"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oarAnd vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"
"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oarAnd vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"
"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar
And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore.'"
Meanwhile Dick Travers directed the rays of the lantern toward the bank. They flitted fantastically from tree to tree, now darting between and dragging into view some delicate tracery beyond, then shooting across the inky black water, revealing lilies and rushes.
The steady, rhythmic sound of the paddle, barely heard above the soft lament of the pines, the faint gurgle of the water, and the easy, gliding motion, produced a dreamy, unreal effect, which charmed the Ramblers and soon lulled one of them to sleep.
But Dick was ever alert. He strained his ears and eyes for the fairest evidence which might indicate the presence of some wild animal, but without avail.
Still Hank Merwin paddled on—his muscular arms seemed tireless—and still Dick shot the blinding glare over water and shore. The end of the lake was reached. Looming faintly against the sky, they now saw a great snow-capped peak, and Dick Travers caught a low, musical murmur.
"A cascade," he whispered, and Hank, who had heard him, grunted affirmatively.
Dick began to feel that his chances of getting a photograph were very slim indeed.
A half hour passed; then a faint sound set his nerves to tingling.
"Hank—Hank!" he whispered.
"Sh—sh," came from the trapper.
Dick felt a gleam of hope, for instantly the boat shot ahead at redoubled speed. In spite of himself, the hand that directed the jacklight trembled. Gradually the sound grew more distinct; its nature puzzled the youth more and more.
"What in the world can it be?" he thought. "Crickets, it sounds funny. Wish I dared ask Hank."
But there was something in the boatman's manner which impelled silence.
They were skimming rapidly past the trees now. The boat shot ahead almost noiselessly toward the mysterious sound, which seemed to be just ahead.
Dick touched Dave on the shoulder.
"Wake up, wake up!" he whispered, excitedly.
"'Softly, oh, soft! Let us rest on the oar,'" murmured the stout boy. Then he sat bolt upright, with an exclamation, and peered ahead. "What's the——" he began.
But a low, stern injunction for silence from Hank Merwin cut him short.
Evidently something extraordinary was going on out there in the night.
Suddenly the beam from the search-light, shooting past a jutting point of shore, fell upon a most remarkable spectacle and one which sent a thrill through both boys.
Two great animals, engaged in terrific combat, reared and plunged, as they charged each other with lowered heads.
"Ten days ago—ten, mind you, since poor Howard Fenton was carried into the canyon," said Sam Randall, softly.
He and Tom Clifton were seated on the porch of Rickham House. The night was very dark, and several starlike points of light indicated the village.
Tom Clifton tilted his chair back against the wall.
"Maybe it won't make Bob Somers and the rest of them feel badly," he remarked, reflectively.
"It couldn't fail to. Wonder if anything has been heard from Mr. Fenton?"
"Walter Brown says not. Very funny how he disappeared right after the accident."
"Certainly is—and never told any one where he was going. Left a lot of stuff at the hotel, too."
"Perhaps he's off in the mountains somewhere," suggested Tom. "The searching party never found a trace of either Howard or the 'Dauntless.'"
"A terrible thing—indeed it was."
For a while the boys lapsed into gloomy silence.
Presently Sam rose to his feet and peered earnestly in the direction of the islands.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Tom, do you see anything?"
"Of course I do. A light—a light on Promontory. Now what in the dickens can that be?"
A tiny spot of light, seemingly suspended in the air, had suddenly appeared in view, steadily growing brighter until it looked like a blazing beacon.
"Maybe the old log cabin is afire. I'll bet that's just what it is," said Sam. "Christopher, where's the field-glass?"
He darted inside, and presently returned.
"I can't make it out," he said, finally, in a perplexed tone. "Here, Tom, take a squint."
But the younger member of the Rambler Club shook his head.
"By jinks, I give it up, Sam," he remarked, slowly. "Mighty funny—I never saw a light there before. Shouldn't wonder if some camper is living in the old shack."
"Huh! And I suppose he's making a pot of coffee."
Tom laughed.
"Must be a good-sized blaze to make all that light," he admitted. "Let's take a run over to-morrow, and find out."
"I've got a better scheme than that, Tommy. Why not go out a bit on the lake now?"
"Now?" echoed Tom, in astonishment.
"Sure! It's a dandy night—not too much breeze. It will be lots of fun, cruising around. Come ahead."
"I'm not so anxious, Sam. It's blacker than a stack of black cats out there. I'd rather stay on the porch."
"Oh, pshaw, Tommy! Be a sport. With a lantern to keep us company, there's nothing to be afraid of."
"Oh, suffering catfish! Who said anything about being afraid, Sam Randall?" exclaimed Tom, flaring up. "Sure we'll go." He settled his cap firmly on his head, and then, with another glance at the distant beacon, rose to his feet.
In a few minutes the Ramblers were at the wharf. The water looked very black, and it seemed so silent and lonely that Tom, despite his words, felt many misgivings as he stepped aboard the "Speedy."
Sam lighted a lantern; then the sail was run up, and within a quarter of an hour they were well on their way toward the far end of the lake.
"It's burning brighter than ever, Tommy, so I guess it ain't the old shack," observed Sam; "but what in thunder do they want such a whopping big bonfire for?"
"Might be 'Little Bill' and his pals having some fun."
"Perhaps. This is bully sport, eh?"
Soon the thickly-wooded shore of Hemlock Island began to separate itself from the lake, and the lofty crags of Promontory rose dimly against the star-studded sky.
At the proper time, Sam Randall skilfully brought the "Speedy" about, and they prepared to enter the channel.
Just as the sharp turn was being made, the sound of oars reached their ears.
"H'm, some of the night-picnickers, now, perhaps," muttered Sam.
He half arose, in order to get a better view, and at that instant a rowboat shot out of the passageway directly across their bow. A collision seemed inevitable.
The Ramblers gave a lusty shout; Sam swung the helm hard down, and the sail rattled to the deck in a jiffy, but despite these efforts, the sailboat struck the other a glancing blow near the stern.
The occupant of the rowboat, however, had used his oars skilfully, and escaped being thrown into the water by a narrow margin. The two craft grated past each other, and quickly came to a stop. Then the oarsman, with a couple of strokes, drew up alongside the "Speedy."
As the rays of the lantern shot across his face, the boys were profoundly astonished to recognize Mr. Fenton.
"I suppose I must plead guilty to having made a blunder," said the latter, after replying to the boys' salutations; "but surely the last thing I expected was to encounter a boat. I must thank you for having handled yours so nicely that I was spared a wetting."
"Good thing there isn't much wind," was Sam Randall's response. Then he added, abruptly, "We saw a light on top of the bluff, Mr. Fenton, and thought it would be a good idea to cruise around a bit to see if we could find out what it was."
"Not remarkable, then, that we should run across each other."
"Suppose you saw the bonfire? It's been making quite an illumination."
Mr. Fenton did not answer for a moment, and when he spoke his voice betrayed some embarrassment.
"Yes, Sam, I noticed it," he said. "But, really, it's about time that I got back to the hotel. It's quite a long pull, and——"
"Oh, we couldn't let you row, Mr. Fenton," interrupted Sam, quickly. "We'll tow you back."
"Of course," put in Tom, wondering at the oarsman's courage in venturing out at night in a small boat and on such dangerous waters.
As if divining his thoughts, Mr. Fenton said, "It's safe enough if one hugs the shore of Hemlock Island for some distance. That makes the way a bit longer, but really, boys, I don't feel that I ought to put you to the trouble."
"No trouble at all," asserted Sam. He stooped down and passed over the painter. Mr. Fenton thanked him quietly, and made it fast to his boat.
As there was very little wind in the passageway, it was necessary to use a pair of oars in bringing the "Speedy" about. Mr. Fenton clambered over the side, and the return trip began.
When they were well out in the lake again, the Ramblers looked curiously toward the top of the cliff, but the mysterious light had entirely vanished.
With natural delicacy, neither Sam nor Tom touched upon the recent happening, nor did Mr. Fenton himself mention it. They landed him at the hotel wharf, then set sail for Rickham House.
"Tom," remarked Sam, slowly, when they were out of hearing, "what do you make of this adventure? Doesn't it seem kind o' queer that Mr. Fenton should be near Promontory Island at this time of night?"
"Well, rather. And he didn't seem to care to talk about that bonfire."
"No—I can't make head or tail out of it, Tommy."
"Perhaps the place where his son used to go has a sort of attraction for him," said Tom, hesitatingly. "I've heard of people like that, and——"
"But it doesn't explain the light."
"No!"
"How long do you suppose he's been back at the hotel?"
"Can't guess. Why didn't you think to ask him?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Well, his manner kind of rattled me," said Tom. "Never knew him to be so cold and stiff."
"You wouldn't expect him to be like he was, would you?"
"No! I guess not. The shock must have been terrible."
"What do you think about that bonfire, anyway?"
"Give it up."
Early next morning, the "Speedy" was again headed for Promontory, and, aided by a strong breeze, reached it in a short time.
Almost immediately the boys were scrambling up the cliff. They arrived at the top much out of breath, very dusty, and also very eager.
Sitting in front of the cabin was a short, stout man with a full beard whom neither had ever seen before. He was calmly smoking a pipe.
Both boys immediately noticed a great pile of charred sticks—remains of the huge bonfire of the night before.
At the sight of visitors, the man jumped to his feet.
"Well, well," he said, gruffly; "in a powerful big hurry, boys, ain't ye? Wait till you get yer breath." He waved his hand and reseated himself. "Ever been up here before?"
"Sure," answered Sam; "and it's the first time we ever met anybody. Hello! The cabin's fixed up in great shape, eh, Tommy? New door and window, besides a whole lot of patching."
He looked inquiringly at the stout man. "Should think you'd find it lonesome and dull up here."
The other knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"Sometimes, boy," he responded, slowly, "but I don't git bothered much by people that have questions to ask. Now I suppose you're as curious as most people, and are a-wonderin' who the old codger is."
He paused, and refilled his pipe.
"Well, I'm Neil Prescott, at nobody's service."
The boys grinned, and introduced themselves. Then Sam began to tell Mr. Prescott how they had seen the light of his fire the night before.
"Well, what of it?" asked the stout man, gruffly.
"Nothing," said Sam, somewhat surprised. "Only I thought——"
"A power of things, no doubt, an' all of 'em wrong."
"You didn't need a blaze like that to cook by, did you?"
"Well, well! That's a good one. I was just a-tryin' ter find out what the village looked like."
"And I guess you came pretty near doing it," said Sam, with a grin. "If you had piled on a bit more wood, we wouldn't have run into Mr. Fenton's boat."
"Eh—what? Run into Mr. Fenton's boat?" gasped Mr. Prescott, half rising from his seat. "Say that ag'in."
"Then you know him?" broke in Tom Clifton, abruptly.
"Did I say anything about knowin' 'im? Did yer hear me utter any words to the effect that I knew him, eh?"
Mr. Prescott brought out an enormous bandana handkerchief, and mopped his perspiring forehead.
"If you boys ain't quizzers from Quizzerville—well, this Mr. What-you-may-call-him wasn't hurt, was he?"
"Not so you could notice it," said Sam, flippantly. "Going to stay here long, Mr. Prescott?"
"Mebbe—mebbe not. If you hev time ter wait, I'll write out the story of me life an' give it ter you. Where did you come from, an' what are you doin' out here?"
A grim smile played over Mr. Prescott's features. He began to speak rapidly, and more gruffly than ever.
"Answerin' questions ain't sich fun as askin' 'em, eh? 'Tain't well ter mind other people's business, lads. Did yer ever think of that?"
And, well satisfied with this home thrust, Mr. Neil Prescott laughed gruffly.
He soon became quite pleasant, however, and entertained his visitors with several stories. But not a word of information did he volunteer about himself. When they took their leave, Sam and Tom's curiosity, instead of being satisfied, was aroused to a greater degree than ever.
"He doesn't belong to the village," said Sam, positively, "and isn't any hunter—you can bet on that. Wonder where in the dickens he came from? Say—did you notice the big box of provisions he had inside?"
"Yes—and the whole place was cleaned up as nice as you please. Any one could tell that he knows Mr. Fenton, too. Wonder why he tried to bluff us off."
"It's kind of mysterious, Tommy—and I hate mysteries. You and I, old chap, will have to clear this thing up. Neil Prescott isn't staying in that cabin for the fun of the thing. No, sir," and Sam shook his head with conviction.
That night there was no sign of life from the solitary occupant of Promontory Island, but late on the evening following the strange beacon burned even more brightly than before.
Hank Merwin ceased plying his paddle and the boat rested almost motionless.
The jacklight revealed a sight which might have thrilled even a veteran hunter. The boys found it hard to steady their tingling nerves.
"Gee!" gasped Dick Travers. "I never——"
But a stern, though almost inaudible admonition from Hank Merwin effectually silenced him.
In spite of the glare of light which streamed over them, the infuriated moose continued their deadly combat. Bellowing and snorting, they reared and plunged, striking with both hoofs and horns, churning the shallow water into foam and trampling down the lilies and rushes which grew thickly about.
The novelty of the situation, the weird light, cutting its way through the blackness, and the struggle to the death, made it seem more like some wild dream than reality, and the chums rested almost motionless, half expecting, each moment, that their presence would be discovered.
But the monarchs of the forest were too intent upon their war. Although of clumsy build, with huge head, short neck and long, ungainly fore legs, they moved about with wonderful speed.
Suddenly their antlers came together with terrific force, and two foam-flecked bodies swayed back and forth. The battle raged hotter. Now the smaller animal was borne almost to his knees; then, recovering himself, forced the other back, and the latter, in turn exerting his enormous strength to the utmost, pushed his rival partly around.
A huge head was silhouetted for an instant against the background; a spreading pair of antlers descended. The blow was struck with all the force that a powerful pair of shoulders could give—a blow of crushing force.
The smaller animal staggered; a snort of agony and rage echoed over the lake, as he flopped to his knees, sending forth a circling wave to surge against the sides of the boat.
"He's done for," breathed Dick.
"HE'S DONE FOR."
"HE'S DONE FOR."
"HE'S DONE FOR."
"No—not yet. Look—he's game."
The fighters were on the edge of the jacklight now, and Dick's hands trembled with excitement as he adjusted the reflector.
The moose, with a desperate effort, bravely arose and locked horns again.
Then it was that Dave Brandon aroused himself.
"Quick, Dick Travers," he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper, "quick! What's the matter with you—get your picture!"
The official photographer had almost forgotten his mission. But he set about repairing his error with so much energy that he nearly fell overboard.
A warning "sh—sh" from Hank steadied him, and, to his relief, the animals paid no heed.
Eagerly, he again adjusted the light and sighted the camera.
"Ready, Dave," he whispered. "Set off the powder."
A blinding glare followed, and Dick Travers gave a low cry of triumph.
"As sure as you live, I got it," he murmured, exultantly. "Christopher!"
The combat was approaching an end.
The larger moose backed away, then plunged forward.
Crash! Its antlers landed with telling force; its antagonist staggered, sank to his knees, then toppled heavily over, and a wave surged forth as he fell among the water-lilies and rushes. The mountains threw back on the night air the conqueror's bellow of triumph.
Then, as if conscious for the first time of danger, the moose wheeled sharply about and made for the shore as fast as his exhausted condition would permit.
In an instant, Dick had raised his rifle, and, seeing this, Hank Merwin lowered his own.
"At him, lad; and shoot straight," he encouraged.
There was a flash and a report—the moose fell backward on his haunches.
"I've got him!" yelled Dick, in great excitement.
But, almost as he spoke, there was a floundering in the water; the wounded and enraged animal staggered to his feet and charged directly for the boat.
It was a critical moment.
But Hank Merwin did not lose his head. With a quick stroke, he sent the craft forward, and, as he turned it, the rays of the jacklight swept past the charging moose to the shore beyond.
"He's coming right for us!" yelled Dick, in terror.
"Don't none of yer shoot," commanded the trapper, sharply.
The moose was right behind them. Its ungainly form could be dimly seen, as it lumbered through the dense aquatic growth, bent on vengeance.
But Hank shot the boat out in deep water, then quickly turned. The jacklight was again directed toward the moose.
Its rays were barely in time to reveal a most unexpected sight. The animal suddenly staggered and fell.
Dick Travers' shot, together with the wounds received in battle, had proved too much for the gallant old beast, whose eyes glared defiance to the last.
"Hurrah!" cried the official photographer, in a wild burst of enthusiasm. "Oh, Christopher! Isn't this a piece of luck? Got a picture and brought down a moose—how's that, Dave, old boy?" and in his delight, he slapped his friend vigorously on the shoulder. "Ain't I a hunter, eh?"
"Yes, lad, didn't do bad," put in Hank, kindly, "but if the ole critter hadn't had that tussle—wal—you'd be a heap wetter'n you are now, an' the boat might have been smashed ter bits."
"I say, Hank, could—I—I get the antlers?" asked Dick, breathlessly.
"Sartin, my lad. I'll fix 'em fur ye. I'd best be gittin' ter work right away, too."
Hank Merwin's sharp hunting-knife began to do wonders. He cut and slashed in a manner which showed his familiarity with such work. Finally, the head, skin and several choice pieces of meat lay in the bottom of the boat.
"To-morrer we'll come over an' finish the job," declared Hank. "Ye sartingly were in luck, lads. It was a sight that many an ole stager in the woods ain't seen."
"We've had a grand trip," said Dave, "and when we get back I'm going to celebrate by taking the biggest snooze I ever had."
Bob Somers and Jim Havens were greatly astonished when they learned what had happened.
"Christopher! Just look at that pair of horns!" exclaimed the captain, as the moose's head was dragged ashore. "Greatest luck I ever heard of," he added, "and if that picture only comes out right, won't it make some of the Kingswood boys open their eyes?"
"I guess it will," laughed Dick. "And we ought to have a few more adventures before the trip is over. When do we start climbing again?"
"Day after to-morrow."
"Thought it was week after next," drawled Dave.
"Why not stay a while longer, lads?" put in Hank Merwin.
But Bob shook his head.
"Sam and little Tommy Clifton must have their fling at it pretty soon," he said. "Guess they think we're lost already."
Next morning, the four piled into Hank Merwin's boat, and were paddled to the scene of the battle. They helped the trapper skin the second moose, and spent the rest of the day fishing. A good haul of trout resulted.
On the following morning, immediately after breakfast, Hank Merwin rowed them to the far end of the lake. He was sorry to see them go, but the boys assured him that they would be back in a few days.
"It's funny," remarked Dick, after they had been on the way for some time, "how close that mountain looked to the lake, and we've been walking and walking."
"And haven't even come to the base," grumbled Dave. "That's always the way with mountains—they do it on purpose."
"Notice how the trees have thinned out?" queried Havens; "well, this place is called 'Scattered Pines.' Used to be a lot of moose around here—guess there are still. But come ahead, fellows; we have a long climb."
Presently, between the pines, a stream appeared in view. It sang so cheerily that Dave was charmed.
"Oh, ho," he murmured, as he reached the bank; "makes me think of that poem by—"
"That will do, Chubby," laughed Dick.
"By Bryant. It begins—now listen——"
"Great Cæsar, fellows, keep quiet," broke in Bob, in a low tone. "What in the dickens is that straight ahead? Look, Havens—there—it moved!"
"A bear, and I'll bet a grizzly," said Jim.
"Where—where, for goodness' sake?" asked Dick, gazing wildly around.
"Right on that fallen tree," answered Dave.
"The old rascal is fishing. See—he scooped up something then."
"Sure he did," agreed Havens. "Grizzlies are great fishers, and the old dub there is so anxious to get a square meal that he hasn't even noticed us."
"Let's creep up on him," proposed Jim. "But you'll need all your nerve. Who wants to go?"
"Huh! Do you think we came out here to hunt sparrows?" whispered Dick, scornfully, and the others smiled.
Very cautiously, and keeping out of sight as much as possible, the quartet pushed ahead, and presently arrived at a point where the bear could be plainly seen.
He was stretched out on a trunk which had fallen across the stream, forming a natural bridge. His broad, massive head lay far over, and his gaze was fixed intently upon the water below. His powerful right paw, ready for instant action, hung low, but the heavy, brownish yellow form seemed as motionless as the trunk itself.
The grizzly was not resting, however, or merely enjoying the pleasant sunshine. He was working for his living, and doing it in a thorough and efficient manner.
Quick as a flash, his paw struck the water, and when it came out, a glistening, wriggling fish was tossed on the bank.
"Fellows, I'm going to make a snap-shot of that," whispered Dick, in great excitement. "By jingo—look at him eating! That is a sight worth seeing, eh?"
"Quick, then," said Havens, in cautious tones.
With hands that trembled in spite of himself, Dick Travers sighted the camera, and just as the grizzly was again making a catch, its click sounded sharply.
Success emboldened them to wait and try to get another. The bear continued his feasting, and all was silent. At least the boys were sure they were acting with commendable caution. Whether they were mistaken in this, or whether something else attracted the animal's attention, they never knew, but Dick Travers, about to take another look through the camera, drew back as if he had been shot.
The bear slowly turned his head; then, with a sort of coughing growl, arose, and his powerful frame was silhouetted against the firs on the opposite bank. In another moment, he had lumbered off the tree trunk, and was pushing forward directly toward the venturesome hunters.
"Old Ephraim is out to investigate," declared Havens, excitedly. "Throw down everything but your guns. Take my advice, and shin up a tree—every blessed one of you."
"But," protested Bob, "we——"
Jim waved his hand impatiently.
"The worst animal in the mountains to tackle," he said, earnestly. "Better do what I say. Quick! The old brute's coming this way."
The crackling of twigs and crashing among the underbrush indicated that the bear was steadily advancing.
The hunters' nerves began to tingle at the prospect of meeting such a formidable antagonist, but a certain pride prevented them from adopting the wisest course.
Old Ephraim evidently felt that everything was not as it should be, and seemed determined to be fully satisfied before returning to his fishing.
While the four stood irresolute, the underbrush parted, and a broad head with a rather pointed snout came into view. A pair of small eyes gazed inquiringly around, and their owner, taking in the young nimrods, uttered a low growl. He seemed to be indignant at the invasion of his domain. Such a proceeding must be discouraged.
With a roar, he lumbered forward, and the Ramblers, feeling that closer acquaintanceship was not to be desired, scattered.
All but Jim Havens were startled and disconcerted at the size of the animal, and began to regret that they were not viewing the scene nicely perched on some branch out of reach of his terrible claws.
In the meantime, the grizzly singled out Bob Somers for immediate vengeance. The captain felt that it was too late to follow Havens' advice. He steadied his nerves and awaited a favorable moment.
"Shoot straight!" yelled Havens.
Four rifles were ready, though they may have wavered a little.
One of them presently spoke; a sharp report reverberated; a wreath of bluish smoke curled lazily upward, and a terrifying roar rang out.
Bob's shot had only checked the animal for an instant. It rose on its hind legs, then dropped upon all fours again, and, maddened beyond measure, redoubled its speed.
"Run for your life, Bob," shouted Havens. "We'll get him."
Then a wild chase began.
Afraid of hitting their companion, the others refrained from firing, while the captain tore around the trees with the huge animal in hot pursuit.
The three boys, with shouts and yells of encouragement, which they hoped might also divert the bear's attention, followed. It seemed to the frightened group that the captain was certain to be overtaken.
But, with a desperate effort, Bob suddenly swerved to one side, and by the time the clumsy brute could turn he had gained several feet.
"Keep it up, Bob!" shouted Dave Brandon, encouragingly.
The stout boy was puffing and blowing, but despite his handicap in weight kept well ahead of the others.
"Hi, hi! Christopher!"
"Great Cæsar!"
"My eye!"
Bob had reached the bank, and the grizzly was again almost within reach. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that a turn to either the right or left might be disastrous. Then, without hesitation, he threw aside his gun and plunged into the stream.
The bear, as if puzzled by this strange proceeding, stood for a moment gazing after the swimmer. But he did not mean to be cheated in such a fashion as that. With another hoarse growl, his ponderous body sent the water splashing.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously.
"You missed him," called out Havens, his eyes shining with excitement. "Come ahead—we've got him!"
At full speed, he led the way toward the fallen tree. But the remnants of the grizzly's feast had made the trunk very slippery. Jim Havens' right foot began to slide—he gave an exclamation—then the left gave way.
The rifle dropped from his grasp; he flung his arms wildly over his head, and, with a lusty yell of dismay, plunged forward and landed in the water with a tremendous splash.
When, coughing and spluttering, he arose to the surface, it was about ten feet further down-stream.
"Wow—I—I——"
But a sharp report drowned the rest of his sentence.
Dave Brandon had succeeded in crossing the natural bridge just as the dripping bear clambered out on the opposite side. He sank to one knee, and fired.
The grizzly rose on its hind legs, its mouth opened, showing an array of formidable teeth; then, with a last defiant snarl, Old Ephraim fell heavily over, gave several convulsive movements and finally lay limp and lifeless.
"Hurrah!" yelled Bob Somers.
He stood on the bank, with his wet clothes clinging tightly to him and his hair matted fantastically to his forehead.
"Bully boy!" yelled Havens, who had scrambled ashore; "and I had an idea you couldn't shoot."
"Oh, no, he can't. Dave is the champion nimrod of the crowd," laughed Dick Travers. "Christopher—some excitement, eh?" Then he burst out laughing. "You're not hurt, are you, Havens?" he asked. "Honest, you were the funniest thing I ever saw when you went in."
"The whole thing was a comedy of errors," smiled Bob.
"It's lucky I didn't fall on a rock," said Havens, with a very faint grin. "That old fish-eating monster caused us a peck of trouble. And my rifle—we'll have to dig that up," he added, ruefully. "Somers, you and I are pretty sights."
The two dry nimrods and the two wet were soon examining the carcass. It was a monster, over eight feet long, and probably weighing about nine hundred pounds.
The task of skinning Old Ephraim was not an easy one, but Havens' experience counted. When the work was finally accomplished, all realized that it would be impossible to reach the mountain top that night.
"What's the odds?" remarked Bob. "We're not in any hurry."
Four o'clock found the boys weary, footsore, and looking for a camp. They were a long way up the mountain.
During the march, Dick Travers, who carried a shotgun, brought down a brace of quail.
When they came to a stop, it was at a point where a barren, rocky area surrounded them. Evidently at some remote period a fearful convulsion of nature had split and rent the great rocks and piled others together in the utmost confusion.
Looming against the sky, high above, was a rounded summit of the purest white.
Dave Brandon and Dick Travers rested by the wayside, while Bob Somers and Jim went off on a skirmishing expedition toward a belt of timber.
In a few moments, shouts were heard.
"Think there's anything up?" asked Dick, in an anxious voice.
"No! Bob doesn't yell as if a bear was after him," laughed Dave. "Here they come. What's that he says?"
"Found a cave, and a whopper, too."
"H'm—only hope it has a nice smooth floor, a soda fountain, and——"
"Hello, boys, we've struck a dandy place for a camp," called Bob; he arrived, panting and gleeful. "Finest cave you ever saw, Chubby," he declared.
"A crackerjack," added Havens. "Let's tote the stuff over, and get our grub."
In a few minutes, the boys reached the entrance, which was partially concealed by a fringe of bushes.
"Did you fellows have the nerve to go in there?" asked Dick.
"Not until we made sure that it was safe," responded Jim.
Dick eagerly pushed aside the bushes, and entered. For a moment everything was black, and he lingered on the threshold, fearing that some pitfall might be close at hand. Then, as he stepped forward, his eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the dim light which filtered in through the entrance.
But this disappeared almost entirely, as Dave's stout form squeezed through. Dick lighted a match.
When the tiny flame flared up, he uttered an exclamation of astonishment. It seemed as if he had been transported into some fairy chamber of wondrous beauty.
From the lofty roof hung stalactites which flashed and sparkled in the light, while the walls were formed of smooth rock of astonishing whiteness.
Dick lighted another match, and pushed forward over the hard floor.
"By Jove, isn't this great, Chubby?" he exclaimed. "Hello, as I live, another chamber."
His voice reverberated in a series of roars and he wondered if the stout boy understood. But Dave was soon at his side, and the others followed.
As a flood of light illuminated the interior brightly, a murmur of admiration arose. From almost every nook and corner, the rays were flashed back in dazzling gleams, while fantastic groups of stalactites sparkled with a delicate, silvery whiteness.
"Swell, eh?" said Havens.
"I should say so," cried Dick. "Like some enchanted region. Let's go in the other chamber." Around a huge pillar of rock, a cavern somewhat larger was entered.
Presently, Bob Somers grasped Dave by the arm. "Listen! Don't I hear the sound of running water?" asked Bob. "That's where the sound comes from. Look out, fellows!" he pointed his torch toward a yawning pit which extended across the floor.
The quartet cautiously approached.
The steady swash of running water reached their ears, but the torches, held low, revealed nothing but the rocky sides of the pit. Its lower portion was wrapped in inky blackness.
Despite the strangeness of their surroundings, the boys slept as soundly as they ever did in their lives.
"Gee whitaker!"
Bob Somers raised himself on his elbow, and looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock! Wake up, fellows!" he cried.
The reverberations promptly aroused Havens and Dick, but the "poet laureate" lay still.
"Get up, Chub!" yelled Dick. "Whoop la!"
"Lemme be—I've just turned in," protested Dave. "Lemme be! If you don't, I'll hurt somebody."
But in spite of this awful threat, he was promptly dragged to his feet.
"Fellows," he said, after breakfast, "let's leave the bearskin here. It ought to be perfectly safe, eh, Havens?"
"Sure thing. We can blaze a trail, and find the cave again easy enough."
After concealing the entrance as well as possible, the hunters began their toilsome climb.
Great masses of whitish clouds flecked the blue sky, and the snow-capped summit was often hidden. They saw plenty of small game and several times heard the cry of wolves. Jim Havens blazed a trail through the deep pine and oak forests.
About noon they came to a small clearing and a halt was made.
"Weather's beginning to look threatening, fellows," observed Jim Havens. "Shouldn't wonder if a storm was coming up."
"Neither would I," said Bob. "We haven't had a drop of rain since starting."
"But managed to get wet, just the same," grinned Havens.
Lunch over, the climb was resumed.
"Wish we'd run across some big horns or goats," grumbled Dick, wiping his forehead.
"Too early for that, Dick. They don't often come down below the timber line," said Havens.
"Sort of high-livers, eh?" laughed Dave.
"Yes, and look down on most of the other critters, though painters often get after 'em."
At each open space, the quartet looked anxiously aloft, but there was always another ridge ahead and the summit seemed as far away as ever.
"Don't believe we can get any nearer," grumbled Dave. "This mountain's growing. Bet we're further away than when we started."
"There! Another cloud has bumped into the old thing," broke in Dick.
"Crickets, seems funny to have clouds coming to meet us," remarked Dick. "Gee! The wind is getting a bit too strong for comfort."
A harsh scream suddenly startled the boys, and, as they looked overhead, a bird with great, spreading wings soared above the tree tops.
"A bald eagle," said Havens. "We might have plugged the old robber."
"Why do you call him a robber?" asked Dick.
"Because he doesn't mind stealing. The old codger will watch a hawk catch a fish, bird or small animal, then sweep down, and the meal changes hands."
"Or changes claws," smiled Dave.
"That's it. He's a sneaking rascal. Always watching his chance to let other birds work for him. There he is now!"
Ahead, the forest opened out. Into this the eagle was sweeping, in a long, graceful curve, his wings scarcely seeming to move. The four instantly detected his object. A frightened rabbit was scampering for dear life through the grass, headed for a thicket.
But the woodland drama was soon over.
"He's got it," cried Dick.
With lightning speed, the bird overtook the fleeing animal; then the struggling bunny was borne aloft in the eagle's claws, and almost before the boys realized it, bird and prey were but a speck in the sky.
"Gee whitaker, that happened quickly," said Bob.
"Makes me feel glad that there are no rocs around," laughed Dave.
"Don't think one could have carried you off," said Dick, facetiously. "Their limit was a horse or elephant."
The timber line was left behind. There was nothing now but stunted vegetation, barren rocks, and, above them, perpetual snow.
"And this," observed Havens, waving his hand, "is the home of the big horn and mountain goat. Is it getting too steep for you?" He dislodged a rock, which rattled noisily down the incline.
"It's dangerous; besides, we can't see," grumbled the "poet." "In a few minutes, it will be like trying to climb up the side of a cathedral."
"Seems out of the world," declared Dick; "and say, that cold is getting worse—whew!"
He pulled up his collar, and the others followed suit.
"Hello! Rain at last."
The four shadowy forms came to a halt. A few big drops sprinkled around them, then increased to a steady patter. A flock of screaming birds darted swiftly by.
"H'm, flying before the storm," murmured Dave. "Sounds kind of ominous. Let's grope around a bit for a more sheltered place. Out here we're a regular target."
But before they had gone far, a torrent was beating in their faces. Clinging to whatever support they could find, the four huddled together and awaited the outcome.
"Yes, sir—ter my mind, he's plumb crazy."
"Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver, wearing his usual sour expression, growled these words, as he stood, late one afternoon, on the Resort House porch.
There was the usual crowd present, sitting and lounging around, and "Big Bill's" harsh voice was loud enough to reach them all. Sile Stringer, the old man of Mountain Village, who had been half dozing in a chair, sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Plumb crazy—who's plumb crazy, Bill Dugan?" he quavered.
"When I says a thing, Stringer, I says it oncet," growled Bill. "If yer can't listen, I——"
"Who's plumb crazy?"
"Jest listen at him!" The lines above Dugan's nose deepened. "That feller over ter Promontory."
"What's he gone and did now?"
"Always a-buttin' in, Sile Stringer—go ter sleep ag'in," and Dugan walked impatiently to the other end of the porch.
"Neil Prescott crazy?" questioned Sam Randall; "I guess not—he's sharp as a steel trap."
"I'm not talkin' ter the nursery," said Bill Dugan, ungraciously, "but, ter my mind, if ye'd like ter know, he's plumb out of his senses."
"How—in what way?"
"What's he a-buyin' sich stacks of grub for, eh? He's got 'nuff ter last a man six months."
"How d'ye find that out, Bill?" interrupted Tom Sanders.
"The feller he bought 'em of tole me—that's how. An' only yisterday I seen him takin' over a lot more. An' ain't it 'nuff ter make any man laugh ter see the way he handles that boat?"
Old Sile again sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Who—who d'ye mean, Bill Dugan? Handles what boat?" he asked.
The stage-driver cast a withering look at the "oldest inhabitant."
"Go ter sleep," he growled. "If the man ain't crazy, would he build a fire so big that yer kin 'most feel the heat of it over here? No, sir, fur my part, he's plumb crazy. An' what's he doin' on the island; an' where's 'e come from, ennyway? Who knows 'im?" "Big Bill" paused and glared at his auditors. "Who knows 'im?" he repeated.
"Knows who, Bill Dugan?" came a quavering voice.
This time, the stage-driver paid no heed. "If that man ain't plumb crazy, I'm mistook."
"Wouldn't be the fust time," sneered Tom Sanders.
"Now, now—be good," laughed Mr. George Kimball, of Boston. "Bill, tell us something more about this mysterious old character."
The stage-driver sniffed.
"As long's ye got nothin' ter do but loaf around all day, I should think you'd know more'n me, who's got ter work fur a livin'," he growled. "Guess nobody's goin' ter ask me ter grub with 'em, so I'll git."
"I say, Bill Dugan," came a voice, "did you say some one's plumb crazy? Who's plumb crazy?"
A sort of grunt not unlike the growl of a bear sounded, and "Big Bill" Dugan was down the steps.
Old Sile Stringer sat up and looked around with a quizzical smile. Then he remarked, "I suspicioned he was going to act that 'ere way. I've know'd 'im since he was a kid, an' I ain't never know'd a day when Bill didn't speak rude to some one."
When Sam Randall and Tom Clifton walked home, they were accompanied part way by the last named youth, with whom they had made peace. Their principal topic of conversation was the strange dweller on Promontory Island.
"Let's skip over to-morrer mornin' an' see old Squeal Pressed Biscuits," suggested Sanders.
Early next morning, the boys met at the wharf, and were not particularly surprised to find "Little Bill" hanging around.
"He's brought the Dugan scowl with him, all right," observed Tommy Clifton, with a laugh.
"Sure, jest look at the mug on him," added Sanders.
"Let's get on board so as to be as far away as possible when the row starts," chimed in Sam, and his advice was followed.
Before the lines were cast off, however, "Little Bill" turned toward them.
"My eye, Sanders," he exclaimed, "I always thought you was a purty big chump, an' now I knows it. Goin' with this here crowd, now?"
"Run right along, an' warble ter Billee the Big," growled Sanders. "If I oncet git up there, I'll chase yer!"
"Yer will, hey?" retorted "Little Bill." "Yer ain't big 'nuff by two feet ter chase me. Yer 'most as bad as that elephant roamin' the mountains. Chase me, hey?"
A bucket half full of water was standing near by; "Little Bill's" wrath was too great to be appeased by mere words. Before Sam Randall could push off, a sheet of water curved gracefully through the air and descended squarely on Sanders' head and shoulders.
"Know'd I git a chancet some day," cried "Little Bill."
Then he and a cloud of dust kept pace together up the yellow road.
When Sanders had recovered sufficiently to speak, he turned a forlorn-looking face toward the two Ramblers, and observed, with considerable vehemence, "It's a good thing yer ain't a-laughin' at me."
Sam Randall's face had turned purple from suppressed mirth; it was only by a great effort that he stifled his desire to roar, and thus a tremendous row was probably averted.
Meanwhile, they had made a start. For once, they skirted the far shore of Hemlock Island, finally anchoring just below the passageway.
The climb to Neil Prescott's cabin brought them a disappointment—the place was deserted.
"Gee! This is mean luck!" grumbled Tommy.
"But the old duffer is on the island, for we saw his boat," put in Sam. "Let's look around a bit."
So down the cliff they scrambled; then began to wander around amidst the trees, gradually working their way toward the western end of the island.
"Gee! Where can he be, I wonder?" said Sam. "We can't get much further."
"Hello! Look at this," remarked Sanders, presently. "Pertaters."
He pointed to the ground.
"Jiminy! A regular trail of 'em," put in Sam.
"Maybe old Pressed Biscuits is going ter start a patch."
"Wonder how in the dickens they came here, anyway?" mused Tom.
"Give it up," said Sanders. "All I know is how some of 'em is a-goin' ter leave."
Stooping over, he gathered a pocketful.
"For goodness' sake—there's Neil now!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly.
They had emerged from a clump of trees and the end of the island was in sight.
Neil Prescott, at the very farthest point, had his back turned. He was leaning over, with a long pole in his hand, apparently gazing at the water. The boys saw an object resembling a cask floating slowly away on the current.
"Sh—sh! Let's see what Pressed Bricks—that's as good a name fur him—is up ter," whispered Sanders.
"Say! This is funny," muttered Tom.
Neil straightened up; then sat down on a rock, with his back still to them.
"I'm a-goin' ter give him the s'prise of his life," grinned Sanders. "Watch!"
He drew forth a potato, and sent it flying toward the sitter, observing, pleasantly, "Keep still, an' listen fur the plunk."
The tuber was small and round, and the curve Sanders gave it was perfect. Neil Prescott received it directly in the middle of the back, and proceeded to arise much more quickly than he had sat down.
Sanders let out a tremendous yell, waved his arms in the air, and the trio walked forward.
For an instant, the "hermit" seemed greatly nonplussed. Then, recognizing the boys, he quietly resumed his seat.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, reproachfully; "this here is a surprise—who throw'd it?"
"See here, old sport," said Sanders, ignoring the question, and pointing to the cask, "why did you chuck that in the lake?"
"H'm," Neil Prescott looked at the speaker calmly; "you're another one of them quizzers from Quizzerville—jest joined, eh? Hain't got me life's history writ out yet, an'——"
"Aw—wake up, an' answer me."
"Yes—go ahead, Neil," coaxed Sam Randall.
"Didn't yer never hear tell of them scientists what do all sorts o' funny things?"
"What's this 'bout yer buyin' three tons of grub a week, old sport?" asked Sanders, rudely.
"I kin swear I ain't buyin' an ounce over a ton," replied Neil, as he filled a very large pipe and winked at Tommy Clifton. "No, fur a fact, I hain't."
Tom Sanders sniffed.
"Now, old sport, you ain't as smart as you think. What was you a-goin' ter do with them 'taters back there?" A jerk of his thumb indicated the direction.
"'Tatars' is Latin fur pertaters, ain't it? I never went ter no college, but l'arnin' comes nat'ral ter me, jist as it acts kinder opposite with you. I remember oncet, when I was young an' unsoapfixycated, a man says ter me——"
"Aw—cut it out," growled the disgusted Sanders. "Why did you throw that thing in the water?"
"So as ter put in me life's hist'ry—writ by special request of the chief quizzer of Quizzerville—that Neil Prescott, at the height of his career, was a-studyin' currents. Who's a-comin' up ter the office?"
Neil winked and chuckled many times on the walk back, and laughed gruffly at parting.
"We've learned an awful lot eh?" ventured Tommy Clifton.
"My eye, but I think Billee the Big hit it about right," said Sanders. "The feller ain't got no sense in him."
"One thing sure," remarked Sam Randall, "Neil had just shoved off that keg."
"Yep."
"And what in the dickens were those potatoes doing there?" put in Tommy.
The boys walked along in silence for a few steps, when Sam turned toward his companions, and said, abruptly, "I give it up. The whole thing is just a bit too deep for me."
Rain, fog and wind form a decidedly unpleasant combination on the sloping sides of a mountain.
The three Ramblers and their friend Jim Havens were not long in having this fact impressed upon them. With surprising suddenness, the wind increased to a gale, sweeping everything before it, and the boys, crouching almost flat, had difficulty in avoiding the stones which rattled down from above.
Presently, the ominous darkness was momentarily dispelled by a dazzling gleam of bluish-white. Then followed a crackling sound, which merged into a crash that seemed to jar the mountain.
The obscurity grew denser. Never in their lives had they been in such a fog. It almost startled them to realize that they could scarcely see each other—that they were, in fact, amidst the very storm-clouds.
Each moment they expected another blinding glare and solemn peal of thunder, but it seemed as if nature had spent most of its electrical energy. The next flash, which only came after a considerate interval, was much less brilliant.
Dick Travers protected his precious camera as well as he could, but several times it almost slipped from his grasp.
Chilled, and soaked to the skin, the boys could do nothing but wait. The clouds kept swirling past, while the wind moaned and howled, making conversation almost impossible.
About half an hour later, Dave Brandon eased himself slowly to his feet.
"Weather to-day threatening and showery, fellows," he remarked, cheerily. "To-night, clear and colder."
"That will do, Chub," said Bob, ruefully. "Wow—but I am glad the rain is letting up."
"And the wind going down," chimed in Dick, his teeth chattering. "I feel worse than an icicle."
"It's colder than all outdoors," added Jim, with a tremendous shiver. "What shall we do?"
"Nothing—just wait for things to get better," answered the philosophical Dave.
The wind continued brisk, and the boys felt it so keenly that they were glad to keep their chilled bodies in motion.
"It's so steep I don't see how we can get much higher," observed Dick Travers. "Say—where are you going, Jim Havens?"
Their guide, his eyes bent on the rock, was crawling upon hands and knees toward a ledge that overhung a steep declivity.
"Plenty of signs of goats, fellows," he cried. "Look!" And Bob, who had followed, saw that the surface was worn and indented by the tread of countless hoofs.
"By jingo, it must have taken years to cut into the solid rock like that," he said, reflectively.
"Hundreds, maybe," returned Havens. "Goats," he explained, "have regular beaten trails. You'll find plenty of them all over the upper parts of the mountains."
The group continued cautiously along, on the lookout for a break in the slope which might enable them to ascend.
"Down there is a mighty bad place."
Dick Travers pointed just below and to their left.
The steep declivity they were on led down to a ledge at the brink of a precipice, on one side of which the rocks jutted out abruptly, forming a spur.
"Think you could climb down it?" asked Jim, with a grin.
"I'd leave that for——" began the "poet"; then he paused, gripped Havens' arm, and whispered,