"'Full many a flower is born to blush unseenAnd waste its sweetness on the desert air'?"
"'Full many a flower is born to blush unseenAnd waste its sweetness on the desert air'?"
"'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air'?"
But neither Bob nor Sam could view the situation as cheerfully as their companion, and remained moodily silent.
Never could the boys remember so tiresome a wait as they had beneath the trees that afternoon. The minutes seemed to drag out interminably. It was late when the rain stopped, and they continued their exploration, in a vain hope that some way out of their dilemma might be discovered.
"No use," said Sam, wearily. "We are in an awful pickle."
Dave Brandon and his chums nodded.
Toward dusk the clouds began to clear away, and when night came, twinkling stars peeped between the flying masses. But it was a black, gloomy night; the wind rustled the tree-tops mournfully, and the monotonous roar of the cataract sounded louder than ever.
The sight of the overturned boat seemed to take all the strength from sturdy Dick Travers' frame. The full realization of his own and Tommy Clifton's peril was swallowed up for an instant in the thought of the terrible danger which menaced his chums. For the next few moments he simply drifted along on the current.
But fast failing strength, the helpless condition of Tommy Clifton, and the hiss and splash of the water all around soon aroused him to a sense of present duty.
"Help, help!" he cried, hoping that perhaps "Little Bill" and "Surly Joe" might be within hearing.
He was just abreast of the narrow entrance to the passageway at the foot of Hemlock Island.
Presently Dick Travers repeated the call; then he half closed his eyes, and, with set mouth and contracted brow, renewed the battle.
Suddenly a shout reached his ears.
Dick Travers' heart bounded with hope.
"Keep up—we'll be there in a jiffy," were the words that floated over the air.
Dick's senses were becoming benumbed; from which direction the sound came he could not tell, but his plight had been discovered—that was enough—and again came the encouraging cry, "Keep up!"
He summoned all his fleeting strength, but it was not sufficient to enable him to raise himself above the waste of gray water.
Then a dark form suddenly appeared from the direction of Hemlock Island, and he saw a boat headed straight toward them.
Nearer, nearer it came; and now he could hear the steady click of oars.
Again encouraging cries reached him.
"Great Scott! Jim Havens and Phil Levins," was the thought that flashed through Dick Travers' mind.
Two oarsmen were rowing desperately, and, aided by the current, their rowboat shot quickly ahead. As it loomed close above him, the figures of the mountain boys vaguely reminded Dick of giants.
A wave larger than the rest was bearing down upon him, and in a moment he would be buried beneath its foaming crest. Once more he summoned his strength—he knew it would be the final effort.
Just as that terrifying line of white rose before his eyes, he felt a strong hand grip his collar; he was conscious of seeing indistinct forms before him, of hearing voices and of helping to lift Tom Clifton out of the water—then a darkness obscured his vision.
When he opened his eyes again, Jim Havens and Phil Levins were gazing eagerly in his face.
"He's all right," came from Havens. Then Dick saw that he was lying amidst tall grasses, and that Tommy Clifton, with a dazed expression, was sitting propped up against a rock.
"My," he whispered; "that was a narrow escape. I——"
"Quick—tell us how you got into the water," said Havens, excitedly. "Where did your boat get to?"
"Yes, tell us," chimed in Phil.
"What's become of Bob Somers and the other boys?" asked Tom Clifton, in a hoarse whisper.
"Then you don't know?" Dick Travers shook his head sadly. "The 'Speedy' and the whole crowd was carried into the gorge. Isn't it awful?"
"I was afraid of that," cried Havens, in dismay. "Great Cæsar!"
"Carried into the gorge of Canyon River?" gasped Phil Levins, breathlessly; "it can't be possible! How do you know?"
Dick Travers' voice faltered as he gave an account of their thrilling experience, and when he had finished a silence fell upon the group.
It was broken by Dick, who inquired, "How did you happen to see us?"
"The 'Dart' is anchored in the passageway, behind that clump of trees," Havens explained, in a low voice. "Phil and I came over to get a few rabbits, and hadn't been ashore but a short time when 'Little Bill' and 'Surly Joe' came along in the 'Spray.' 'Little Bill' asked us what we thought of his 'private yacht,' and both Phil and I felt sure he'd run off with it, as he did before.
"Well, we were loafing around, when all of a sudden your shout for help nearly startled the life out of us."
"And it's a mighty lucky thing I borrowed Grimshaw's boat this morning and we towed it over," added Phil Levins. "Don't believe the clumsy old 'Dart' would ever have reached you in time."
"Dick!" exclaimed Tom, abruptly, "you saved my life!"
"And Havens and Levins saved us both," said Dick, warmly. "But, oh, isn't it awful about our fellows? I'll never get over it—never!"
"What's to be done, Dick?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," and Dick struggled to repress the emotions which surged within him.
The sky grew darker; the trees soughed mournfully in the breeze, and the dreary aspect of nature was in accord with their feelings. Gloomily they sat around, with no consoling thoughts to cheer them.
"Don't you think there's a chance for Bob and the others?" ventured pale-faced Tommy Clifton.
"You know how it was with Howard Fenton," answered Dick. "This is a fine ending to our trip."
It seemed to the boys in the canyon as if the night would never end. At intervals, they dozed, but their slumber, disturbed by distressing thoughts, was not refreshing.
Bob Somers, in his wakeful moments, felt the strangeness and danger of the situation with full force. How out of the world he felt, hemmed in between those great walls; how was it going to end? He cudgeled his brain in vain, and occasionally rose and walked to the edge of the river, where he tried to pierce the gloom that enshrouded them.
At dawn, a chilling air was sweeping through the canyon. The narrow slit of sky seen between the towering heights was of a palish green. A rosy cloud floated slowly across, and a lone hawk winged its way, high up. They mechanically watched the bird approach, pass overhead, and disappear.
Bob Somers drew a long breath, as he glanced aloft.
"Don't believe I ever saw anything look so high," he said.
"Let's go for our breakfast," suggested Dave.
"Blackberries," said Bob, with a sniff of disgust. "I hate blackberries—shape, smell, taste—everything. Don't believe I shall ever eat another."
"And I don't believe we shall ever eat anything else," observed Sam, gloomily.
"Cheer up, fellows! While there's blackberries, there's hope," put in Dave, with a faint smile. "After breakfast, we'll hold a council—something must be done."
With difficulty, the three managed to swallow the berries, and then drink a quantity of water, as Bob said, to "take the taste out of their mouths."
By this time, the sunlight was slanting across the tops of the mountains.
Sam Randall seated himself on a rock, the picture of gloom and dejection.
"Now what's what?" he asked.
"We can't climb the cliff," answered Dave. "Do you think——" He hesitated.
"Think what, Chubby?"
"That it would be too risky to swim for the other shore?"
Bob and Sam looked at the current and listened to the roar of the cataract. The thought of again trusting themselves to the mercy of such waters made them shiver.
"The current is much swifter over there," said Sam, "and if we missed that point of rock——" An expressive gesture finished the sentence.
"Guess the searching parties are out for us now," observed Bob Somers.
"Even if they discover where we are, how in the dickens could they help us?" demanded Sam.
"You have me there. But I want to take a day off from that river. I'll chance it with the two of you to-morrow."
"Good," said the "poet." "We won't give up till we have to. I wouldn't mind it half so much if we had anything to eat besides——"
But Bob cut him short. "Don't say it, Chubby," he remarked dolefully. "I'm trying to forget 'em."
"And I can't," added Sam.
The hours dragged wearily by. Sometimes they lolled on the ground, watching the high clouds floating slowly across, then wandered around in search of food.
"Blackberry Valley—nothing else here," sighed Bob.
As long as daylight lasted and the glow of the afternoon sun gilded the clouds, they kept up their courage, but the approach of night filled them with dread. It grew dark very soon within the rocky confines, and the barren gray walls wore a cheerless aspect.
The three hungry and worried boys were again obliged to partake of the much despised fruit, after which they returned, as before, to the river.
Sleep, in spite of their weariness, seemed out of the question. The stars came out against the darkening sky, and shone brilliantly.
"Oh, how I hate the nights in Blackberry Valley," groaned Bob.
"No more than I," said Sam. "Maybe this is all a dream."
"You mean a nightmare."
Moodily, they sat around; conversation lagged; an hour dragged slowly by. Then Bob Somers, who had been gazing dejectedly through half-closed eyes, started up.
"Look, fellows—look!" he cried, excitedly.
"Where—where? What is it?" asked Dave.
"A light—don't you see? Straight ahead."
"Jiminy crickets! As I live, it's Neil Prescott's bonfire, on Promontory Island," gasped Sam. "Gee, but that's good to see."
"Wish we knew what in the world he's up to," said Bob.
"Thought you might find out when Tommy and I went to the mountains," replied Sam, gloomily.
With intense interest they watched the speck of light. At intervals, it almost disappeared, then shone forth again, and finally burned steadily like a beacon against the dark sky.
"Mighty strange," murmured Bob.
"There's some reason for it," put in Dave. "As sure as you live, it's a signal."
"But to whom?"
"Gee! I don't know. It's a mystery I'd give a lot to solve."
The Ramblers kept their eyes eagerly glued to the one link which still bound them to civilization, and breathed a sigh of regret as it began to slowly fade from view. At length but a tiny glimmer remained, and finally night blotted this out.
"It's gone," breathed Sam. "Old Neil Prescott is a jolly good fellow, and—great Scott—say! Am I awake or dreaming? Pinch me, somebody—quick!—What's that?"
Sam excitedly raised his voice to a shout, and sprang to his feet, while the others, with wild exclamations, followed.
"What in the world is it?" cried Bob Somers.
A light was springing into view on the opposite shore, apparently on the jutting point.
With throbbing hearts, the three watched it grow. For a moment, not a word was spoken. It seemed so unreal, so extraordinary, that they almost doubted their eyes.
"A fire, down here in the gorge!" gasped Bob Somers. "It doesn't seem possible."
"A fire!" echoed Sam, in amazement.
"By all that's wonderful!" murmured the "poet."
Yes—flames were growing larger, curling and twisting; a ruddy light was spreading around—it meant that they were not alone in the terrible gorge.
The restoration from despair to hope sent such a wave of thankfulness into the minds of each that they felt like dancing with joy. Then their united voices rose in a volume of sound which echoed and reëchoed throughout the narrow confines with startling clearness.
They paused, and waited anxiously.
For an instant, there was no response. Then, "Hello, hello! Who are you?" came a voice, the tones of which seemed to indicate the greatest amazement.
Saved—saved! What a blessed thought!
"Hurrah!" yelled Bob.
"Who are you?" repeated the speaker across the river.
His voice had a strangely familiar sound.
"It can't be possible," said Bob, excitedly. "I wonder if—but no——" He stopped, and peered eagerly toward the fire, which, flaring up, revealed two figures.
"I'm Bob Somers!" he shouted. "Dave Brandon and Sam Randall are with me. Who are you?"
This announcement was followed by another pause. Then came an amazing response.
"Hello, Bob Somers—I'm Howard Fenton."
"Howard Fenton—I thought it was his voice," gasped Bob. "Great Scott!"
"Howard Fenton!" exclaimed Dave, while Sam Randall uttered a joyous shout, ejaculating, "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of."
"And the finest," declared Bob, enthusiastically. "Chubby, I can scarcely believe it's true."
"Nor I," declared the delighted Dave.
Volleys of questions were hurled back and forth, but the noise of the waterfall made conversation difficult, and it was decided to postpone explanations until the following morning.
They learned one thing, however—Howard Fenton was not hemmed in as they were, and he was not alone.
What a difference a few minutes had made. When the tumult of emotions had subsided, the boys talked and laughed until weariness could no longer be denied.
Hunger was forgotten, and they slept until the rosy glow of early morning was tingeing the clouds. Faces were washed in the clear water, and they felt somewhat better.
This had scarcely been finished, when a cheery shout greeted their ears. Howard Fenton and his companion had appeared in view. The latter carried a long rope.
"I said, Dave, that I'd take a chance with you this morning, and try for the other side," said Bob. "It's good-bye to Blackberry Valley, now. Hello, Howard!" he shouted.
Fenton again waved his hand, and shouted, "Are you ready to come over?"
"Yes!"
"Listen! It's a dangerous swim, unless you're feeling pretty husky. It wouldn't do to take any chances."
"We'd starve over here—nothing else for us to do, Howard."
"The cataract is about a quarter of a mile below," went on Fenton. "If you should miss the ledge where we had the fire last night—well—nothing can save you. But when you get near enough, we'll throw a line. Grab it and hang on for all you are worth."
Fenton tried to speak lightly, but his tones showed a suppressed agitation which the boys did not fail to notice.
"Well," said Sam, in an undertone, gritting his teeth and glancing at the gurgling water, "we aren't out of the woods yet."
"We'll be in 'em sure enough when we strike the water," observed Dave, with a faint smile.
"I'll go first," announced Bob, "and the best place to start from is the upper end of the valley." Then, raising his voice, he yelled, "Are you ready, Howard? Got your rope?"
Quickly, the three walked to the most favorable point on the beach.
"Good-bye, fellows, I'll see you on the other side."
It was a moment that none of the little group would ever forget. Dave Brandon and Sam Randall gripped the captain's hand.
"Keep a stiff upper lip, Bob, old man," whispered the "poet."
Bob Somers drew a long breath. It took all the courage he possessed to deliberately launch himself into Canyon River, but he waved his hand to the others, and took the plunge.
In an instant he was buffeting the powerful current. Again he saw the gray walls flying swiftly by; again the water lapped and splashed around him and murmured and sang.
The swimmer kept his eyes fixed on the opposite cliff and its rugged outline rising from the ledge where Howard Fenton and his companion awaited him. Already he was approaching it; the boom of the falls suddenly seemed to grow louder.
"Here comes the rope—look out for it!" he heard a voice cry.
Bravely battling, Bob Somers caught a momentary glimpse of the lariat hurtling through the air. With a hiss, it fell a few feet in front—the one thing which stood between him and the dreaded cataract.
But the throw had been well-timed, and the captain, with his nerves set to the keenest tension, grasped the line just as it was beginning to sink.
Desperately, he clung to it.
DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT.
DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT.
DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT.
"We'll have you ashore in a moment, Bob," called Howard Fenton; "hang on to it."
Dave and Dick's yell of exultation followed—Bob Somers was safe at last.
A slight pull on the rope swerved him sufficiently from his course, and he swung in directly toward the ledge; then, a few seconds later, willing hands dragged him ashore, where he lay panting and exhausted.
"My stars, but I am thankful for this!" exclaimed Fenton, fervently.
"A good swim," said his companion, with an approving nod.
The first thing Bob Somers did upon rising was to shake his rescuers warmly by the hand.
"Well, Howard," he gasped, "this is a mighty strange meeting."
"You bet it is, old man," exclaimed the New York boy. "But say, Bob, I guess you'd better not do much talking till you get a bite to eat. Ready, eh?"
"For a mile of anything but blackberries," smiled Bob.
"Out in the wilds, I was forgetting my parlor manners—Bob, this is Stuart Wells."
The two again shook hands.
"And now," laughed Wells, "those other castaways are getting impatient. Who's that yelling?"
"Sam Randall," said Bob. "Hi, hi!" he shouted. "Ready, eh? Come ahead!"
Stuart Wells stood calmly, with lariat in hand. He watched Sam Randall spring into the water, and at the critical moment again sent the rope in a graceful curve through the air.
Bob Somers drew a breath of relief when he saw his chum seize it.
No sooner had Sam been assisted to a place of safety on the ledge than Dave Brandon followed his example, and the good-natured "poet" soon joined the group.
It was a happy reunion, but even in their thankfulness the Ramblers could not forget the clamoring of nature.
"I'm burning up with curiosity to hear about everything, Howard," said Bob, "but——"
"Not a word till we pilot you to Canyon restaurant," laughed the other. "All meals out in the open."
"Um—um—lead us to it right away," cried the dripping Dave.
Howard led the way around a thick clump of trees, and they saw, close to the bluff, a well-built lean-to. Picks, shovels and other tools were scattered about, while just to one side was a great pile of broken stones.
Soon the hungry boys were engaged in disposing of cold rabbit, crackers, cheese and hot coffee, and before this pleasant occupation was brought to an end, Bob Somers briefly acquainted Fenton and Stuart Wells with the facts.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Fenton, when he had finished, "'Little Bill' responsible, eh? He's the cheekiest young rascal I ever met. Mighty lucky Wells and I happened to be here, eh? I tell you I was never more surprised in my life than when I heard you shout last night."
"You must have been," admitted Bob. "Now, Howard, for goodness' sake, tell us all about it."
"Yes! We can't wait a minute longer," put in Sam, impatiently.
"Well, it was this way," began Howard, settling himself comfortably on a log. "The 'Dauntless' was pretty close to the passageway, when, all of a sudden, I found that something was wrong with the rudder. The wind was pretty fresh that day—remember, Sam? Well, I didn't take in the sheet right away, as I should have done, but went to work to find out what was the trouble. Close by, I saw a floating log."
"Bumped in to it, eh?" asked Sam.
"I had come about on a tack, and think the rudder must have struck it squarely, for I found that it was broken loose and wouldn't respond to the tiller. It was some minutes before I realized that it was damaged beyond repair.
"All the while, the wind and current were taking me toward the gorge and I soon discovered what a serious blunder I'd made. Down came the sail in a jiffy—but too late. I'll never forget how I felt when the 'Dauntless' made straight for the entrance to the river."
Fenton lowered his voice and shivered.
"Awful," murmured Bob.
"Tommy and I saw you," cried Sam.
"I didn't see anything but that terrible gorge," continued Howard. "The 'Dauntless' wobbled and twisted, and nearly keeled over when we passed White Rocks. Whew!—'fearful' is about the word that hits it. The boat shot into the canyon and I gave up hope."
"We know what sensations you had," exclaimed Bob Somers. "Don't see how they could be worse."
"As luck would have it, the 'Dauntless' was so close to the opposite cliffs when the first valley was reached that I was afraid to risk a swim. So I stayed where I was, and it turned out to be a mighty good thing that I did. The boat hit that jutting point over there, and I didn't lose any time in getting off."
"How about the 'Dauntless'?" questioned Sam.
"She swung around, started off again, and went over the fall."
"Must be a big one," commented Dave.
"A crackerjack," said Howard. "We'll go down and see it, after a while."
"Keep on with your story," urged Sam.
"Needn't tell you how thankful I was for getting on solid ground again," went on Fenton. "When my nerves stopped shaking I looked about, and found——"
"Blackberries?" said Bob.
"Yes," laughed the other, "and, I might as well tell you, traces of silver in the rocks."
"Of silver?" echoed the boys, in surprise.
"Yes, sir! I've studied a bit on those subjects. Told you I was going to take a course in college—remember, Bob? Well, it didn't take long for me to be satisfied that there was plenty of it, too."
"Gee!" said Sam.
"Mighty interesting," murmured Bob, while Dave stood straight up and stared at the rocks.
Fenton resumed:
"But, fellows, it wasn't very long before I forgot all about silver—thought I was bottled up for sure."
"And how did you get out at last?" questioned Sam, eagerly.
"I'm coming to that. Talk about being scared—I had to stay all night in the blooming valley. Early next morning I began to hunt around for a place to climb out, and, at length, found one that wasn't so bad. It took a long time to get to the top of the cliff, and once near got an awful shock."
"How?" asked Sam, with interest.
"Came to a wide ledge, with a big, round pile of rock above—it looked like my finish; I couldn't see any way around it."
"Gee!" said Sam again.
"Had a pretty hard time of it," remarked Bob, sympathetically.
"But I was desperate—thought that the ledge was wide enough to catch me, if I fell—and so kept right on. Luckily, there were enough irregularities to afford a foothold."
"Guess you were glad when you reached the top?" said Dave.
"You bet I was; and exhausted, too."
"What did you do after that?" asked Dave.
"Started right off. I had a compass and a pretty fair idea of the direction. I blazed a trail—believe that's what you call it—so as to know the place again."
"How?" queried Sam.
"With a big jack-knife. In about two hours I came across some loggers. By that time I was so played out with hunger and excitement that I collapsed completely—don't believe I could have gone a step further, Bob. Of course I was an object of curiosity, but they were a good-hearted lot, and gave me all I wanted to eat. Beans, bacon and coffee tasted good, I can tell you. Well, it was simply great."
"Guess it fixed you up all right," said Bob.
"No, it didn't. I was so stiff and sore and had such a headache that it was a bunk for me the whole of that day and most of the next. One of the men, Jake Lawson, took a letter to the railroad station. Of course, it was to my father, and in it I told him that if he cared anything about a pile of silver it might be well to keep the whole thing quiet for a while."
"Then you didn't tell the loggers what had happened to you?" exclaimed Bob, in great astonishment.
"No—they thought I had merely wandered off and become lost in the woods."
"How did your father manage to find the place?"
"Oh, Jake Lawson met him at the station and piloted him through the woods. I tell you, he was glad to see me alive and well, for by that time I was all right again."
"I'll bet he was," commented Dave.
"My tale about the silver impressed him very much, and he thought it worth while to investigate fully. He did two things right away—sent for a mining expert," Fenton paused and waved his hand toward Stuart Wells, "then for one of his trusted old watchmen, Neil Prescott."
"Ah, ha! Now we're coming to something," exclaimed Sam, with interest. "We know Neil Prescott, all right."
Howard smiled.
"Father only consented to my returning to the valley on condition that I would keep in constant communication with Neil, and——"
"Bully!" interjected Sam.
"Never attempt that climb unless it was absolutely necessary. As for going up and down, carrying provisions and making an indefinite stay—well, he wouldn't hear of it."
"Don't wonder a bit," said Sam.
"Anyway, we hit upon a splendid scheme. I happened to remember that log hut on Promontory and suggested that Neil might fix it up and stay there a while."
"Well, well—also, did you ever!" cried Bob.
"I got up a code of signals; and another dandy thing was the way Neil managed to——"
"Now I see the whole thing," put in Sam, with a grin. "He floated down your provisions. Aha! That explains all his mysterious doings—now we know why your father happened out on the lake that night."
"Yes! You've learned the whole story," laughed Fenton.
"Mighty interesting," observed Dave Brandon. "And the silver?"
"It's going to pan out well," said the mining expert. "I guess Howard's discovery will add a few dollars to his father's pocket-book."
"I hope so," put in Fenton. "Of course the pater and Wells here knew how to go about things, and we have our claim fully protected. Probably a company will be formed in a short time, and the three of us may be out here a good deal, later on. Wells has plans already made for a hoist up the cliff, and a road from there won't be hard to make."
"I'm jolly glad to hear of your good luck, Howard," said Bob, his eyes sparkling.
"Count me in on that," added Dave, warmly.
"And Sam Randall is as much pleased as anybody," exclaimed the owner of that name.
"Enjoy it down here, all bottled up?" asked Bob Somers.
"Oh, yes—of course—but not until I found that the cork was out."
Howard smiled faintly, while several of his hearers laughed, and the former then added, "We were going to let you know as soon as possible that I was very much alive. Pater said it was a downright shame not to tell you fellows right away. Honestly, it was my fault—but it's all right, isn't it, eh?"
"All right, old man," said Bob, and they shook hands all around.
After lunch, the Ramblers accompanied Fenton to "Mystery Falls," as they termed the cataract. To reach it, they had to pass around a ledge of rock into a third valley.
"My!" observed Sam, striving to make his voice heard above the roar and his face paling a little, "isn't it awful to think of what——"
"Don't think of it, Sam," interrupted Dave, with a laugh, "but enjoy the scene."
And all agreed that it was a spectacle well worth seeing. The water of Canyon River, in the shadow of the great walls, roared and thundered, as it dashed with mighty force over the brink, to madly froth and seethe and bubble and swirl away two hundred feet below.
All felt a tremor when they thought of the fate of the "Dauntless" and "Speedy" and the awful plunge which each boat must have taken.
It was a long time before the boys could tear themselves away from the fascinating spectacle. Naturally, they were anxious to return to the village. Now that their own dangers were past, they felt so terribly worried about Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton that any real enjoyment was out of the question.
Howard Fenton agreed to accompany them to Mountain Village on the following day.
That night, he again exchanged signals with Neil Prescott, the boys being deeply interested spectators of the proceeding.
The eventful morning arrived, and the four set out early, leaving Stuart Wells at the camp.
Fenton led the way toward a gully and began scrambling up the side.
"Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Bob. "Work ahead, Chubby."
And Dave's only reply was a long drawn-out groan.
A bit further up, a patch of scrubby firs and bushes stood out sharply against their gray surroundings, and above that there was nothing but barren rock.
From ledge to ledge, the four made their way. Fortunately, footholds on the steep, sloping sides were numerous, otherwise their task would have been almost impossible.
"Whew—hot work," panted Dave.
"But we're getting up, Chubby," said Bob. "The river begins to look like a creek."
They stood on a shelving rock, with somewhat the feeling that an explorer experiences when gazing upon a newly-discovered land for the first time.
"Mighty few people have seen this," quoth Dave. "Pretty little valley, Fenton."
"Yes it is, Dave."
"And there's Wells—looks just like an ant. Can't you hear his voice plainly? Wonderful how sounds carry in a place like this."
Stuart had seen them, and was giving a parting salutation.
Up, up, slipping, sliding and scrambling; now on hands and knees, then drawing themselves almost by main force over rugged rocks, they progressed slowly toward the top.
Each was, of course, provided with a heavy stick, or "alpen-stock," as Dave called it, and these proved very useful.
At length, the toilsome climb was nearly over. They had reached the rounded projection of which Howard had spoken. It rose from a wide ledge, and looked so dangerous that the Ramblers' respect for the city boy's prowess was greatly increased.
"Nice job ahead of us," grumbled Sam. "My stars!"
"You fellows get up and throw me a rope," said Dave. "I shall recommend this for an air-ship station. My! A fellow needs wings to get around anything like that."
"Guess you understand why I felt stumped," laughed Fenton. "But wait till you see it from the top."
"Don't wonder Silver Valley hasn't many visitors," sighed Bob. "I feel like calling for help."
After a long rest, Howard Fenton started ahead, while the others watched. It was hard, toilsome work, but, at length, they saw him drag himself laboriously over the top, and disappear from view. Then a shout of approval went up.
"Here comes a rope, fellows," announced Fenton, a few minutes later.
It dangled downward over the smooth rock.
"I've fastened it up here, all right."
Howard poked his face over the barrier, and peered down. "Come ahead, Chubby," he called. "Don't depend too much on the rope."
The stout boy, with an alarming series of sighs and groans, obeyed.
At last all stood safely on the top, and agreed with Howard that no one who did not know the lay of the land would care to venture down.
"Howard, you have a pile of courage," said Bob, and Fenton smiled at the compliment.
After another short stop, he piloted them into the forest, following his blazed trail without difficulty.
The logger's hut was soon reached. Jake Lawson proved to be a rough, raw-boned mountaineer with an original manner of speech. He was profoundly astonished at the arrival of the boys, and still more astonished when he learned of their adventure in the canyon.
"Wal, wal," he exclaimed, elevating his shaggy eyebrows; "if this hyar keeps up, they'll be a-sendin' pleasure parties through the gorge, an' takin' up tickets at t'other end."
The four partook of a good, square meal of bacon and beans at the cabin, and then resumed their march.
Late in the afternoon, weary, dusty and footsore, they arrived at the Resort House.
Never before had Mountain Village experienced such a sensation. The news of their arrival spread like lightning. All had been given up for lost, their thrilling accident had been discussed and rediscussed, and was still the principal topic of conversation.
But the boys paid little attention to the questions hurled at them by the excited people, until assured of the safety of Dick Travers and Tom Clifton. They were rejoiced to hear of their rescue by Jim Havens and Phil Levins.
They also learned that "Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin had been arrested and taken to the town of Penton, some ten miles distant, to await the action of the authorities.
The Ramblers soon tore themselves away from their interested auditors, and hurried toward Rickham House.
On the porch they saw Dick Travers and Tommy Clifton, who stood for an instant motionless, then, with loud shouts of joy, rushed down the steps.
Two sad, dejected-looking boys were suddenly transformed into the happiest of mortals. They danced around, hugged their chums who had so fortunately escaped the perils of Canyon River, and, altogether, acted as if they had taken leave of their senses.
Little Tommy Clifton, in his joy, actually broke down and began to cry, but the others pretended to take no notice.
"By all that's wonderful!" gasped Dick, wringing Bob's hand for the tenth time, "somehow or other, I felt in my bones that it must come out all right. And Fenton here, too? Great Cæsar, but I'm happy—hurrah, hurrah!" and Dick began another wild jig.
"This is the best thing that ever happened," laughed Tom Clifton, excitedly. "Whoop la!" and he slapped Dave Brandon so energetically on the back that the "poet" declared it was almost a case of assault and battery.
And just as they were about to step on the porch, another yell nearly startled them out of their senses.
Sam Bins, with wildly rolling eyes, stood at the doorway.
"Good land—golly! Mr. Somers an' gemmen!" he cried. "Oh, dis chile can hardly believe it. You hain't never been in dat awful gorge, nohow. It was all a joke, eh?" and Sam's eyes rolled alarmingly. Then he began to laugh, and go through the same kind of antics in which Dick and Tommy had indulged a few moments before.
"Not much joke about it, Sam Bins," said Bob, with a smile, "but come out on the porch and hear the whole story. Hello—people coming, eh?"
"Christopher, a regular mob," chimed in Sam Randall. "Guess we've made some stir in Mountain Village."
For that afternoon, the Resort House was deserted. All who habitually settled affairs of state to their own satisfaction, discussed crops and weather, and speculated about new arrivals, betook themselves to Rickham.
Even old Sile Stringer had hobbled over, when Bob Somers began to graphically relate the story of their trip. Many gasps of astonishment came from his listeners, as he told of first one thrilling experience and then another.
"I always know'd a feller could git through that gorge," quavered old Sile; "always—said so many a time."
Howard Fenton finally had a chance to speak of his own adventures, and it was dark when the last of their visitors departed.
In this happy way was ended an experience which none of the boys would ever forget. And there were a couple of others, too, who were likely to remember the part they had taken in it.
"Little Bill" and "Surly Joe" were a badly frightened pair. Fairly stunned by the catastrophe, and fearful of the consequences of their act, they passed several very unpleasant days.
Their astonishment and relief were, therefore, unbounded at the good news, and soon after came the welcome intelligence that the Ramblers would not press any charges against them.
Even gratitude had a part in the make-up of "Little Bill" and "Surly Joe." When the boys next saw them, they looked very different from the bold spirits who had so defiantly sailed away on the "Spray."
"Surly Joe" in particular seemed ill at ease, and a worried look had replaced the scowl which usually rested upon his countenance.
After having, in his awkward fashion, thanked the boys, he motioned Bob to one side.
"Pardner," he began, in a husky whisper, "I've got somphin' partic'lar ter say."
"All right, Joe," said Bob. "Fire away."
The trapper scratched his head, looked down on the ground, and hesitated.
"Fact is, pardner, I 'most hates ter tell ye," he said, "but speakin' frankly—meanin' no offense, yer understands,—I—I——"
"Go ahead, Joe," encouraged Bob.
"Wal, I didn't like you fellers—kinder struck me as bein' a bit too perky, an' when you scares them ducks away, an' that leetle feller hollers—wal, pardner, I ain't got the best disposition in the world, an' it riled me more'n I was able ter stand."
"That's all right, Joe. You didn't know us," laughed Bob.
"'Tain't all right, pardner—not by a long shot, it ain't."
"Surly Joe" paused, his eyes shifting uneasily.
"Wal, I may as well out with it," he said, desperately. "You fellers killed a b'ar?"
"Sure we did," cried Bob, in surprise. "How did you know?"
"'Cause I seen yer a-luggin' ther hide in the cave," was the surprising answer.
"Well, well," said Bob. "This is a surprise, all right. Where in the dickens were you, Joe?"
"Pretty close by, pardner. But that ain't all—honest, pardner, I hates ter tell yer. I says, says I, 'A hard workin' trapper needs the b'ar's pelt more'n a parcel of sassy young snipes; an' they ain't treated me right, nuther; an'—wal, I ups and takes it. Thar, it's out now," and Joe wiped his perspiring face, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Jiminy crickets—another surprise," murmured Bob.
"I never done nuthin' like it afore," confessed the unhappy Joe.
"And if you never do again, Joe, it's all right," said Bob. "Maybe Dave Brandon won't be glad to hear about this."
"As sure as me name's Joe Tomlin, I'll fetch it to yer; an'—an'—say, pardner, is it all right?"
"Sure thing," cried Bob. "Hello, Dave!"
"Oh, ho, but I am glad!" exclaimed the latter, when he had heard the news. "It's simply great! I know just where I'm going to put that rug, Bob. Sure, it's all right," and he slapped the trapper good-naturedly on the back.
For once, Joe Tomlin's face wore a pleased expression, and when he turned away, Dave murmured, sotto voce, "No longer 'Surly Joe,' but happy Tomlin."
A few days later Dave Brandon was in possession of Old Ephraim's pelt.
After Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by Jim Havens, had paid their visit to the mountains, and returned to tell of wonderful exploits, a grand dinner was given in the old Rickham House. The guests were Howard Fenton, his father, Stuart Wells, Jim Havens, Hank Merwin and Neil Prescott.
Sam Bins, in honor of the occasion, did himself proud, as Dick Travers expressed it. After the meal the trapper and Neil Prescott told several stories; Bob Somers sang a popular song, while Dave Brandon, after a great deal of urging, delivered a recitation.
It was Dick Travers, however, who provided the sensation of the evening. The day before, he had received a package from Portland, but jealously guarded its contents. Now they were exposed to view.
Delighted exclamations came from all. The official photographer's snap-shots had turned out remarkably well.
First in interest was that woodland tragedy, the buck fight. One animal had sunk to its knees in the water, while over him stood his antagonist, with lowered head.
"Truly extraordinary, Dick," said Mr. Fenton. "Allow me to congratulate you. Such a rare picture ought to make a sensation."
"Perfectly bully," cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically.
Next in interest was Old Ephraim in the rôle of a fisherman, while the third showed the group with Hank Merwin in front of the dugout. It was a proud and happy night for the "official photographer."
Hank Merwin's delight knew no bounds when three nicely mounted prints were placed in his hands.
At Mr. Fenton's special request Dick also made him a similar present.
"I suppose," said the gentleman, smilingly, "that I am at liberty to do what I please with these pictures, and if I decide to present them to any one, I may say that it is in your behalf?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Dick, wondering at the request.
One afternoon, while they were sitting on the porch of the Resort House "Big Bill" Dugan's "rattleboard" and a cloud of dust appeared in view. In a few minutes the coach came to a stop, and the stage-driver climbed down.
"Hope there's some letters for us," said Bob. "Got much mail, Dugan?"
"Ain't it easy ter wait an' see?" growled Bill, as he flung the bag on the counter.
"One for Somers," said the postmaster, presently; "you too, Travers."
Dick glanced at his curiously.
"Wonder what the dickens this can be, fellows?" he said, as he saw on the outside of the envelope the name of a famous natural history museum in the East.
"One way to find out is to open it," suggested Dave.
Dick did so, and spread out a formidable-looking letter.
"Great Scott! Look at this, fellows," he cried.
His interested chums read the following: