprised opponent sprawling across his prostrate form. Then, with a swift movement of tremendous power, Dave began turning over, and a roar came from the boys when they saw Pete's shoulder rising high in the air.
The latter wildly attempted to loosen his hold—and succeeded. But the impetus of Dave Brandon's push kept him rolling over, and, like a flash, the stout boy had turned and pounced upon him.
The astounded Pete, frantically struggling to arise, found himself thrown backward with a force that fairly took his breath away. He struck the turf sideways, and, by the aid of a bush, pulled himself over on his stomach.
"None o' that, Colliver!" roared Buck James. "Ye ain't wrestlin' bushes. Next time ye do it I'll disqualify ye."
"Much you've got ter say 'bout it," puffed Pete.
"Don't waste no breath in talkin', Pete," counseled Jimmy, in worried tones. "Keep yer peepers open; he's a-layin' fur ye."
"An' I know whar he'll be layin' in another minute," snarled Pete, slowly rising.
Any one less stout-hearted than Dave Brandon might have quailed before the fierce looks and threatening attitude of the lumberjack. Pete's eyes blazed with fury. His big hands were opening and closing convulsively, and his massive chest heaved with physical and mental stress. He had counted upon an easy victory, and, so far, the advantage was all on the other side.
Only fitful gusts of wind and stamping of horses' hoofs broke the tense silence, as the two boys faced each other again.
Like boxers sparring for openings, they circled about, each wary and determined. Pete's reputation was at stake, while Dave, thoroughly aroused, felt that he, too, must prove his mettle. He quickly ducked and danced away as Colliver's arm swung toward him.
"You'd best take it on the run, feller," fumed Pete.
He had now thrown aside all caution. Spurred on by Tom Smull's loud yells, he hurled himself recklessly toward his cooler opponent.
It was a chance for which Dave had been waiting. Taking swift advantage of Pete's awkward lunge, he secured an arm and leg hold, jerking him around with a force that brought a shout from the excited boys. Even Pete Colliver's muscular shoulders were powerless to resist the fierceness of Dave Brandon's counter attack.
With the veins in his forehead bulging out, the Rambler, calling every ounce of strength to his aid, bore Pete backward, threw him heavily to the ground, and fell across his prostrate form.
Colliver tried in vain to squirm and twist away. Slowly, inexorably, his shoulders were forced back to the ground, and while a chorus of shouts from the boys swelled into a storm of applause, Pete was pinned down hard and fast—conquered.
The abrupt and decisive ending of the contest was viewed by the lumbermen almost in silence; their astonishment seemed too great for words. Jimmy, Alf Griffin and Tom Smull stood staring blankly, as though they were unable to believe that the heretofore invincible Pete was lying before their eyes vanquished at last, and by a mild-looking stout boy. Dismay was written on their bronzed faces, but there were gleams of satisfaction, however, on some of the others.
"Mebbe it won't stop that yawp o' hisn," remarked Buck James, complacently.
"Wal, I swan!" exclaimed Jimmy, violently. "If this hyar ain't a go! Bet five cents the big un dasn't try it ag'in."
"Five real cents! Oh, you reckless boy!" gurgled Jack.
Deeply crestfallen, Pete Colliver rose to his feet. The violence of his fall had taken all the fight out of him for the moment.
"I didn't have a fair chancet," he snarled. "Jist wait, feller; I ain't done with ye yit."
"Don't have any hard feelings, Pete." Dave, breathing hard, extended his hand. "Shake!"
"The only thin' that'll git shook is you, fat un; an' it'll be afore long, too."
Colliver's face reflected all the angry passions which surged within him, and his fists were clenched, as he stalked to and fro.
It was not in Dave's nature to crow over a victory. With a wave of his hand he stilled the comments of his enthusiastic friends.
Pete spoke again:
"Think nobody won't have none o' that gold mine but yerselves, do yer?" he sneered.
"Cut it out, Pete," stormed Jim Reynolds. "Boys," he added, turning toward the Ramblers, "as yer champeen wrastler says," he smiled in a conciliatory fashion—"we don't want no hard feelin's."
"That's a plum sure thing," agreed Bart Reeder.
"Now, we're a-wantin' to do the squar' thing by ye. If thar's a gold mine 'bout, 'tain't no more yourn 'n ours—see the p'int?"
"Of course it ain't," growled Alf Griffin.
"An' so, why not be frien'ly-like, an' jine in with us?" Jim spoke persuasively. "Eh, what d'ye say?"
"It'll save ye a heap o' trouble, I'm a-thinkin'; an' don't forgit it," mumbled Tom Smull, ominously, scratching his scratched-up face.
"Listen to reason, boys," pleaded Buck James.
"Well, this is a good one!" burst out Jack Conroy, hotly. "Here you fellows have been doggin' us like so many cats, sneakin' an' spyin' about our camp—an' now! Why, thunder, it beats the Dutch—never heard o' such nerve."
"Of course we won't do it!" cried Dick.
"Eh?" snarled Tom Smull, with a threatening gesture. "Ye'd best not get too chipper, young un."
"If ye don't—" began Alf Griffin.
"See here!" A snort from Jim Reynolds stopped him. "You fellers are sp'ilin' the hull business." Then, his voice becoming pleasant, he went on: "I feel sure the boys'll agree to our plan. Why not stay with us a spell, an' talk it over?"
"No, Jim; it wouldn't be a bit of use," answered Bob Somers, quietly. "We haven't the slightest intention of joining in with any one; so we'll say good-bye!"
Smull's eyes were blazing.
"Are ye a-goin' ter be sassed an' stood off by a parcel o' kids?" he demanded. "Ain't ye man nuff ter say to 'em, 'See here, you young shrimps, ye've simply got ter do what I tells ye,' hey?"
"Easy—easy," counseled Buck James.
"Yes; quit it," interposed Dan Woodle.
"That's right—everybody had better quit it!" Jack Conroy's voice drowned all others. "I can just tell you this: you chaps can't scare us; an' you might as well turn about, an' steer your way back to Cap Slater's lumber camp, where you belong."
"Well, I swan!" Jimmy stared at the speaker in open-mouthed wonder.
"Sich talk—bust it!" howled Pete, still choking with anger. "I'm ready fur wengeance, now; bust it! Look out!"
Turning, he made a sudden spring toward Dave Brandon.
Bob Somers, however, stepped between them.
"That will do, Pete," he said, quietly.
"I won't stan' no more o' sich nonsense, Colliver," added Jim Reynolds. "Git back!"
His huge hand grabbed Pete by the shoulder, and the stocky lad was hurled aside.
Bob and his companions seized the opportunity to take their departure, a proceeding to which Griffin and Smull voiced loud objections, while Jim Reynolds called out:
"Don't go 'way riled, boys; can't we talk over this thing a bit?"
"No!" answered Bob, firmly; "the last word's been said."
Sending a chorus of good-byes over their shoulders, they made toward their bronchos.
The seven quickly mounted, and rode out into the open. Quirts cracked, and the riders found themselves being carried down a gentle slope.
None drew rein until rise after rise had been passed, and the line of timber left far behind.
"Well, Dick Travers, what have you to say for yourself?" said Bob Somers, severely, as they finally halted. "Don't you know you took an awful risk in hanging around that camp?"
"You mean hanging on to a tree, I guess," grinned Dick.
"Tell us all about it."
The boys listened attentively to his story.
"Of course," concluded Dick, "I wasn't going to come away without my gun, and didn't dare go back for the longest time. Besides," he confessed, whimsically, "I forgot the number of the tree and couldn't find it till early morning. I got a glimpse of you from the woods, and walked right out, like a little major."
"Whew! You took a long chance," exclaimed Jack. "It's a mighty lucky thing you didn't stop a load of buckshot skulkin' 'round their camp in spooky hours."
"Or something worse," added Tom, with a shiver.
"Anyway it all turned out for the best," quoth Bob. "We know now what we have to buck up against. Dave Brandon," he added, "you're a positive wonder."
"Isn't he, though?" chirped Tim. "Great Scott! When Pete flopped over on his back I could hardly believe it—greatest sight I ever saw. Did me a lot of good, I can tell you."
"Let me echo that remark," laughed Sam. "Say, fellows, I got a chance to chin a bit with Jimmy; he told me how those men got their horses."
"Let's hear 'bout it; an' talk fast," said Jack.
"Buck James is a horse dealer at Rawdon, so they let him in on the thing provided he would supply the ponies. Pete and Jimmy traveled on foot—took them nearly all night—but they managed to reach Wild Oak, where they encountered Slater's men. And do you know—"
"What?" asked Tim, impatiently.
"They actually made Buck James pony up with a pair of ponies."
"Whew! There's nerve for you," commented Tim.
"Yes; and Jimmy was boasting about it to beat the band—said that Pete threatened to blow the whole thing to people in Rawdon, an' that scared 'em. They thought everybody in town 'ud be tagging at their heels."
"Well, I'm glad Pete got taken down a peg or two," growled Jack.
"Say, Dick, did you find out why they brought our packhorse back?" asked Tom, abruptly.
"That's an easy one, son; the jacks knew well enough that we had to have grub—thought perhaps we might get discouraged and skip back, if packy didn't turn up; see?"
"Guess that's the idea. Shows how much they have to depend 'pon following us."
"Sure thing, Tom."
"Well, Dick, you and Dave have had a lively time, all right," remarked Bob, reflectively. "Now, we have to think of a way to throw those fellows off the track; it won't be so easy. Smull and Griffin are pretty desperate men. Suppose we do as much traveling by night as we can, eh?"
"Bully idea," agreed Dick. "Cæsar, but this is an exciting life. Don't let's waste a minute."
The seven looked carefully around; but the country appeared absolutely deserted. There were many ridges and clumps of trees, however, which could easily have concealed their trackers.
By noon the gray expanse of cloud was rapidly sweeping away, and shafts of sunlight blazed through the openings. The boys took but little time to eat, pushing rapidly on toward the hills, and at sundown the rolling swells of the valley had been crossed and they were encamped in the midst of a wild-looking range.
A small fire was built in the shadow of an enormous boulder, and when dusk fell the glowing embers were stamped out. The group sat about in utter darkness, listening to the dismal howls of a pack of coyotes and the mysterious sounds from a near-by wood, strangely clear in the silence of the night.
With Bob Somers on guard, the others finally turned in and slept until the moon was rising above the hills. Then, aroused, they quickly saddled their ponies and vaulted upon their backs.
A clear, silvery radiance enveloped the landscape, but shadows in ravines were deep and gloomy. They soon reached a dreary, marshy stretch lying between two hills. Tall, tangled grasses and stagnant pools sent their rank odor floating over the air, while the clear, brilliant moon was mirrored in sharp, metallic dashes upon ooze and water. As they passed through, a long-legged water-bird rose before them with a startled cry.
On hard ground again, the travelers allowed the bronchos to choose their own pace.
"Hold up, thar!"
This startling command fell upon the boys' ears with a sharpness that fairly took their breath away. One moment they seemed to be absolutely alone, and the next found themselves facing two horsemen who had dashed from a thicket close by.
The summons came again:
"Hold up, thar!"
The astounded Ramblers gazed in consternation at Tom Smull and Alf Griffin. They saw the lumbermen's revolvers flashing in the moonlight, and a single glance convinced them that the two were in deadly earnest.
A touch of Tom Smull's quirt sent his pony almost into that of Bob Somers', but he jerked the animal around in time.
"I reckon ye won't be so confounded sassy, now, pard!" he exclaimed, in a voice ringing with triumph.
Bob Somers looked into the barrel of a revolver held close to his head, while Alf Griffin, waving a huge weapon from side to side, had the rest of the crowd covered.
"Well, what do you want, Tom Smull?" asked Bob, as soon as his astonishment allowed him to speak.
"Now, that 'ere language sounds jist a leetle bit better, pard," exclaimed the lumberman, with a gruff laugh. "Me an' Griffin has went to a precious sight o' trouble ter git this hyar interview. We want ter be frien's o' yourn."
"Then you might as well show it by pointing that revolver some other way," suggested Bob.
"Where's the rest o' your bold, brave gang o' sneakers?" demanded Jack Conroy, hotly. "Throw down those shootin' irons, an' I'll bet the whole crowd wouldn't dare face us three seconds. An'—"
"Thar it goes ag'in!" snorted Tom Smull, violently. "Best be a bit keerful, younker. If yer never smelt powder smoke a-blowin' in yer face, it may be time fur yer to smell it now. But we ain't a-talkin' ter you; our business is with the gineral—Somers."
"Well?" queried Bob.
"I reckon it will be, if yer acts peaceable-like. You've got a drawin' showin' whar that streak o' pay dirt is, an' me an' Alf sure needs it."
"Hand it out, pard!" came from Griffin. "Ye kin jine our crowd, an' we'll share alike."
"Of all the nerve I ever heard about this is the biggest!" stormed Jack.
"It won't pay none ter git sassy," warned Smull. "Give me that drawin', Somers!"
"And if I don't?" asked Bob.
"'Twon't make a particle o' difference; we'll hev it all the same."
"Well, in that case, suppose you come and take it!"
The lumbermen listened to these words in amazement. Tom Smull stared wonderingly at Bob.
"Wal, if this don't beat all creation!" he cried. "I s'picion as how ye'll find out it don't pay none ter run ag'in Tom Smull." The lumberman, still keeping his weapon leveled, roughly seized the bridle of Bob's pony. "Come now," he added, scowling fiercely, "no more foolin'!"
A few seconds of silence followed this command. Highly indignant and alarmed, the boys gazed intently toward the two principals facing each other in the moonlight. If the lumberjacks secured possession of the map it might give them such an advantage as to threaten the success of their expedition. And it was galling to think of their very first attempt to outwit the trailers meeting with complete defeat.
Breathlessly, they watched Bob Somers. His arm flashed up so swiftly that their eyes could scarcely follow its movement.
Tom Smull's pistol hand received the full force of the blow. Then a quirt came down with stinging force upon the broncho's back, and the bridle was torn so suddenly from the lumberman's grasp as to almost throw him to the ground.
Bob Somers, encouraged by the cries of his excited chums, put spurs to his horse and galloped recklessly down the valley, while Tom Smull, with a yell of rage, started off in hot pursuit.
"Stop—stop!" he bawled.
A grim, determined expression on Bob Somers' face indicated clearly that he had no intention of obeying this command. Lying almost flat upon his pony's back, he urged him ahead until trees and bushes were whirling by with bewildering rapidity.
But fast as his pony tore, Tom Smull's went faster; and he realized that it was only a question of a short time when he would be overtaken—and then?
"There's going to be one of the liveliest musses Tom Smull was ever mixed up in," murmured Bob Somers, grimly.
"Stop—yer can't git away!"
Over swells, down the sides of little gullies, and across level stretches, the mad, headlong race continued, the shrill cry of a skulking coyote close at hand alone rising above the clatter of hoofs.
"I've got yer, pard!"
Bob Somers was on the point of wheeling his pony about, in order to face his determined pursuer, when the animal's fore legs suddenly plunged into a morass. It had been completely concealed by densely matted grasses and other vegetation.
As the snorting pony sank up to his knees, a stream of liquid mud shot into the air. Bob Somers found himself jarred from the saddle and catapulted over the animal's head. He landed at full length, and lay almost stunned amidst the grass and ooze.
Tom Smull had, perhaps, never been more astonished in his life. By the narrowest margin, he succeeded in pulling his own horse up in time. Then, with a whoop of triumph, he swung himself from the saddle.
"Knew I'd git ye, pard!" he yelled.
As Bob endeavored to rise from the soft, yielding surface which had so fortunately saved him from injury, he caught a glimpse of a dark form struggling through mud and vegetation toward him.
He turned and threshed about, fighting hard to free his legs from the entangling rushes.
"No yer don't!" jeered Tom Smull.
A violent shove sent Bob on his back, and, as his eyes gazed into the lumberjack's triumphant face, he also saw the barrel of a revolver again poked toward him.
"Mebbe that won't keep yer quiet fur a spell!" grinned Tom. "'Tain't allus healthy ter smell powder smoke, young un."
He tore Bob's khaki jacket roughly open, and in another instant his big hand was feeling for the inside pocket.
The precious map was there.
Bob Somers groaned inwardly. He heard a gruff exclamation of joy. The document, held in Tom Smull's hand, was shining in the soft, greenish moonlight.
When the lumberjack's eyes rested upon the crude lines, his exultation was so great that he seemed to entirely forget his victim.
"Ha, ha! The identical thing! It 'ud sarve ye jist right, pard, if I handed yer a clip or two fur all the trouble ye give me; but thar ain't nuthin' mean 'bout me."
The lumberman was of an immensely strong and wiry build, and the idea of a boy actually having the courage to attack him never entered his mind. Bob, however, working quietly, had succeeded in getting his legs loose, and, while the other was still gloating over his victory, rose to a standing position. Tom Smull, unprepared for such sudden action, received a powerful blow which struck the revolver from his hand. Then, before a howl of pain had ceased, he found himself gripped by a pair of muscular arms and forced over backward.
The astounded lumberman struggled fiercely to regain his balance, but the combination of slippery surface and unpreparedness was too much to successfully combat. A few brief instants of desperate struggle; a wild threshing about among the reeds and ooze; a splashing of water; the peculiar, sucking sound of gripping mud, as boots were drawn from it—then:
Tom Smull, panting for breath, toppled suddenly over, and brought up with a resounding squash where the mire was deepest.
The object of the battle, wafted away by the breeze, had settled down beneath a huge tree a few yards beyond the edge of the marsh.
"I'll pay ye fur this!" howled the lumberjack, furiously.
His big hand gripped Bob Somers' leg.
But the boy had seen and heard something which instilled into him new courage and determination—a sound of beating hoofs and the sight of a line of horsemen sweeping along at reckless speed.
Tom Smull realized that quick action was necessary. He struggled furiously, both to retain his hold upon Bob and extricate himself, only to fail completely. Bob tore his leg loose, while, at every move, Smull plunged more deeply into the slimy mud and plastered it more thickly upon him.
Just as Bob Somers, feeling that victory had been won, voiced a loud warning to his friends to look out for the marsh, a startling interruption took place.
A limb of the tree close by began to shake and creak—and it was not the breeze that caused it. A flutter of dead leaves and twigs floated mournfully downward, while two brilliant spots glowed among the dark branches. Then a low, ominous growl filled the boy's heart with dismay.
Smull was oblivious to all this; he had ears for nothing, and eyes only for the scrap of paper beneath the tree. Relieved momentarily from the hindrance which Bob had caused to his movements, he staggered and plunged toward dry ground.
The limb creaked again. A long, savage snarl rose harshly upon the still night air.
"A painter!" cried Tom Smull. His voice was hoarse with sudden terror. "It's a painter! The two of us is goners!"
Madly the lumberman hurled himself forward, seized the map, and turned in the direction of his broncho, while, but an instant afterward, a long, tawny body sprang from the limb and landed on the edge of the marsh.
All thoughts of Wanatoma's drawing vanished from Bob Somers' mind, as he stood with but a few yards between him and a panther. The moonlight revealed the animal's ears thrown far back; his tail was lashing fiercely; he seemed on the point of leaping again.
"Great Scott!" breathed Bob.
The boy's hand flew to his holster. Backing slowly away, he kept his revolver leveled at the animal's head; his hand was steady, though his heart thumped hard. It was a moment of great suspense. Almost mechanically, he saw the riders looming up clearly in the moonlight.
"Watch yourself, Bob! We'll get him!" came encouragingly from Dick Travers' lips.
The loud yells of the boys and clatter of hoofs evidently caused the animal to decide that his enemies were too many to contend against. Still growling and snarling, he whisked about, took several great leaps, and, skirting along by the marsh, disappeared behind a clump of trees.
With a sigh of great relief, Bob Somers faced his excited friends.
"Hurt?—No; not a bit of it, fellows; but the map's gone—and all the fault of that wretched varmint!"
"The map gone!"
These words, repeated by several voices, sounded in accents of the deepest gloom.
"Quick—don't lose an instant!" cried Bob. "You may be able to overtake him, and get it back. Help me get my bronc out of that awful mess, Dick."
Fired with a determined resolve, five boys immediately cracked their quirts, and the bronchos were in motion again, pounding swiftly off in the direction taken by Smull and Griffin.
Bob and Dick managed to capture the former's badly-frightened animal just as it was floundering out of the mire, and presently galloped, side by side, after the now faint and shadowy forms of the other riders.
Occasional sharp, yelping cries echoed dismally between the hills, and within a short time they caught a glimpse of a pack of coyotes, an undulating line of gray sweeping across the narrow valley. A bit further along, the boys came upon Dave, in charge of the packhorses.
"I couldn't keep up the pace with these beasts," he explained.
"Think the fellows had any chance?" asked Bob, eagerly.
Dave shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," he answered. "They had too good a start. Gracious, Bob, you're in a pretty mess!"
"Tom Smull is in a worse," said Bob, grimly. "How did you chaps manage to break away from Griffin?"
"Sam suddenly gave a terrible yell, hung over the side of his pony like a Mexican vaquero about to pick a handkerchief off the ground, and started suddenly. The rest of us—well—we felt sure Griffin wouldn't shoot—took our chances, anyway, and bolted after him."
"Bully for you! Say, it certainly makes me sick to think of that panther mixing in just at the wrong time."
"The worst kind of luck," groaned Dick. "What's to be done?"
"Make a great rush for the mine, and beat those fellows out. It's going to be a free-for-all race now."
"That's right," agreed Dick. "My, oh, my, but I do feel wild."
They sat in silence for a few moments, straining their ears to catch any sounds of the pursuit.
"The timbermen have the map, an' they'll keep it forever an' two days," grumbled Dick. "Hello! Here come the boys!"
The five, after an interval which seemed very long, cantered up, their ponies breathing hard and flecked with foam.
"The scamps made a clean get-away," growled Jack.
"Bet the whole jig is up," wailed Tom.
"Oh, I rather guess not," snorted Tim Lovell. "There'll be some lively doin's before this crowd gives up."
This sentiment met with general approval.
As the bronchos had been pushed pretty hard, the boys decided to camp at the first suitable place.
"This is a great valley, full o' coyotes, playful panthers, an' desperate timbermen," remarked Jack, disgustedly. "Wonder what's comin' next."
"Plenty!" grunted Tim.
In a gash in the hills they came to a halt, built a fire against a rocky wall as a protection, and all but Tim Lovell turned in.
And each sentinel, in his turn, heard enough to make him keep his senses keenly alert. Several times the sound of skurrying feet rose with unpleasant distinctness, causing the lonely sentinel to picture in his mind the gray forms skulking close by.
In the early morning Bob made a drawing of the map, and, as all had studied it carefully, no detail was forgotten. Immediately after breakfast they were off, following a deep gully.
It did not end in a pocket, as Jack Conroy gloomily predicted, but opened out, forming an amphitheatre between wild, barren hills. Keeping to the north as closely as the configuration of the land would allow, the party struggled on, now in the midst of boulders, then halted by the undergrowth in some woods so dense that the sunlight scarcely filtered in.
But as each mile seemed to fall slowly and grudgingly behind them, they could see from points of vantage a great bluish mass rising higher, its outlines cutting more sharply against the sky. A towering summit of a peculiar blunt shape proved beyond doubt that this was their goal.
At the top of a high ridge they gazed with fascinated attention toward the mountain, their pulses quickened with excitement.
Perpetual snow, above pine forests, shone with dazzling luster; a succession of wild-looking crags extended off to the right and left until the furthest peaks were but faint grayish patches.
"Mount Wanatoma!" said Bob, in solemn tones.
"Mount Wanatoma!" echoed the others.
"Christopher! Let's hurry!" cried Dick, nervously. "See any signs of those lumberjacks, fellows?"
Each, taking turns with the powerful field-glass, stared in all directions. But nothing appeared within the circle.
"That doesn't prove anything," sighed Tim. "You may be sure they're not far away."
"Smull and Griffin acted like a pair of pirates," growled Tom.
"Pirates are water-birds, Cliffy," suggested Sam.
"Well, I'll bet Tom Smull felt like a water-bird for a few minutes," retorted the other, with a very faint grin.
"There's goin' to be snow before long," remarked Tim, "an'—"
"It would mean good-bye to gettin' back for six months," supplied Jack. "Snowed up in the mountains; I suppose that's the next thing'll happen, Timmy."
They stopped only a few minutes for lunch. Full of determination to win the race against all odds, the boys forgot fatigue, pushing their hardy little bronchos to the utmost limit.
When night came, after the hardest day in the saddle they had ever experienced, it found them encamped in the foot-hills, with Mount Wanatoma looming majestically above them. Its apparent nearness was deceptive, however, and all realized that many miles of rough, dangerous country had still to be crossed.
A cold wind was sweeping down from the heights, and from somewhere in the darkness came the sullen murmur of a rushing torrent. Sleep seemed banished from the thoughts of all save Dave. After supper, they paced restlessly to and fro before a fire built in a deep hollow, their shadowy forms touched now and again by the ruddy glow. None cared to venture far away, for, as on the night before, they realized that the blackness hid many a snarling foe.
At an early hour next morning the seven were again in the saddle, traveling through fields of waving yellow bunch grass. They followed an almost straight course to a point where the hills were sharply cleft, forming a wide, deep gorge. Through the center trickled a tiny stream bordered with scrubby willows. The rough, scarred hills on either hand ended abruptly, and, beyond, a series of ridges, some thickly covered with pine, others of bald, reddish rock, rolled off in crests, rising higher and higher until they joined the stupendous mass of Mount Wanatoma.
The vastness of nature impressed the boys strangely.
"Honest, it makes me feel like a little crawling ant," remarked Tim, with a deep breath.
"An' you look the part, all right, Timmy-Tim," grinned Jack. "An' Tommy! Why, he's 'most disappeared."
"Oh, you get out, Jacky. There's not such an awful lot of you, either," retorted Tom, stiffly. "Besides," he added, "I'm a half inch taller'n I was in Wyoming; honest, I am."
"Goodness gracious! Look at the giant!" chirped Jack. "Measure yourself every day, I s'pose?"
"By the time we reach the gold mine, he'll be a six-footer," laughed Tim.
"That's all right; I may be looking down on you some day, smarty," snorted Tom.
To the north! was the slogan; yet they were as often compelled to struggle east or west, pushed aside by huge barriers of rock or impenetrable forests.
About one o'clock the boys dismounted near the mouth of a gloomy canyon. On the frowning slopes of "Mount Wanatoma" they saw masses of dark, rich pines, gigantic piles of rock, and precipices with sheer drops of hundreds of feet. And there was a cascade, too; a thin dash of white tumbling from a dizzy ledge, growing broader as it fell, until, at the bottom, it spread out sharply into a fan-shaped form, glittering in the sunlight.
A torrent roared its way through the canyon, slashing past grim, gray rocks, a churning mixture of green and white, carrying on its battling surface occasional branches and bright-colored autumn leaves.
Close to the water's edge, the boys collected a quantity of fuel and started a fire. Dick and Tim officiated as cooks, and soon had ready a generous supply of bacon, flapjacks and coffee.
While they were busily engaged in disposing of the last morsels, Dick jumped abruptly to his feet.
"By the great horn spoon—look!" he yelled.
The eyes of the startled boys followed the direction indicated by his outstretched arm.
Uttering cries of dismay, they jumped to their feet.
Far up on the mountain slope, several moving specks could be plainly seen against a background of rocks. Small as the objects were, they cut out sharply in the form of horsemen.
Bob Somers was the first to break the silence.
"Great Scott! What in thunder do you think of that?" he gasped. "And so far ahead!"
He stared, in turn, at six downcast faces.
"I—I don't—can't understand it," quavered Tom.
"The lumberjacks are up there; the jig's up, too," pronounced Jack, dejectedly.
"But—but"—stammered Dick—"just look at the way we've traveled. They must be birds."
"A straight line is the shortest distance between two points; guess those chaps managed to keep closer to it than we have," came from Dave.
The crowd could not shake off the gloomy feelings which beset them. The horsemen had disappeared, but they kept staring up at the white patch of rocks, half expecting to see other riders pass across its surface.
"Knew it was goin' to be a wild goose chase by a pack o' wild geese."
"Oh, is that so, Jacky?" cried Tim, hotly. "An' but for that megaphone voice o' yours you might be chirpin' a different tale."
"Here—don't you dare blame it on me! Never spoke 'bout it yourself, I s'pose? Oh, no! Nobody did but me, eh?"
"I don't care what you say, Conroy; it's all your fault. I told you—everybody did."
"Cut it out!" Jack made a threatening gesture. "Cut it out, or you'll take a tumble, an' a mighty large-sized one!"
"Quit jawing," interposed Bob. "I'm surprised at you fellows. Are we such weak dubs as to call ourselves beaten before we even begin to climb that mountain? I rather guess not!"
All caught his spirit of enthusiasm. Saddle-bags were hastily repacked, and within a few minutes the bronchos were in motion again.
The boys were glad enough that they did not have to make the passage of the canyon. Led by Bob, they strung out over a flat strip by the edge of the torrent, soon finding a place to ford.
Plunging in, the bronchos snorted, as icy water gripped their legs and bodies; a fiercely surging flood splashed over stirrup-leather and boots. The Ramblers could scarcely control their sturdy little animals, as they slowly fought their way across.
Two hours later, after a hard climb, the seven were sprawling in the midst of sage brush on the slopes of "Mount Wanatoma," with a stiff southeast wind howling around them. White clouds which scurried swiftly through the blue often hid the snow-clad summit.
"Some weather soon," predicted Dave.
"Squalls, I'm thinkin'," muttered Jack, savagely.
From their elevated position they saw a vast area of hills, gorges and forests, all finally lost in a gray, misty line which met the sky. The torrent swept its crooked course to the eastward; waving fields of bunch grass shone with a golden luster, and forests of pine were sharply edged with light. The sun was already creeping near the rim of the western hills.
The boys jumped into the saddle again, but before a couple of miles had been covered found themselves facing a disheartening fact—the poor jaded bronchos could go no further.
"Napoleon's crossing of the Alps was nothing like this," quoth Bob, as he swung himself to the ground.
"Dave'll now have a bit o' history to write for his journal," sighed Tim—"The Ramblers crossing Mount Wanatoma."
"And just to think! We're stuck here for the night," growled Dick, with a glance at the tired bronchos. "Those poor little beasts deserve a real medal," he added. "They tried hard enough."
"We'll have one made from the very first gold we strike," remarked Jack, sarcastically, disregarding Tim's angry glance.
Disconsolately, they hunted about for a camping site, and found one near by. A fire was soon built, and supper cooked.
Twilight, and then night seemed to close down upon them with astonishing swiftness. Not a star peeped forth. A blustery wind moaned between the trees, carrying with it a suggestion of winter gales.
"We'll be snowed up," Jack again predicted, gloomily.
"An' I don't care if we are," snapped Tim.
"S'pose if it blizzards it'll be all my fault, too," mumbled Jack.
The night seemed long and dismal. Almost benumbed with cold, the early dawn found them astir again, and the journey was resumed with all possible speed.
Their voices held an eager note which told of excitement but partially repressed. Before the sun set again they would know their fate.
For hours they rode steadily, skirting around the mountainside, forced higher and higher up the slopes by innumerable obstacles. Sometimes they crossed narrow ledges where a single misstep would have meant a frightful plunge down rough, jagged precipices.
"Humph! Here's where we seem stumped at last," remarked Jack, as the bronchos emerged from a belt of timber.
Just ahead, a reddish pinnacle of rock, almost as straight as a cathedral tower, and rising for hundreds of feet, presented a strangely impressive spectacle.
Bob Somers looked dubiously at the slope which slanted sharply from its base.
"A risky job getting around, fellows."
"A pippin," said Dick, with a deep breath.
"Well, we can do it," asserted Tim. "Come ahead."
The boys scarcely dared to look at the depths below when the sure-footed little bronchos began cautiously treading the steeply-inclined surface, sometimes sending small landslides sweeping down the slope. All uttered sighs of relief when they again reached safer ground.
About mid-afternoon Bob raised his hand.
"Listen, fellows!"
The boys pulled rein in the midst of a deep pine forest.
"Do you hear anything?"
"Runnin' water?" queried Jack.
"Yes! Do you know what I think?" Bob paused. "Wanatoma said we'd run across a stream on the opposite side of the mountain—"
"Sure as shootin', that must be it," cried Tim, eagerly.
"And told us it flowed directly toward the gold field," chimed in Sam Randall, his face aglow with excitement.
"Now, according to my reckoning, this is just about the place where we ought to find it. That stream over there is certainly Gold Creek; so we have only to follow its course down the mountain to locate our mine. But—"
"Well?" questioned Tom.
"Those lumberjacks are ahead of us in the game. Big Jim is smart enough to understand the map. The word 'stream' on that line ought to show him the right place."
"And that awful big X 'ud simply screech it into his head," said Jack.
"I 'most hate to go on," said Tim, looking fiercely at Conroy, as he always did when anything disturbed him.
"Oh, my! I only hope they lost themselves somewhere," said Tom. "So let's hurry, Bob. I can hardly wait."
"Dive ahead for Gold Creek before worry stops our Tom from growin'," quoth Jack, with a strong effort to appear easy and unconcerned.
The bronchos' hoofs began kicking up the pine-needles and cones again. The sunlight cut curious streaks in the dim recesses of the gloomy woods, spotting trunks and boughs with its brilliant radiance.
As the Ramblers made their way in and out among the trees, a musical tinkle of running water came more clearly to their ears.
"I see it! I see it!" cried Tim, raising himself in his stirrups, and pointing excitedly.
A cool, silvery streak was showing between the trees.
"The thread that should have led us to fame and fortune," mused Dave Brandon.
"Gold Creek, fellows!"
Dick Travers was the first to reach the edge of the swiftly-running stream. The boys watched in silence the clear water tumbling down the steep descent, dashing briskly against rocks and snags, its never-ceasing roar rising high above the pulsating murmur of the pines.
Nervous and excited, with grim-set expressions, they put their bronchos in motion again, following the course of the stream as closely as dense vegetation would permit.
Broad shafts of light soon penetrated the woods, and before long only scattered groups of trees lay beyond.
Not a word was spoken as the ponies walked around the last of these and came to a halt on a knoll which commanded a clear view of the far-reaching slopes below.
One glance was enough.
A number of men, widely scattered, were seen digging with pick and shovel.
"Beaten!" cried Dick Travers, in a despairing voice.
The lumberjacks had taken possession of land which the boys considered as rightfully belonging to them. Disappointment, chagrin, and a whirlwind of strange feelings surged through their beings. They had matched uncertainty with hopefulness, and the realization that defeat had actually come was a stunning blow.
For some moments Bob and his companions sat almost motionless in their saddles.
"It's all up!" groaned Tom Clifton.
"We've traveled a long way for this," wailed Dick, with a choking sensation in his throat.
"Did you ever hear of such awful luck?" growled Tim, directing a look of intense anger and scorn toward Jack Conroy.
"I wonder—I wonder if they've found any trace of gold," murmured Sam, in a tone of the deepest dejection. "Who are those fellows on the nearest ridge?"
"Look like Reynolds and Woodle to me," answered Dave, with a sigh. "There's Pete, away down at the bottom; see him?—Just a little square dot."
"Christopher! I don't think we ought to stand for this!" cried Jack Conroy, hotly, shaking his fist in the air. "Haven't we enough spunk to—"
"The odds are against us, Jack," put in Bob, quietly.
"Nothin' doin'," said Tim.
"I don't know about that!" fumed Dick. His voice trembled with indignation. "It makes me so wild I can't even think straight. Come on, fellows!"
A long, undulating slope of treacherous soil stretched downward. The bronchos slipped and slid along it, and, occasionally, the boys had to dismount and lead the way on foot, or prospect around to find some reasonably safe route. It was, therefore, a long time before they came abreast of the men.
The rushing torrent at this point was too dangerous to ford, so they kept steadily on, paying no attention to a number of loud salutations.
Hails from several figures below soon followed, sounding astonishingly loud and distinct, and among them Pete Colliver's voice was easily recognizable. As the seven caught it, the scowls on their faces deepened.
The stream swept around in a great snake-like curve, cutting its way between two sharply gashed ridges. Fifteen minutes of careful riding brought the boys near the pebble-covered bottom of one of these miniature gorges.
Upon the opposite bank, Smull, Griffin, Pete Colliver and Jimmy stood lined up, grinning broadly, while the two men who had been working on the slope were slipping and scrambling down the rocks and turf toward them.
"Wal, wal, if hyar they ain't, at last!" laughed Pete, boisterously. "Didn't git losted, arter all, hey?"
"Ye can't stake out any claims here, pards," said Tom Smull, "but if yer a-lookin' fur jobs as laborers mebbe we kin perwide 'em."