"Grab hold of him—do, that's a good fellow! Stop the beast! Whoa, Buttercup, whoa! Oh, dear, won't somebody stop him?"
Howard Fenton, seated on Mr. Barton's big black horse, was having a most uncomfortable time in the field by the house. It was the first of a series of lessons in the art of horseback riding that Sam Randall had undertaken to give him.
Sam, Tom Clifton and young Bins, painful to relate, were roaring with laughter.
"Golly, but dis chile neber seed nuthin' like that. Oh, dese city fellers! Golly!" and Sam showed his white teeth again.
Buttercup, as if indignant at the awkwardness of his rider, danced and pawed the ground and bobbed his head up and down, while Howard struggled desperately to hold his seat.
"I know I shall fall! Oh, oh, for goodness' sake—if I break my neck, Sam, it's your—oh—oh——"
The sentence, ending in a wail, was too much for Sam. He seized Buttercup by the bridle, while Bins, nearly convulsed with laughter, aided the frightened rider to dismount.
"Thanks, old chap," panted Howard. "I know I made an awful spectacle of myself. Talk about jolts, bumps and aching bones—say, does anybody really enjoy riding?"
"Oh, listen to him!" cried Sam Bins, with another explosion.
"Of course they do," said Randall, loftily, bestowing a compassionate look upon the crestfallen Howard. "Let me show you how to do it," and he vaulted into the saddle.
Fenton gazed after him admiringly, as he rode around in a wide circle, then skilfully drew his spirited steed alongside.
"You're a crackerjack, Sam," he exclaimed. "But I'll stick to electric cars and trains."
"Oh, dese city fellers," chuckled Sam Bins.
"Here—I'll take a turn, too," put in Tom Clifton.
The smallest member of the Rambler Club also managed Buttercup with ease. Proudly, he put the horse through its paces, and, flushed with triumph, called out, as he rode up, "How's that for riding?"
"You country chaps can beat us out in some things, that's sure," laughed Fenton, good-naturedly.
"Come ahead—you can learn to ride," urged Sam.
"Yes, do. It's as easy as rolling off a log," chimed in Tom.
"Nothing easier than falling off a horse, I think," returned Fenton, with a faint smile. "But not to-day, boys. Oh, no! Guess I've had enough."
"Oh, dese city fellers," repeated Sam Bins, as he led Buttercup back to the stable.
"Wonder how Bob and the other fellows are getting along in the wilderness," said Howard, when the group had turned toward the porch.
"Guess they won't leave any bears or moose for Tom and me," grinned Sam. "They are crack shots—that is all except Chubby. He never seems to hit a thing, any more."
"Hope Dick will get some pictures," put in Tom. "Wish I had a camera, I'd snap some, too."
"I say, Howard," exclaimed Sam, suddenly, "Phil Levins, Tom and I are going over to Promontory this afternoon. I'm teaching Clifton how to swim. Want to take a sail in the 'Spray'? It's a bully day for an outing."
"I may come over later, in the 'Dauntless.' Promised pater I'd do some writing for him," replied Fenton. "Guess I can make it, though, and we'll have a little race on the way back."
"Good! But the 'Spray' will run away from the 'Dauntless,' old man."
"It will—like fun," laughed Fenton, as he took his leave.
Phil Levins met the Ramblers at the wharf. Just as they were clambering aboard the "Spray," "Little Bill" happened to pass. He surveyed them with a scowl.
"I'm a-goin' ter take out that boat, some day, an' don't you forgit it. Old Barton says ter me one day—he says, 'Bill'——"
These were the words that greeted the boys, and Sam Randall cut them off by exclaiming, "Oh, we're not talking about that now, Bill Dugan."
"Ain't you? Well, I'm talking about it, all right. Afear'd I'd hurt the boat, eh? Think you're sich swell sailors, eh? Jist you wait, fellers."
"All year, if you want," laughed Sam. "Give the boat a shove, boys. Rattling good breeze, eh? That's it—we're off."
The sail quickly filled out, and the boat drew away from the wharf.
"Jest you wait," repeated "Little Bill," loudly.
"That's what we're doing."
"I ain't forgot what that elephant done."
"Don't let it worry you, grouchy," and the boys waved their hands toward the disgusted Dugan.
The "Spray" was a fast boat, and with a strong, favorable wind, cut through the water at a rapid rate.
The dark firs on Hemlock and the crags of Promontory Island, began to loom up clear and distinct. It was exhilarating sport, and, as the water foamed and gurgled and occasionally dashed over the gunwale, the boys began to sing.
"This is great," exclaimed Tom Clifton, at length. "We'll have a dandy race, if Fenton comes over."
"We ought to give him a handicap."
"Sure thing. The 'Dauntless' isn't a patch on the 'Spray' for speed."
In a short time, the "Spray" dashed into the passageway beneath the towering crags. Emerging on the other side, they sailed past the site of the former "Idleman's Club" and continued on until a picturesque cove appeared in view.
"Ease over the sheet, Phil," said Sam. "That's right. Haul it down when I say the word."
In a sheltered situation, the "Spray" glided smoothly over the limpid water and entered the cove. At Sam's command, the sail was lowered and an anchor heaved overboard. The boat came to a stop within a few feet of a jutting bank, where the water was so clear that the pebbly bottom could be plainly seen.
"Done like old salts," laughed Sam. "Off with shoes and stockings, fellows; we'll have to wade."
In a few minutes they stood on shore. Then all took seats on a convenient rock.
Clouds of dazzling whiteness glistened against the deep blue sky, shadows flitted across the surface of the lake and over the rugged crags above, while now and then a cool, pleasant breeze blew strongly in their faces.
They were in a delightful cove. A group of willows on the opposite side mirrored themselves in the clear water; pond-lilies and aquatic growth bobbed gently on the listless current.
"This is where Dave would enjoy himself," observed Sam. "Listen to the birds—say, look at that bit of blue sky," and Sam imitated the "poet's" tones so well that Tom burst out laughing.
"Can he really paint and write poetry?" asked Phil Levins.
"Oh, Chub can do anything," replied Sam, with conviction. "He's a dandy. But here, Tommy, get off your duds. If you don't look out, you won't be able to swim any better than Fenton can ride."
"Oh, suffering catfish," said Tom, flippantly.
The boys quickly donned their bathing suits, and walked along the shelving beach to the end of the cove.
"Oh, but the water's cold. Hold on there, Sam Randall, don't push."
"Don't crowd him," grinned Phil.
"Oh, of course not," snickered Sam, and the next minute, Tom, neatly tripped, hit the water with a loud splash and a yell.
For the next half hour, they had great sport. The water was shallow and well suited to their purpose. Tom made a little progress, and by actual count was able to keep afloat for seventeen seconds. Then he paddled around, while Sam and Phil, both good swimmers, raced out to the end of the cove and back, Sam leading by a few feet.
When they were again dressed, the three resumed their place on the rock.
"Most time for Fenton to come," observed Phil Levins.
"I'll bet he won't turn up," grumbled Sam, as he shied a rock into the water. "I'd give a lot to have that race, too."
"Let's take a walk," suggested Tom.
"Where—up on the cliff?"
"No siree! Around the base as far as we can go."
"All right, son, we'll do it," agreed Sam. "If Fenton comes along, he'll know how to find us."
Thick vegetation, at times, forced them toward the base of the cliff, while at others they skirted along the bank. Pretty wild flowers nodded in the breeze and brilliant-hued butterflies hovered about. Occasionally, a rustle amidst the underbrush indicated the presence of some startled creature.
Straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, loomed the towering walls of Crescent Mountain, its opposite neighbor being partly hidden by the cliff near at hand.
At length the end of the island was reached, and the boys only stopped where the cliff, rising straight out of the water, barred further progress.
"A daisy view," commented Tom. "Look at the current, Sam—pretty strong even here, eh?"
"That's right, Tommy. I wouldn't care to be more than fifty feet from shore. Nice fresh breeze, too, though we don't get so much of it on this side."
Sam seated himself, the others following his example. Now and then a stick or branch floated slowly by, occasionally caught by some counter current and swung in to shore, only to again be started on its journey toward the gorge of Canyon River.
Sam picked up a stout limb and sent it far out, then idly watched the current carrying it away.
"Wonder, Tom," he said, reflectively, "what kind of a journey the thing will have. Maybe it will go over that mysterious falls."
"I'm sure I don't care. Let's skip back, and see if Fenton has come."
"You run over and see, Tommy, like a good fellow."
"I will not, you lazy-bones. What are your legs for?"
"Lots of things," laughed Sam, as he made a lunge for Tom. But the latter jumped nimbly aside.
The boys started to retrace their steps and presently reached a point from which the "Spray" could be seen. They saw that no one was on the beach, while the clear expanse of Mountain Lake was unspotted by craft of any kind.
"I told you so, Tom Clifton."
"Never mind—let's sit down and wait."
Suddenly a shout came from Phil Levins, who had lagged in the rear. It was so full of terror, that Sam and Tom looked at each other in wonder and alarm.
"What's up now?" gasped the latter.
Phil was waving his arms wildly.
"Hurry up—hurry up!" he yelled, frantically, and the Ramblers broke into a run.
Over bushes and rocks they dashed, until they caught sight of something which seemed to make their blood run cold. Their faces blanched.
A quarter of a mile away, caught in the treacherous current of Canyon River, was the "Dauntless," her white hull sparkling in the sunshine and her tapering mast bobbing back and forth against the background of cliffs.
"It's Howard Fenton!" cried Sam Randall, in terrified tones. "Can't something be done to save him?"
"The boat will be carried into the gorge, as sure as fate," groaned Phil Levins. "See—it's moving faster every minute."
"Awful!" breathed Tom Clifton. "Awful to stand here and see that!"
Into the minds of each flashed the dreadful conviction that Howard Fenton was doomed. Spellbound, they watched the "Dauntless" struggling in the current, tossing about like a chip, now floating broadside, then stern foremost, and each moment nearing the dark, gloomy gorge of Canyon River.
Sam Randall brought out his field-glass.
"I see Howard plainly," he gasped. "He's holding on to a rope. The water is rough out there. Great Scott! This is terrible!"
"I wonder how it happened," groaned pale-faced Tom Clifton.
"It seems like an awful dream," panted Phil. "See how fast the 'Dauntless' is going now. In a few minutes he'll be in the gorge."
"Oh, why did we ever ask Howard to come over?"
Sam Randall directed his glass toward the base of the cliff, and a shiver ran through him.
A ridge of white foam shot up against the dark rocks which rose sheer from the water. There was nothing in that glance to inspire hope, and breathlessly they waited.
Glittering in the sunshine, the white hull, tossing and pitching violently, shot toward the base of Round Mountain.
"Poor Howard," groaned Sam. "No hope now. The 'Dauntless' is in the gorge."
"THE DAUNTLESS IS IN THE GORGE."
"THE DAUNTLESS IS IN THE GORGE."
"THE DAUNTLESS IS IN THE GORGE."
He turned away to hide his feelings, and when he looked again the boat was sweeping rapidly between the cliffs. Silently the boys watched, until the jutting crag hid it from view, and then, with heavy hearts, retraced their steps. For some time none could trust themselves to speak.
"What an awful difference a few hours has made," said Sam, finally, in an unsteady voice. "Poor Howard, I can't understand how he was ever caught like that."
"Looked to me as if the 'Dauntless' had lost its rudder," answered Phil, tremulously. "The wind's pretty strong, too, and if an accident happened near the passageway it would be easy to get carried out."
"Never felt so bad in all my life," put in Tom Clifton. "Fenton was such a jolly good chap."
"I can't help feeling that Howard will be saved in some way," said Sam.
But Phil Levins shook his head gloomily.
"You don't know Canyon River, Sam," he exclaimed. "Everybody will tell you that Fenton hasn't a chance."
They soon reached the "Spray," and hastily embarked. So eager were they to get ashore that the boat seemed to move at a snail's pace. But once outside the passageway, a good, stiff breeze carried them along at a rattling clip. They were obliged to tack many times, and their patience was sorely tried.
At length, however, the hotel wharf was reached, and the boys jumped ashore.
They found great excitement at the Resort House. Groups had congregated, eagerly discussing the accident.
The arrival of Sam, Tom and Phil furnished fresh interest. The three were besieged with questions, and they, in turn, asked many others.
"Yes, we saw it," said Philip Brown, the proprietor's son. "A searching party has already gone off to the place where Canyon River comes out of the gorge. Dear knows how long it will take them to get there."
"An' when they do, 'twon't be any use, I calc'late," remarked "Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver. "I tole Fenton many a time ter look out fur that current. Awful news fur his dad, when he gits back."
"Where is Mr. Fenton?" asked Sam.
"Went a-ridin' jist afore Howard put off in the boat. It beats me, it does—this business."
"Say, Sam, let's go over to White Rocks," suggested Phil Levins. "Coming, Tom? You can get a good idea of the current there."
"Like as not yer'll drop in," growled Dugan. "Best keep away. It's 'nuff ter have one stranger carried down, without bein' plumb crazy 'nuff ter run any more chances."
But the boys had already started off.
The White Rocks were a series of huge boulders and flat stones which extended into the lake not far from the base of Round Mountain.
Led by Phil Levins, the boys were soon making their way from rock to rock. But Tom Clifton finally balked. The distance which separated him from the next was a little more than he cared to cross.
"Better not go out any further, fellows," he cautioned.
"Wait here, Tom. Your legs ain't quite long enough," replied Sam, as he made a flying leap.
Phil Levins, like most of the village boys, had often been out on the Rocks, and knew the easiest way, but Sam Randall drew many a long breath during the time that he was jumping and scrambling from one to another.
"Christopher! Isn't it terrific!" he cried, when they finally came to a pause on the smooth, flat top of a rock near the outer end.
The water foamed and boiled against its sides; miniature whirlpools formed here and there, while long, rippling swells with a glassy surface separated them from the boulders beyond.
Above all other sounds was the steady roar of the torrent thundering toward the barrier. As if angry at resistance, it lashed itself into a fury, beating and splashing against the sullen cliff. Hurled back, its blue-green waves, patched with foam, paused for an instant before rushing in mad triumph toward the gorge of Canyon River, about fifty yards ahead.
Sam Randall was fascinated at the spectacle. From where they stood, it was possible to see down-stream for a considerate distance, and the boys eagerly turned their gaze in that direction, vainly hoping that the "Dauntless" might be somewhere in sight.
"Well, what do you think of it now?" asked Phil Levins, at length.
"I give up. No one would have the least chance in such a current," said Sam, in a hollow voice.
Dick Travers dropped his gun and frantically seized a stout sapling which grew close to the edge. A cry of horror escaped his lips, as it began to bend beneath his weight, and his hands to glide over the slippery surface.
"Dave—Bob!" he yelled, despairingly. "Help!"
Through the crevice, narrow as it was, came a patch of light. He turned his head, to shut out the view of the awful chasm below, but in even that quick glance the jutting crags and great boulders strewn about the base were indelibly fixed upon his memory.
The sapling was still bending, but with the grip of despair he clung to it, fearing each instant to hear the fatal snap.
"Help! Bob, Dave!" he gasped again. "Help!"
Then his dangling feet bumped against the face of the cliff and struck a projection. Daring to look down again, he saw a ledge about a foot wide, and hope sprang within him.
A crashing through the underbrush sounded from above and three pale faces were gazing into his own.
"We'll save you," cried Dave Brandon. "Courage, old man!"
"Hurry," gasped Dick. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead, but Dave's voice cheered him.
"Lucky we brought a rope along," panted Dave. "Quick—make a noose—put it around me!"
Bob Somers had implicit confidence in Dave Brandon, and asked no questions. In a moment the noose was slipped over his sturdy shoulders and under his arms.
"Now pass the end around that tree," instructed Dave, hurriedly. "Hang on to it, Bob. Here, Jim, grab hold of my legs, and don't let go."
"Hurry up, fellows," came a cry from below.
"Courage, old boy," sang out Bob. "We're coming."
Dave threw himself flat on the ground and worked his way to the edge of the opening, then leaned far over.
Havens, with a firm grip on the stout boy's legs, twisted his arm around a convenient sapling.
"I've got you, Brandon," he said grimly.
Farther and farther Dave stretched over. He paid no heed to the yawning depths. All he saw was Dick Travers' fear-stricken face just below.
A few inches more, and the "poet's" strong hands closed with a vise-like grip over his fellow Rambler's wrist.
"Keep a tight grip on the sapling, Dick," he commanded, in a tense voice, and the other obeyed.
It was a thrilling moment for all. But Dave's strength was equal to the emergency. With a mighty effort, he began to work his way back inch by inch.
Bob Somers, after fastening the rope securely, sprang forward. No words were spoken. Dave Brandon grunted and groaned, while the perspiration rolled off his round face.
Presently Bob Somers leaned over and grabbed Dick Travers' left arm. Up, up came the dangling form.
"Now, Havens, pull for all you are worth," panted Dave. "Pull like the dickens," and Jim bent all his strength to the task.
Another instant, and Dick was seized by the waistband and dragged over the edge to safety.
It would be hard to give an idea of the thankfulness that was in the hearts of all. For several moments, Dick Travers lay without speaking. The shock had been a severe one.
"Thanks, fellows," was all he said, finally. But his tone spoke volumes.
"Look before you leap next time, Dick," observed Jim Havens. "Lots of dangerous places around these mountains."
"You bet I will. Crickets! It was awful to hang over that chasm. I felt sure the sapling was going to snap," and Dick shuddered at the thought.
Still puffing and blowing, Dave Brandon was busy wiping his perspiring face, while he lay at full length on the ground.
None of them felt quite in the mood for hunting, and the stout boy finally proposed that they return to the dugout.
"I need a good, square meal," he said.
"And you deserve it, too," said Dick, heartily. "Let's vamoose."
Tired and hungry, they finally pushed through the last belt of timber, and came in view of the dugout.
"Well, well, who in the world is that?" exclaimed Bob Somers in surprise, as he observed a figure sitting on a log before the entrance, calmly smoking a big pipe.
"By the flying partridge, a visitor out here," laughed Dave.
"Didn't know we had any neighbors in this block," said Dick.
"Think I know that feller," put in Havens. "Looks like Hank Merwin, the trapper."
The visitor did not arise as the boys approached. He was evidently a very tall, raw-boned man, and his face was bronzed to almost the color of an Indian's. He rested a Winchester rifle across his knees, and fastened to his belt was a holster containing a huge Colt revolver.
He looked impassively at the campers, then drawled, slowly, "Wal, young uns, arternoon!"
"Hello, Hank!" greeted Jim, familiarly. "These are some friends of mine out hunting and fishing. Speak your names, fellows."
Hank Merwin listened calmly. His face was as expressionless as a wooden Indian's.
"Huntin' an' fishin', eh? Wal, I happened along this way, and I sees that some one was a-usin' the dugout, so I stays."
"Glad you did, Hank," said Jim, cordially. "Grub with us to-night."
"Don't mind if I do."
When everything was under way, Dick Travers brought out his camera.
"As long as we have a real trapper here," he announced, "I'm going to take a picture of the whole crowd."
"Knew a feller oncet who had one of them jiggers," observed Hank, slowly. "I never had no picter of myself."
"Well, I'll give you one of these," said Dick. "Step this way, gentlemen, and get your phizzes taken. Get up, Dave. Stay right where you are, Hank."
He stepped back, while the others ranged themselves around. There was a sharp click, and Dick announced that it was all over.
"I'm going to take some wild animals with this, Hank," he said.
"Wild critters, eh, lad?"
Hank's gray eyes rested on the youthful photographer. Then he gazed reflectively at the rings of smoke again.
"Mebbe I kin help ye," he said, kindly. "Kin ye take one of them picters at night—by jacklight?"
"By jacklight?" questioned Dick, in puzzled tones.
"Sartingly! But perhaps you never hearn tell of it?"
"Hank often goes out hunting by jacklight," interposed Havens. "He has a lamp in front of his boat, and a reflector sends the light an awful way ahead. Well—moose and deer are fond of feeding on lily-pads and grasses near the shore, and every once in a while he runs across 'em."
"Should think they would scoot away like sixty," said Dick.
"They don't. The light sort of blinds them and they can't see the hunter."
"Wal, lad," continued Hank Merwin, "kin ye take a picter by that 'ere light?"
"You just bet I can," cried the official photographer, enthusiastically. "I've got a lot of flashlight powder, and it will be as easy as rolling off a log. Thanks awfully, Hank. Snap-shots by jacklight sounds fine, eh, Bob?"
"Right you are."
"Wal, whenever you takes the notion, look me up," said Hank, "but you'd best wait 'til thar ain't no moon."
Dick Travers was delighted at the prospect, and the others were no less pleased.
After supper, sitting before a pleasant fire, Hank Merwin, who had taken a great fancy to the boys, related many thrilling incidents in his life as a trapper. The moon rose above the belt of timber, enveloping the landscape in its pale greenish light; the whispering breeze brought with it many strange sounds from the forest, and, as the fire crackled and glowed, sending up showers of dancing sparks, the boys were more and more charmed with life in the open.
During the week, the boys went out on several hunting expeditions. Many quail and jack-rabbits fell victims to their good aim. Dick Travers had been gradually developing what Dave described as a severe attack of "photographis nightowlis." He was constantly talking of Hank Merwin and the promised jacklight expedition, and Dave was sympathetic.
"Before it gets any worse, fellows, we'd better pull up stakes for a while," he said.
"That's good," approved Havens. "We can come back to the dugout any time," and, Bob agreeing, the matter was thereupon settled.
One morning, bright and early, they were ready to start. A great part of the outfit was hidden, the hunters carrying only what was absolutely necessary. Of course each was provided with a stout pole having a spike at the end.
"We'll have a dandy time out with Hank Merwin," said Havens. "He looks solemn enough—never smiles—but he'll treat you white."
At the first clearing, a magnificent view brought forth delighted exclamations. Streamers of purple mist hung over the valley, while the early morning sun cast a rosy glow over the snow-covered mountain summits which stood out against a pearly green sky.
Masses of pink and white laurel, gay in sunlight and cool in shadow, sent forth their delicate odors to mingle with those of the wild rose and grape blossoms.
Presently Bob Somers held up his hand—"Listen."
A faint musical murmur reached their ears.
"It's a cascade," announced Havens. "Let's steer for it."
As they progressed, the sound changed into a steady roar. It was not difficult to guide themselves by it, nor easy to go in a direct line, on account of irregularities in the mountain slope. Dense masses of vegetation also interfered, but by persevering for about fifteen minutes the boys emerged from a heavy belt of timber, to find an extensive prospect opening out before them.
"Gee willikens! Isn't that a wonderful sight!" cried Dick Travers, enthusiastically.
"Oh, ho—the finest I ever saw," sighed the "poet."
"Perfectly stunning!" burst out Bob Somers, while Havens smiled at their enthusiasm.
Rising almost perpendicularly, a gigantic wall of whitish rock jutted out from the side of a gorge. Perhaps a hundred feet above them, a foaming, glittering stream dashed over the edge, spreading out like a fan in its descent, and dashing with a thunderous roar upon the rocks below. Clouds of mist rose above the boiling, bubbling water and showers of dancing drops glittered like diamonds in the sunlight.
The four approached the edge of the ravine that hemmed in the torrent. Havens, shouting at the top of his voice, explained that a short distance further along there was another cascade.
Dave nodded. Then he slowly raised his arm and pointed upward to the mountain slope beyond.
Several animals on the heights above the cascade were seen moving about, now and then leaping lightly from rock to rock.
"Big horns—mountain sheep—good eating, too," said Havens, laconically.
Bob Somers brought out his field-glass. "By Jove, isn't it wonderful how they keep their footing?" he cried. "Look, Dave!"
The powerful glass brought the animals close into view, and the "poet" gazed long and earnestly. He could see them bunch their four feet together, poise for an instant, then leap gracefully and land on the steepest rocks.
"That's a great sight, Bob," he said, at length.
"Big horns generally keep above the timber line," explained Havens. "They go in bands of about fifty. Some of the old stagers are whoppers."
"Wish I could get a snap-shot of 'em," sighed Dick.
They watched the wild sheep for some time, then retraced their steps and before long were again on their way down the mountain slopes. They found the descent both difficult and dangerous. Gullies and precipices were encountered, and a misstep might have resulted disastrously.
It was about noon when they finally scrambled over a ledge of rocks and reached a clear, swift-flowing stream.
"Oh, ho, how glad I am to get down with arms and legs safe and sound," sighed Dave.
"This stream leads to the lake where Hank Merwin has his cabin," announced Jim Havens.
"That's what I call a bit of good news," said Bob. "Let's have a bite to eat—that is if Chubby is willing."
"Willing?" groaned Dave, as he lolled at full length. "I couldn't go a step further without something to strengthen me. If there was only a store around where a fellow could get a plate of ice cream, eh? Um—um."
"Wish to thunder we could swim to Hank Merwin's," remarked Dick, with a glance toward the swift current.
"Not as much as I do," said Dave, languidly.
"Hank is a crackerjack at cooking," put in Havens. "Most likely he'll get up a fine spread, if we reach there in time."
"Eh? That sounds interesting," said Dave. "We must give him a chance. Come ahead, fellows," and he sank back on the turf and closed his eyes.
A little judicious tickling with a blade of grass soon brought him to his feet, however, whereupon the boys, in single file, began to trudge along the bank.
In about half an hour they reached a dilapidated log cabin.
"H'm—about the worst wreck I ever saw," commented Bob. "Struck by lightning, blown over by a cyclone, or knocked out by an earthquake?"
"All three—I should say," chimed in Dick, with a grin. "More logs lying about the ground than on the walls."
"Hey, fellows, I've got an idea," said Bob, suddenly. "A dandy one, too."
"Quick—speak out. Don't let it get away," grinned Dick. "Something tells me it's something."
"Well, why not make a raft?"
"A raft!" echoed his companions.
"Yes! Why not? That's better than swimming, isn't it? We ought to be able to steer with a couple of poles, all right, and keep out of the way of rocks, eh, Havens? Dandy fun, besides."
Jim reflected. "A good scheme, Bob. Only there are some pretty swift rapids. We might get upset in the middle of one—that sounds nice, eh?"
"But if we walk," drawled Dave, "it means a lot more climbing, doesn't it?"
"Sure thing," said Jim.
"Then I say, real loud, build a raft—but do you think it can be done?" An anxious look came over the stout boy's face.
"Of course," asserted Bob, confidently.
"But how? Don't keep me in suspense. My! Wouldn't it be great to float down that stream."
"By Jove, there are enough loose logs around to build two rafts, Chubby," said Bob. "Don't you see 'em? But let's begin on the job."
"I'm willing, if the rest are," put in Jim Havens, slowly.
"Hurrah for the raft!" shouted Bob.
In a few minutes the four guns were stacked, their outfits piled in a heap, and then the sound of axe and hatchet resounded through the forest. Cutting the logs to the proper length was a hard task, but the boys worked with a vim and were rewarded by success. A sufficient number finally lay at the water's edge.
"Now, fellows, we need tough roots to bind 'em together," said Bob. "Must be lots around."
"And with the old door from the cabin nailed across it ought to be solid," said Dick.
The work progressed rapidly. The raft was not a thing of beauty, but it promised to hold together. The roots used were extremely tough and flexible, and, fortunately, great quantities were close at hand. Bound securely with these, and braced by strips from the door, the raft was completed to their satisfaction.
"Now we'll fashion a couple of paddles, and begin our voyage," said Bob.
"Don't forget a rest for the guns," put in Dave.
"That's so, my boy. Great head."
"A couple of short logs, with a strip nailed across the tops, will do the trick."
"Somebody's got to look out for 'em, though. You will, Dave?—good."
At last, everything was ready. The raft had been built on a shelving bank, and after a hard tussle was set afloat.
"All aboard the 'Mayflower'!" yelled Bob. He stood, paddle in hand, with Havens at his side.
"Let 'er go, cap'n!" cried Dave. "All overboard at the next rock. Hurrah! We're off, and still on!"
The clumsy pile of logs swung slowly out, then caught by the swift current, began its voyage down-stream.
With but little effort the boys kept it well out from the shore, and the motion was delightful.
"Whoop la! This is dandy," cried Dick, in great glee. "It beats walking all hollow, eh?"
"Oh, ho, what views—look at the reflections," said Dave.
"And isn't the water clear?" put in Bob. "You can see the bottom."
"We'll see it closer, if you don't keep her steady," said Havens, with a laugh.
At good speed, they swept along. The stream soon widened out, each shore presenting a most picturesque appearance. Oaks and maples hung far over, and occasionally a birch stood out sharply white against its fellows.
"Rocks ahead! Port your helm," sang out Dick.
"Aye, aye, sir!" laughed Bob.
The two navigators pushed their poles down against the pebbly bottom and by exerting all their strength succeeded in swinging the unwieldy craft to one side.
But an instant later, a terrific jolt made Havens sit down with a thud.
"By jingo!" cried Dick. "We're stuck."
He had hardly uttered the words, however, when the mass of logs slowly ground off the submerged rock into clear water again.
"And this is just the beginning," remarked Havens, rubbing his legs. "Nothing soft about these logs, fellows."
"Hello, we're going into a canyon soon, sure as blazes," remarked Dick, rather apprehensively. "I'll bet the old thing hits a rock and busts."
The valley began to narrow, and before many minutes had elapsed the raft was running between high, precipitous banks, then, swinging around a bend, the walls of a canyon came into view.
"We're in for it now," said Havens, with a long breath. "Wow!"
As they entered the dark gorge, a chilling breeze swept in their faces; the current fairly raced along, and, as the voyagers looked up at the straight walls of rock, they began to doubt the wisdom of their course. Rocks, and snags, too, were numerous.
"Mind your eye!" yelled Havens. "If we get dumped into this pocket, we'll be in a mess, sure enough."
"You bet we will," panted Bob. "Look out for that rock straight ahead, Jim. Now—both together."
By vigorous efforts, they once more kept clear of the obstruction, then, as the gorge became still narrower, they were obliged to redouble their efforts.
"Oh, ho, real exciting sport, this," remarked Dave.
"Just a bit too much so," grumbled Dick. "Wow! We're coming to another bend."
"Canyon ends just beyond it," called out Havens. "Look out, though, we're coming to the worst stretch of all."
With a rush and a roar, the river swept around the giant cliffs. The "Mayflower" shook convulsively, swung in a half-circle, then, gripped by another current, wobbled violently.
Only quick work prevented a catastrophe, and all breathed a sigh of relief when the wider valley was again reached.
As the raft approached a clump of trees, a flock of ducks arose with cries of alarm.
"Hey there, ye chumps—what d'ye mean by scarin' away them ducks?" yelled a stentorian voice.
A tall, lank figure stepped into view, and shook his fist angrily toward the advancing raft.
"'Surly Joe,'" said Havens, laconically.
"Oh, I remember him," said Bob, surveying the hunter with interest. "He's the old fellow we saw at the Resort House."
"He of the sour face," added Dave, laughingly. "Seems real mad, eh?"
"Hey, you lot of wooden heads," shouted the trapper, "what are ye doin' out here?"
"Enjoying ourselves," laughed Havens.
"Wal, if ye bother my game another time, ye won't," snarled Joe. "Were you waterbugs crazy 'nuff ter come through the canyon on that thing?"
"Sure, Mr. Tomlin," grinned Dick.
"Don't give me none of yer imperdence, kid. I won't stand fur no sass."
"There might have been a dandy mixup if we'd been on shore," remarked the "poet," grimly.
When the sun had sunk from view behind the range of mountains the raft entered Lake Cloud, a beautiful sheet of water about two miles long, three-quarters broad, and partly hemmed in by mountains.
The rich, dark evergreens and lofty peaks were reflected with wonderful clearness in the limpid surface. Straight ahead, rising against the golden sky, was a snow-capped summit, purple and hazy, while nearer at hand were red-brown cliffs, with the higher walls still touched by a glow of sunlight.
"No words are strong enough for this scenery," declared the "poet." "Hank Merwin certainly knows where to hang out."
"There isn't a prettier place around," asserted Jim Havens. "And talk about game—it's chuck full—bears and deer. But Hank can tell you all about that."
"Beats any place I ever saw," said Bob, enthusiastically. "Now, fellows, we'll have to desert this good old craft."
"Right you are," was Havens' rejoinder. "Hank's shack is over on the north shore."
The raft was soon poled through the lily-pads and rushes bordering the lake, and the boys jumped ashore.
"Feel kind of stiff, for a fact," said Dick.
"Haven't very far to go," put in Havens, cheerfully.
With a last look at the rude pile of logs which had served them so well, the boys shouldered their outfits and started off.
Hank Merwin's cabin was in a clearing behind a spur of a mountain and not far from the lake.
They found him sitting before the entrance, calmly smoking his pipe. He looked up as the boys trooped forward, but no change of expression came over his impassive face.
"How d'ye do, young uns?" he drawled, without rising. "I've been kinder lookin' fur ye."
"And we've had a grand trip," said Havens. "A raft most of the way."
"Young uns will be frisky," commented the trapper; "but I reckon, lads, ye're hungry."
The venison steak and corn dodgers, together with coffee made a very enjoyable supper. When it was over, Hank assisted them in making bough beds. Then they turned in, and were quickly lulled to sleep by the whispering pines.
Next morning, up bright and early, Dick Travers made several photographs of the surrounding scenery.
"Crickets, I can hardly wait for that jacklight trip to-night," he said to Brandon.
"Time will be here before you know it," drawled Dave. "I'm going to make a sketch of the lake."
Dave was only a beginner, but his work impressed Hank greatly, and his delight was unbounded when the picture was finished and the boy, after tacking it on the wall of the cabin, said that there it was going to remain.
Before supper, the trapper got his fourteen foot boat ready.
"I can't take all of ye lads," he said, regretfully, "but some kin go another time."
In drawing lots for the coveted position of assistant to the official photographer, Dave Brandon secured the lucky number.
Eager with anticipation, Dick Travers scarcely tasted his food, and the sight of Dave calmly munching away annoyed him.
"For goodness' sake, Chub, do get excited—or something."
"Let it be something," yawned Dave. "Nerve-tingling business isn't in my line."
Hank Merwin lighted the lamp on the bow of his boat, and a powerful reflector sent a stream of light to pierce the blackness.
"Jacklight's a-goin'—git aboard, lads," instructed the trapper.
The boys eagerly obeyed. In a moment, comfortably seated, they heard the faint sound of ripples lapping against the sides of the boat, then the fire in front of the cabin gradually grew smaller.
Hank handled the paddles with great skill, keeping far enough out to clear the aquatic plants which grew in profusion.
"Lads," he said, in a low voice, "no talkin'. Our frien's kin do all that," and Dave smiled, for the voices of the two on shore reached them with astonishing clearness.
Occasionally, the cry of some bird or animal in the forest sounded weirdly, while night-hawks, hovering over the lake, made their sharp voices heard at frequent intervals.
"Oh, ho," murmured Dave; he lay back and repeated, in barely audible tones: