The treasure of Mushroom Rock
Date: 2024-07-23T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Rocky Mountains -- Juvenile fiction; Prospecting -- Juvenile fiction; Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.) -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The treasure of Mushroom Rock

A story of prospecting in the Rocky Mountains

Author: Sidford F. Hamp

Illustrator: H. C. Edwards

Release date: July 23, 2024 [eBook #74105]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1899

Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, Rod Crawford, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TREASURE OF MUSHROOM ROCK ***

“LANDED WITH BOTH KNEES UPON THE MIDDLE OF OUR JAILER’S BACK.”

Frontispiece.

(See page 208.)

THE TREASURE OF
MUSHROOM ROCK

A STORY OF PROSPECTING IN THE
ROCKY MOUNTAINS

BY
SIDFORD F. HAMP

ILLUSTRATED

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1899

Copyright, 1899

BY

SIDFORD F. HAMP

Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I— | Moseley’s | 1
II— | The Flight | 19
III— | A False Start | 40
IV— | The Man with the Squeaky Voice | 60
V— | Jack; and What he Had to Say | 77
VI— | Two Old Acquaintances | 96
VII— | Into the Wilderness | 113
VIII— | A Queer Country | 131
IX— | Squeaky Scores One | 151
X— | The Valley of the Mushroom Rock | 174
XI— | A Counter-Stroke | 194
XII— | A Good Riddance | 211
XIII— | The Cleaning of the Pot-Holes | 230
XIV— | High Time to Leave | 248
XV— | A Way Out | 274
XVI— | All Accounts Squared | 294

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
“Landed with Both Knees upon the Middle of our Jailer’s Back” | Frontispiece
“I Waved the Light to and fro in Front of me” | 70
“He Looked down upon the Two Unsuspecting Campers” | 107
“Drop that!” | 164
“Out Came a Little Patch of Yellow Gold.” | 247
“It was with a Feeling of Awe that we Gathered around the Dead Man” | 312

THE TREASURE
OF MUSHROOM ROCK

CHAPTER I
MOSELEY’S

ONE windy night in April, some five-and-twenty years ago, the young moon, peeping now and then between the scudding wisps of cloud, seemed to be maintaining a careful watch upon a little incident which was taking place outside the windows of Moseley’s school—a large brick building standing in a walled enclosure.

Save for the roaring of the wind in the elm-trees, no sound was to be heard until, presently, the clock in the old church-tower struck eleven. As if the striking of the hour had been a signal, a boy suddenly appeared, stepping softly from the shadow of the enclosure wall. Picking up a small pebble, he cast it up at one of the windows. The window opened immediately and a second boy appeared. The one below gave two clicks with his tongue; whereupon the boy above let fall from the window a white bundle, which, instead of dropping upon the ground, unfolded itself and hung suspended. In the half-darkness the object looked very like two sheets knotted together to form a rope. That it was indeed intended to serve as a rope became at once evident, for the second boy, getting astride of the window-ledge, seized the sheet with one hand, and letting go his hold of the ledge came squirming and twisting down to the ground.

Having paused for an instant to listen, the two boys tiptoed away and were presently lost in the shadow. A moment later they reappeared on the top of the wall, dropped upon the outer side, stood still again for an instant to listen and peer about, and then, seemingly satisfied that there was nobody moving, they turned their faces southward and went running, pit-pat, down the white chalk road until they vanished among the trees at the bottom of the hill.

How it came about that Percy Goodall, an American boy, and I, Tom Swayne, an English boy, were running away together that windy night in April from Moseley’s school in the south of England, what led to our flight, and what came of it, form the subjects of the tale I have set out to chronicle; having been urged to undertake the task by Percy’s father and mine, and by our kind old friend, Sir Anthony Ringwood.

Percy’s father was the American Consul at one of the large seaport towns on the English Channel. His duties, of course, obliged him to live on the spot, but thinking that a smoky town, swarming with rough sailors of all nations and with many undesirable characters, was not the best place for a boy, he cast about for a good school to which he might send his son. After many and careful inquiries he settled upon Moseley’s, and accordingly, at the end of one Christmas holidays, Percy being then fourteen years old, his father took him up there and left him, a forlorn little scrap of humanity, alone in a land of strangers.

He was not alone for long, however, nor did he long continue to feel like a stranger, for on the following day we boys all came trooping back to school. There were about sixty of us, varying in ages from nine to nineteen. Most of us boarded in the houses of the different masters, but a few were day-boys, whose homes were in the village. Of these, I, Tom Swayne, the vicar’s son, was one.

As soon as it was discovered that there was a new boy, and that boy an American, Percy became a centre of attraction to the whole school. None of us had ever seen an American before, and we therefore inspected the newcomer with great interest. We found a sturdy, active, bright-eyed youngster, who, instead of being arrayed, as we had half expected, in striped trousers, a star-spangled coat, and a “chimney-pot” hat with the fur all turned the wrong way, was clothed like any of ourselves. In fact, except for the mispronunciation—as it seemed to us—of a few words, we could not see wherein an American differed from anybody else.

Percy and I very soon became friends. We had our desks next to each other in school, and we were put into the same class, occupying at first the two bottom places; an arrangement, however, which did not last very long, for Percy, as soon as he “got the hang of things,” to use his own expression, began to move up in the class, leaving me to occupy my accustomed place at the bottom by myself. He was quick at learning Latin and Greek; whereas I never could do anything in the classical languages—and unfortunately for me Latin and Greek formed the backbone of our studies at Moseley’s.

But though in the matter of scholarship there was a good deal of difference between Percy and me, that fact did not prevent us from becoming the best of friends; for in most other respects there were many points of resemblance between us. We were both fond of all kinds of athletic exercise, and both were good at any game requiring strength and agility. Many a time did the spirit of adventure get us into scrapes with Sir Anthony Ringwood’s keepers; many an exploring expedition did we make together, far out upon Salisbury Plain in one direction, and down to the New Forest in the other; and, to be honest, I fear I must admit that when any particularly ingenious piece of mischief was reported to old Moseley, the Head-master, it was pretty sure to have been Percy who had thought of it, and the pair of us who had taken the lead in carrying it out.

Of all the attractive places in the neighbourhood, however, the one to which we most resorted was Hengist’s Castle, a handsome old ruin standing on a small elevation about a mile from Moseley’s; and there is one incident connected with our explorations of this ancient edifice which is so closely associated with our subsequent adventures that I must not pass it over in silence.

My father and mother took a great liking for my American chum—they admired his brightness and his transparent honesty—and both of them, my mother especially, to make him feel that though a stranger in the land he was not exactly a foreigner, as a French boy would have been, made him welcome to the vicarage whenever he chose to come, and as we were always together, that was pretty often. On one of these occasions, a wet Saturday afternoon, Percy, poking about among the neglected volumes on the top shelves of the library, came upon a musty old leather-bound history of Hengist’s Castle. Among the many anecdotes scattered through this book there was one in particular which attracted his attention. It told how, “once upon a time,” a certain Sir Gregory Powlett had taken refuge in the castle; how he was at supper in the dining-hall one evening, when there came a clank of mailed feet and a thundering at the door, and the soldiers of that vengeful tyrant, Richard III., had burst upon the scene; and how Sir Gregory had but time to fly to the fireplace, whence, though there was a fire burning at the time, he had succeeded in gaining the secret passage.

This story set Percy thinking. If there had been a secret passage in the days of Richard III., why should it not be there yet? He communicated his idea to me, and we determined to set about a systematic search for it. From the diagrams and pictures with which the history was embellished we made out the situation of the dining-hall and the fireplace, and one half-holiday, without a word of our intention to anybody, we commenced our exploration.

Of the original walls of the dining-hall there was but one left standing; the others had been knocked to pieces by Cromwell’s men. This wall abutted against the ancient Keep, a square tower of considerable altitude, and was itself some seven feet thick and thirty feet high; covered, in many places to the top, with a heavy mat of ivy. In the thickness of the wall the chimney was built, a shaft five feet square at the bottom, but diminishing in size a short distance from the ground to one half those dimensions.

Standing in the fireplace, Percy and I peered about for an opening somewhere, but could see none. There was no stone panel working on a hinge, which was what we had rather expected to find, nor anything in the nature of steps by which we might climb the chimney. Overhead all was dark, for the shaft, besides contracting suddenly, had in it a bend which prevented us from seeing out at the top.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Percy: “we must get upon the top of the wall somehow and look down. I expect we can climb up by the ivy.”

The ivy outside was probably older than that inside the hall; at any rate it was thicker and reached higher. We therefore went outside, and choosing a spot where the mass of leaves was at least three feet in thickness and the stem of the plant about six inches in diameter, we went scrambling to the top and then made our way along the uneven surface of the broken wall until we came to the hole we were seeking, which we found to be level with the top of the wall and half concealed by the ivy.

Apparently we were no better off than before, however. We could see nothing, and we were afraid to attempt the descent of the inside of the chimney, for a fall to the bottom would pretty certainly result in some broken bones, to say nothing of a broken neck.

“Look here, Percy,” said I, “let us go back to the vicarage and bring up a rope—there is one in the gardener’s tool-house, I know—and then we will fasten it to something and climb down the chimney.”

This suggestion met with Percy’s approval; and in half an hour we were back again, rope in hand.

“Do you think you can hold it, Tom, while I go down?” asked Percy.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The rope is rather small, and it might slip through my hands. If we can take a turn with it round something I could hold it then.”

After a short search we found, some distance below the top of the wall, a dressed stone imbedded in the masonry and projecting about eighteen inches into the dining-hall. What it was there for we did not know, nor did we care, so long as it would serve our purpose. After one or two casts I succeeded in looping the rope under the stone, when, firmly holding one end, I sat down on the edge of the chimney With my feet braced against the other side and gave the word to Percy to descend.

Having the rope to hold by, Percy found no difficulty in scrambling down the dark hole until his feet came against the uppermost of three little ledges built in the sloping wall of the chimney. Securing a firm foothold, he took from his pocket a fragment of candle, lighted it, and commenced spying up and down for an opening. None was to be seen; three of the walls, at any rate, were solid. He turned round on the ledge. There, close against his face, was a dark passage about two feet square, so cleverly placed in the overhanging wall as to be invisible either from above or below.

“Tom!” My name came booming up the chimney.

“Hallo!” I shouted in reply.

“I’ve found it!”

“Found what? The passage?”

“Yes. Right here. Can you see the candle?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, it is right in front of me; but it is as dark as pitch inside. Wait a moment; I will reach in as far as I can and see if I can see anything.”

He did so; and immediately, fluff!—out went the candle, and I heard him exclaim, “Hi! B-rrr! Get out!”

“What is it?” I shouted.

“Bats. A dozen of them. They flew right into my face.”

“I say, Percy,” I called down to him, “can you stand without the rope?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, then, let go. I’m going to tie the two ends together and come down too.”

This was soon done, and down I went, my knees braced against one side of the chimney and my shoulders against the other. Standing upon the top ledge, while Percy stood upon the lowest one, I lit my candle—for we had “annexed” a couple of candle-ends when we went down for the rope.

“That’s the passage, all right,” said I. “But how did that old buffer in the history-book ever get up to it? Ah, I see. Look here—come up a step. Do you see this big iron staple with three rusty links of chain attached to it? The chain must have hung down into the fireplace once, so that an active fellow might pull himself up by it and draw it up after him. But I suppose the rain, running down the chimney for two hundred years, has rusted it all away. These links look pretty rotten themselves.”

They were, indeed, pretty rotten; for, as I spoke, I picked up one of them and broke it to pieces with my finger and thumb quite easily. The staple itself, however, being thicker, and being placed farther inside the passage, was still perfectly sound.

“Come on,” said Percy. “Let us crawl down the passage and see where it leads to.”

After crawling for a short distance we found that the roof of the passage rose sufficiently to enable us to stand upright, and directly afterwards we came upon a flight of stone stairs ascending into the darkness. Up these we went, ten steps, emerging presently through a square hole into a little room, in which were a small fireplace and a window, the latter covered with ivy. Looking through this window we could see the school and the village, and we guessed at once that the room was built in the wall of the Keep, which we knew to be immensely thick.

As may be supposed, we were highly jubilant over our discovery. We decided at once that we would keep our secret to ourselves, if possible; that the room should be our own private den, to which nobody, on any pretence whatever, should be admitted.

The first thing to be done was to provide some ready means of access to the passage, and this we accomplished before the day was out.

Procuring from the village blacksmith a stout iron bar, we laid it across one corner of the chimney-top in receptacles made for the purpose by prying up some of the stones, and having reset the stones as well as we could, the first part of our task was completed. The next thing was to attach to the bar one half of the rope, which I had begged from my father, and after tying a short, stout piece of wood every two feet of its length, to drop it down the chimney. The other half of the rope we tied in like manner to the big staple in the entrance of the passage, and as it reached to within seven feet of the hearthstone we were able to go up or down as we liked. There was little chance that anybody would discover the end of the rope in the chimney, for, though the boys were in the habit of playing hide-and-seek about the castle, they were all aware that there was nowhere to hide in the fireplace, while the occasional tourist was unlikely to go in there at all.

As our den contained a fireplace of its own, and as the weather was chilly, for it was just after the Christmas holidays,—Percy’s second Christmas at the school,—it naturally occurred to us that we ought to have a supply of fire-wood. But fire-wood is a scarce article in England, and we were obliged to search the hedge-rows and spinneys for a long distance around for dead sticks ere we could collect a sufficient supply. With infinite labour we succeeded in getting together about a cart-load, which we hoisted in small bundles up the chimney and carried to the den; and then, of course, we must straightway light a fire to test the drawing qualities of our fireplace.

We had been standing by the fire, warming ourselves, for a quarter of an hour, or so, when Percy, happening to look out of the window, exclaimed:

“Why! What is the matter down in the village? The whole population seems to be coming up here.”

“It’s the smoke!” I cried. “It’s the smoke pouring out of the top of the Keep. They are coming up to see what is the cause of it. We must hurry out and pull up our ropes; they might find them.”

Back we went in great haste; detached the ropes and pulled them up; drew the ivy over the iron bar, and scrambled down the wall. Then, Percy taking one of the ropes and I the other, we wound them round and round our bodies and buttoned our coats over them. They made us look absurdly fat, but that could not be helped. Then we ran round the bottom of the hill and joined the procession of villagers from behind.

It was not surprising that their attention had been attracted. We had built a roaring fire in the hope of taking the chill out of the walls of the den, and some of the wood being rather damp, an immense volume of smoke was rolling away from the summit of the old tower.

The men and boys, including Percy and myself, at once dispersed all over the castle in search of the fire; every spot, likely or unlikely, was inspected, without result, and presently everybody congregated again at the base of the Keep, whence the mysterious smoke was still pouring in clouds, to discuss the meaning of this wonderful phenomenon. Percy and I were in perfect ecstasies of delight as we listened to the varied opinions of the astonished villagers; it was with the greatest difficulty we could restrain our laughter.

“Do’ee know what ’tis makes thicky smo-ak?” said one old fellow in a smock-frock. “’Tis my opinion it be gho-asts.”

“Or witches,” added another, turning pale at his own idea.

Everybody shook his head and looked serious; for the farm-labourer of the south of England firmly believed in witches at that time—and probably he does so still, for he is of a slow-moving race.

One man, however, a big young fellow in a velveteen coat, scouted the idea. He was one of Sir Anthony Ringwood’s keepers.

“Witches and ghosts!” he exclaimed, scornfully. “’Tain’t neither one nor t’other; ’tis poachers, that’s what ’tis. They’ve bin and found some room in the castle as nobody knows on, and ’tis them as is making this’ere smoke.”

But this very reasonable idea of our friend in velveteen was received with equal scorn by the others. They preferred the witch theory. I have no doubt but that every single one of them took care to stop up his keyhole that night, in case one of the witches, offended at this officious prying into her affairs, should think fit to pay him a visit.

Having concluded their fruitless search, the party returned to their homes; while Percy and I, readjusting the ropes, went back to the den, where we spent the rest of the afternoon sitting by the fire and chuckling over the mystification of the villagers.

But though the villagers had no trouble in deciding that the supernatural smoke was due to the agency of witchcraft, Sir Anthony was by no means so easily satisfied. The old Baronet was the largest landowner and chief magnate of the neighbourhood. He had been a great sportsman in his day, having shot buffaloes on the plains of America and tigers in the Indian jungles, and though he was now too old for such enterprises, he was still as keen as ever with his gun, and preserved the game upon his large estates with great strictness. Poachers were the bane of his existence; and his declaration that he would prosecute to the utmost extent of the law anyone found infringing upon his game-rights was well known to us and to everybody else in the village.

The poachers happened to be particularly active at this time, and the young keeper’s theory that some of that troublesome fraternity had discovered a secret chamber in the castle found favour with the better-educated people of the neighbourhood; Sir Anthony in particular was convinced of its correctness. In consequence, he ordered a strict examination of the old ruin to be made under the direction of the head-keeper, a very intelligent man; but Percy and I, getting wind of his intention, removed the telltale ropes, and as the ivy was not strong enough to bear the weight of a grown man, none of the keepers could get upon the top of the wall, and our secret therefore remained a secret, its value being only enhanced by the wonder which the mystery excited in the whole community.

CHAPTER II
THE FLIGHT

SOME six months previous to our discovery of the secret chamber, it happened that all the boys in our class at school had been taken with a desire to become archers,—the result of reading the story of Robin Hood,—and Percy and I, among the rest, had procured bows and arrows, and had spent many hours practising at a sack full of straw suspended from a bough in the playground. With the others the craze, as such crazes will, had died out again in a short time; we two alone kept it up. For one thing, my chum’s persevering nature impelled him, having undertaken to be an archer, to be one; another reason was that our bows were very superior to those of the other boys. In the churchyard there grew a splendid old yew-tree, the pride of the village, and we, young rascals that we were, had purloined from it two straight branches, which, with great pains, we had fashioned into very serviceable bows. By constant practice we became highly respectable shots, and many a luckless small bird did we thoughtlessly slay for the mere pleasure of killing; we even became so expert as now and then to kill a rabbit “on the wing,” as Percy put it.

The favourite place for our shooting expeditions was the Cross-roads Spinney, a triangular piece of ground of eight or nine acres, well covered with trees, which lay about two miles from the village. It belonged to nobody, or rather, being claimed by Sir Anthony and by the Parish, it had for many years lain in Chancery; a state of affairs which suited us very well, for, while the lawsuit dragged along, we boys appropriated the place for our own happy hunting-ground. Bordering as it did upon Sir Anthony’s best game-preserve, it was a source of great annoyance to the old Baronet that the title could not be settled, for many a pheasant flew over the wall to roost in the spinney, and very seldom did it ever fly back again; somebody was sure to get it. Then, too, the gypsies would frequently encamp there, to Sir Anthony’s great disgust; for, with him and his keepers, “gypsy” and “poacher” were synonymous terms.

This spinney was not far from Hengist’s Castle, and the belief that the poachers who were just now giving so much trouble were harbouring in the ruins, kept all the keepers on the alert, not only in the hope of laying hands on the culprits, but of discovering their hiding-place.

One evening in April, Percy and I were returning from a shooting expedition, bearing our spoils, one rabbit each, in our hands, when we were overtaken by one of our school-fellows,—Bates, senior, by name,—with whom, though there were no active hostilities between us, we had long been “at outs.” We did not like him, and he returned the compliment.

That I may not do him an injustice, I must explain that Bates had some reason for his antipathy. He was an orphan, his affairs being managed by a crusty old lawyer in London, whose idea of the proper discharge of the duties of a guardian was confined to the remitting of so much money to his ward every three months—more money than a boy ought to have at command—and in taking no further notice of him until next quarter-day came round. Bates was thus in a manner thrown upon the world to follow his own bent, and, unfortunately for him, his bent had one very serious twist in it,—he was a born gambler.

Old Moseley was aware of his pupil’s proclivities. He had found him out once in a horse-racing transaction whereby Bates had lost a considerable sum of money, and had warned him that at the next offence he would have to leave the school; a warning which seemed to have had the desired effect, for during some months thereafter Bates desisted.

One day, however, Percy and I, ranging the woods in search of birds’-nests, came suddenly upon Bates and a stranger seated on the ground with a handkerchief spread between them, shaking dice for shillings. The disconcerted gambler, when he saw he was discovered, sprang to his feet and advanced upon us with a threatening air, but, though he was three years older and three inches taller than either of us, Percy and I were not afraid of him, and Bates, knowing, probably, that we were a pair hard to beat,—which I think I may assert without risking the charge of bragging,—thought better of it, and, changing his manner, invited us to join the game—an invitation we promptly declined. He then fell to begging us to say nothing about it. This we promised—with a reservation.

“Look here, Bates,” said Percy, who was usually the spokesman for the pair; “of course we won’t say anything about it. Why should we? But if old Moseley asks us any questions we are not going to tell him any lies.”

I nodded my head in approval. Bates, who seemed to regard such scruples as absurd, tried in vain to argue us out of this resolution, and was obliged finally to content himself with the assurance we had given him.

To have been defied by two boys younger than himself was bad enough; to be at the mercy of their possibly indiscreet tongues was worse. From that time forth, fearing that the incident might come to light, Bates, all unsuspected by us, set his wits to work to oust us from the school, if possible, and by a curious, roundabout course he succeeded at last, though in a manner he could hardly have expected, and with results he was very far from anticipating.

Since the occurrence of the dice-shaking incident Percy and I had held no intercourse with him, and we were therefore somewhat surprised and quite well please when Bates, overtaking us that evening, checked his pace and spoke to us.

“I say, you fellows,” said he; “don’t you think it is about time we made friends again?”

It occurred to me that this way of putting it was hardly correct, as we had never been friends before; but Percy did not notice it, and putting out his hand, he said, “All right, Bates; I’m willing if you are.”

Percy was of that straightforward, unsuspicious nature that it never entered his mind that Bates could have ulterior motive for his friendly advances; while, as for myself, I was accustomed to follow my chum’s lead without much consideration for the consequences. Accordingly we shook hands all round and walked on side by side, glad to think that the feud was ended.

“You haven’t been to the spinney to-day, have you?” asked Bates.

“No,” replied Percy. “We went up the Roman road to Crabtree’s farm. There are lots of rabbits there, and old Crabtree is glad to have them shot; they are so think as to be just a nuisance.”

“Well,” said Bates, “I’ve just come by the spinney, and I saw something that made me think of you two fellows and your bows and arrows. I had an idea; and you can help me to carry it out if you like. In fact, to be honest, that was why I proposed to you to be friends again.”

We were rather pleased at this “honest” confession. Bates was not such a bad fellow after all, perhaps.

“What is your idea?” asked Percy.

“I’ll tell you. As I was coming along I saw five pheasants fly over Sir Anthony’s park-wall and alight in the spinney. I crept in there, and there they were, all settling themselves for the night in a young fir-tree. Then I thought of you. What do you say to going out to-night and having a try for them? You can bring your bows and arrows, and I’ll show you the place. What do you say?”

“But, look here, Bates,” said I. “Isn’t it against the law to shoot pheasants?”

“Oh, no,” said Bates confidently. “If you were to shoot them on Sir Anthony’s land, that would be poaching, of course; but in the spinney a pheasant belongs to anybody who can get it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Percy.

“Certain, quite certain,” Bates declared with much emphasis. “You would not catch me going after pheasants if there was any fear of getting into prison for it. No, thank you. You may be sure of that.”

“It does seem pretty reasonable,” said Percy, “that game found on land that belongs to nobody in particular should be the property of anyone who can get it; and if you’re sure you’re right, Bates, I think we may as well go. Eh, Tom?”

Percy, naturally enough, knew almost nothing of the English game-laws, and, as for myself, I knew but little more. I was aware that rabbits were not game—in the eye of the law—and that pheasants were, but whether it were an illegal act to kill a pheasant in a public place like the spinney I had no knowledge. But as Bates was not afraid to venture (and we had no great opinion of his courage); as we were both very desirous of shooting a pheasant; and as, in fine, we possessed that common attribute of schoolboys, the habit of acting first and thinking afterwards, we decided to go.

At eight o’clock that evening, therefore, Bates, carrying a bag for the reception of the game, called for us at the vicarage, where Percy and I were waiting for him, and together we set off for our hunting-ground by a short cut across the fields.

We had nearly reached our destination, when Bates, vaulting over the gate which led from one field to another, managed somehow to entangle his feet in the game-bag and fell upon his hands and knees on the farther side, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain.

“Have you hurt yourself?” asked Percy, solicitously, seeing that our guide remained sitting on the ground clasping one ankle with both hands.

“I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle a little,” replied Bates, suppressing a groan with seeming difficulty.

“Well, that is hard luck,” said Percy. “That ends our expedition for to-night, sure enough. Look here, Bates. Put one arm over Swayne’s shoulders and the other over mine and we’ll help you along back to the schoolhouse as fast as we can. If you can’t do it in that way, we’ll carry you pick-a-back in turns. I expect we can manage it if we rest often enough.”

“Oh, no,” returned Bates. “We won’t give up our expedition yet, now that we have come this far. I am afraid I had better not try to walk any farther myself, but you two can go on and get the pheasants. You won’t be gone more than half an hour, I suppose, and then you can come back to me and give me a hand home. I’ll just sit here and wait for you.”

At first we were very much opposed to this course, but Bates insisting, we at length agreed to go on, and accordingly, taking with us the game-bag, and leaving him propped up with his back against the gate, we hurried off.

We soon spotted the young fir-tree, the position of which Bates had carefully described to us, and there, sure enough, were the pheasants; we could see them, like dark blotches, against the sky.

“You take the first shot,” whispered Percy.

Choosing the lowest bird, that its fall might not disturb the others, I let fly, and down it came with hardly a flutter. Percy then took a shot, with equal success. We placed the two birds at the foot of the tree, and were stooping to pull out the arrows, when we were suddenly pounced upon from behind, and a voice in my ear, a voice strangely familiar, said:

“These are your poachers, Keeper, caught in the act. Sir Anthony will give you a five-pound note for this, you may depend.”

“Thanks to you, sir,” said the keeper, who was holding Percy by the collar. “Bring the young gent along; they’ll spend the rest of the night in the lock-up.”

My assailant transferred his grip to my collar, and I was then able to turn my head and look at him. It was Bates.

“What are you up to, Bates?” I exclaimed, giving him a dig in the stomach with my elbow. “What do you mean by calling us poachers? You know perfectly well we are not poaching.”

“Oh, yes, you are, though,” replied Bates, with a complacent snigger. “Are they not, Keeper?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the keeper—it was the big young man who had helped the villagers in the search for our fire in the castle. “They’re poaching, sure enough. ’Tain’t the first time, neither, I’ll lay a tanner.”

“What rot you are talking, Keeper!” I blurted out. “You know just as well as I do that this isn’t Sir Anthony’s land.”

“Ah, but it is, though,” replied the grinning keeper; and Bates burst out laughing.

“Perhaps you didn’t know,” said he, “that the Chancery suit was settled three days ago in favour of Sir Anthony. This spinney is part of his preserves now; and you are caught poaching, my fine fellows. You’ll never see your native land again, my little Yankee,” shaking his fist at Percy. “If you’re not hung you’ll be transported for life. Oh, this is fine! I think I’ve squared accounts with the pair of you now, you young beggars.”

Then the whole extent of Bates’ villainy burst upon us. He had known of the settlement of the lawsuit, and he had pretended to make friends with us that evening solely with the object of drawing us into this trap. His twisted ankle was merely a part of the trick, contrived beforehand.

I was so enraged at his unparalleled meanness that I squirmed around in his grasp, and seizing him by the arms, I set to work kicking his shins with enthusiastic vigour. This was more than Bates had bargained for. He hopped about, first on one leg and then on the other, struggling to break from my grasp, and yelling to the keeper to come and help him. But the keeper was fully occupied in holding Percy; so Bates and I had it out between us. I hope I am not of a very vindictive nature, but I confess I long remembered with satisfaction the sound made by my stout English shoes as they cracked against the shins of the howling Bates.

At length he broke away and fled; when I instantly ran to the assistance of Percy. Coming up behind the keeper I seized him by the hair, pulling his head back so that his face was turned up to the sky. Down he came to his knees, and leaving his hold of Percy he attempted to grasp me by the wrist. This, however, was just what I was expecting, and giving him a sharp push I threw him forward upon his face.

The next moment Percy and I were out of the wood and scudding down the road.

The indignant keeper was up and after us like a shot; we could hear his heavy shoes coming, clip-clop, on the hard road behind us. We were just beginning to think we should out-run him when he blew a shrill whistle, in response to which two other keepers suddenly appeared in the road a hundred yards ahead. They supposed they had caught us then; but they were mistaken. Without an instant’s hesitation Percy swerved to one side, put down his head, shut his eyes, and dashed at the quickset hedge which bordered the road. He burst half-way through, when a push from me sent him forward upon his hands and knees on the other side. I dived into the gap he had made, and Percy, seizing me by the arm, dragged me through, just as the young keeper came panting up behind.

Away we went across country, heading straight for the castle, and after a smart run of nearly a mile we dashed into the old dining-hall—still fifty yards ahead of our pursuers. Calling to Percy to take to the chimney, I bolted through the arched doorway of the hall and scrambled up the ivy, reaching the top in time to see the young keeper pop into the fireplace down below. He had evidently seen Percy go in there, and supposed he had caught him as in a trap. Great was his surprise, therefore, to find the place empty.

Soon Bates and the other two men came up, and as I lay on the top of the wall, peeping over, I could hear their conversation.

“Gone up the chimney, have they?” said Bates. “Then they can’t escape: they will have to come down again sometime. I’ll tell you what it is, men: these are the poachers who have been making this smoke that has been puzzling everybody so much; they have found some secret chamber up the chimney here. I wonder what Sir Anthony will say when he hears who it is that has been stealing his pheasants so long.”

“He’ll prosecute ’em, sir; you may depend on it,” said one of the keepers. “He told me, only this morning, he didn’t care who it was, he’d prosecute ’em to the full extent of the law.”

“I hope he will; they deserve it—the young rascals. Look here, men——”

Bates and the three keepers fell to whispering together; I could no longer hear what was said. Presently they withdrew to either side of the fireplace and stood motionless, except that Bates occasionally rubbed his shins. It was plain that they expected that, if they kept quiet, we, supposing they had gone, would come down to be pounced upon.

I put my face over the opening of the chimney and gave a click with my tongue; Percy answered the signal; and then I whispered to him to come up. Soon his head appeared, and creeping out of the hole he pulled up the rope and laid it on the wall.

“Did you pull up the other rope?” I asked.

“Part way. I lodged it on one of the ledges below the passage. What are they doing down there?”

“Waiting for us to come down.”

We peered over the wall. Seemingly the enemy had already tired of waiting, for they were holding another whispered consultation, which resulted in the disappearance of two of the keepers into the fireplace. Presently we heard a muffled voice exclaim:

“There’s a rope up here. Give me your stick, Andrew, and I’ll hook it down.”

Bates and the remaining keeper immediately crowded into the fireplace, and we, listening down the chimney, heard a scrabbling and a scuffing, and then a light appeared, and the same voice said:

“Here’s a passage. Here’s three candles and a half, and candle-grease all along. That’s where they’ve gone. I’m a-going to crawl in there.”

“Hold up a bit, Jim,” the young keeper called out; “I’m coming too.”

“So will I,” cried the other, whose curiosity was excited by the discovery of a passage; and, “So will I,” cried Bates, who did not choose to be left alone in the shadowy old ruin.

There was a great deal of scuffing and scraping, and we two, lying flat on the wall with one eye each over the edge of the orifice, saw four pairs of heels alternately kick and struggle and finally disappear down the passage.

“Come on, Percy,” I exclaimed. “Let us get down the wall while we can.”

“Wait a bit,” he replied. “There’s something else to be done first.”

To my surprise he let down the rope and vanished into the chimney again. He was back in a minute, however, and pulling up the rope, he sprang to his feet and cried:

“Now we’re all right. They won’t catch us to-night, I think.”

“What did you go down for?” I asked.

“I cut the other rope and dropped it into the fireplace.”

Instead of the enemy catching us, we had caught the enemy.

We were soon down upon the ground again, and on our homeward way, but on rounding the corner of the Keep we espied a glimmer of light coming through the ivy-leaves which covered the window of our private den.

“Let us hail them,” said Percy; and on my acquiescing he called out, “Hallo, up there!”

Immediately the leaves parted, and a face, illuminated by a candle, appeared. It was Bates. At his exclamation of surprise on seeing us—for the moon was up—his face was at once surrounded by those of the three keepers, who gazed in wonder at our unexpected appearance.

“Good-bye, Keepers,” cried Percy. “I’ve cut the rope in the chimney, and you can’t get out. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m afraid you are likely to starve to death. There’s plenty of fire-wood, and there are three sparrows and a blackbird hanging on a nail in the corner; they will keep you alive for a day or two; after that you can cook Bates. Good-bye.”

With that we turned our backs upon the prisoners and set off at a brisk trot for the vicarage.

There was a summer-house in one corner of the vicarage garden, and to this we repaired in order that we might consult as to our future proceedings.

“Do you believe that poaching is a hanging matter, Tom?” asked Percy. “I remember my father telling me that there were once two hundred and forty hanging offences in England, and this one might have been left over when they repealed the others.”

“I believe it is not,” I replied. “But it is imprisonment, I’m sure.”

“What are we to do, then? We were caught poaching; there seems to be no doubt about that. We didn’t intend it, of course, but I’m afraid Sir Anthony may not take that into consideration; he appears to be so hot against poachers. And for that matter, we may not have a chance to tell our side of the story at all, because in England, I’ve heard, a prisoner is not allowed to give evidence in his own defence. So, there we are, you see. Four witnesses against us and none for us. Our chance of imprisonment, it seems to me, is pretty good—or pretty bad, rather.”

Our case certainly did look serious when Percy thus laid it out for my inspection.

“As far as I see,” said I, “there is nothing left but to run away. I don’t want to run away, you may be sure, but I don’t want to be hung or transported or put in jail either. I wish my father and mother were here, so that we might ask them what we ought to do.”

It happened that my parents had that evening driven off to dine and sleep fifteen miles away, and Percy’s father being too far off for us to communicate with him, we were thus deprived of our natural advisers. It did not occur to either of us to lay the matter before old Moseley, for the head-masters of English schools, at that time at least, seemed to their younger pupils to stand upon too high and unapproachable an eminence to be regarded by them as friends and counsellors.

“I’ll tell you what we must do,” said Percy, after sitting in profound thought for the space of five minutes—“and considering that we got into this scrape by no fault of our own, I believe our parents won’t blame us for doing it. We’ll run off down to Southampton—we can get there before morning—and slip on board a steamer going over to France. From there I’ll write to my father and tell him all about it, and he will arrange the matter somehow; or, if it is not to be arranged, he will tell us what to do next. What do you say?”

“I think it is a first-rate idea, and I vote we do it.”

Doubtless we were a foolish pair of youngsters to decide upon such a course, but I think, considering the circumstances, it is not so much to be wondered at that we should run away and conceal ourselves for a time until we should find out whether we were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, or otherwise made to suffer, for an offence we had never intended to commit.

“But, Percy,” said I, as the thought occurred to me, “what about those fellows up at the castle? We can’t leave them to starve to death.”

After some consideration Percy thought of a plan.

“See here,” said he. “You write out a statement of the whole matter and leave it on your dressing-table. Say how Bates got us into this mess, and where he is now. I’ll do the same. I’ll address it to old Moseley and ask him to send it on to my father. How will that do?”

“That will do. And then your father, and mine too, will know that we are all right, and that we haven’t run away without a pretty good reason.”

“How much money have you?” asked Percy, as we rose from our conference.

“There are four pounds in my savings-box,” I replied.

“Well, bring it all,” said he. “I have three pounds, besides twenty-five dollars my aunt gave me. Come and throw a stone at my window at eleven and I’ll be ready. We must wait till everybody is asleep.”

Percy then hurried off to the schoolhouse, and at five minutes past eleven that night, as I have already told, we were running down the white chalk road on our way to Southampton, twenty-five miles distant.

CHAPTER III
A FALSE START

THERE was a tinge of red in the eastern sky when two very weary and very hungry boys came tramping into Southampton and made their way down to the docks. Among the innumerable vessels lying side by side they presently came to one which presented an appearance of greater bustle than the others; the steam was roaring from the funnels, cases and boxes were being lowered into the hold amid much shouting and running up and down of sailors, and everything betokened a speedy departure.

Of a man standing on the wharf, his hands in his pockets and a pipe in the corner of his mouth, one of the boys inquired whither this vessel was bound.

“D’n’-know,” grunted the man. “Dieppe, maybe, or St. Malo.”

“When does she sail?” asked the boy again.

“High tide; ’bout an hour.”

“Thank you,” said Percy, who had asked the questions; and then, turning to me, he suggested that we had time to go and get some breakfast.

In a greasy little den by the waterside we managed to make a very hearty meal, for we were too hungry to be particular, and in half an hour we sallied forth again much refreshed. Somewhat to our consternation, as we issued from the house we ran plump into the arms of a big policeman, who eyed us, as we thought, with suspicious keenness, but as he did not address us we walked back to the vessel, to which a gang-plank had now been run out.

There did not appear to be many passengers going aboard, but among them we noticed a large family, father and mother, three daughters, and a son, awaiting their turn, and joining ourselves to this party we walked on board with them, apparently without exciting any suspicion. If any of the officers thought anything about it at all, they probably supposed we were coming to see the rest of the family off.

We went at once down to the saloon, and walking up a long passage toward the stern, tapped at the door of one of the state-rooms. There was no answer, so, opening the door, we peeped in.

“This will do, Tom,” whispered my companion. “See; the beds are not made up; this cabin is not taken.”

We slipped in, shut the door, and crawled beneath the berths on either side. For the time, at any rate, we were safe.

During the long walk of the night before we had discussed a plan of action, and had decided that, instead of paying for our passage before starting, we would get on board and hide, if possible, in order to avoid unpleasant explanations until it should be too late to send us back; in which design we had succeeded more easily than we had ventured to hope.

In about half an hour we heard a bell ring, somebody called out, “Any more for the shore?” and not long afterwards, with a suddenness which made us jump, there came, just under our heads apparently, a chug—chug—chug! and a splashing of water which notified us plainly enough that we had started. Presently, from the slight motion of the vessel, we guessed that we were clear of the docks and were steaming down between the Isle of Wight and the mainland. This motion continued for a long time, and then the boat suddenly heeled over and rolled back with a creaking of timbers and a slamming of doors which proclaimed the fact that we had rounded the Needles and were out in the English Channel.

“Percy,” I whispered, “I wonder what they are doing at home now. They’ve found your sheets hanging out of the window long before this.”

“Yes. And, Tom, I wonder if Bates has ventured to climb down the chimney yet.”

“Not he,” I replied. “The keepers might, but Bates won’t.”

We lay silent again, and presently, worn out by our long night’s tramp, and by the exertions and excitement of the day before, we fell asleep. It was towards evening when the ringing of the dinner-bell woke us up. Thinking it was the calling-bell at school, Percy started up and was at once brought to a sense of his present situation by cracking the back of his head sharply against the bottom of the berth. Seeing that I was moving he whispered across to me:

“Tom, shall we go out now? We must be nearly across. How long does it take to get over to France? Do you know?”

We had both crawled from our hiding-places, and were enjoying a hearty stretch; I had opened my mouth to reply to Percy’s question, when we heard footsteps in the passage, and a voice saying, “Number four. Lower berth.”

“This is number four, Percy,” I whispered, hastily. “Shall we hide?”

“No,” said he, stoutly, and “All right,” said I; and standing side by side we looked expectantly and with something of a tremor at the door.

The door opened, and a large man in a gold-laced hat put one foot inside the cabin and stopped, regarding us with wide-opened eyes. Behind him we saw a steward carrying an armful of bedding.

“Well, young gentlemen,” said the gold-laced man, whom we took to be the Captain; “where did you spring from?”

“We came on board this morning, sir,” said Percy, “and we’ve been asleep ever since.” Then, seeing that the man looked serious, he hastily added, “We are ready to pay for our passage, sir.”

“And, if you please, sir,” I asked, “shall we be able to get something to eat before we land?” For I was ravenously hungry.

At this the big man broke into a big laugh. “Well, yes,” said he. “You will be more than hungry if you don’t. Where do you suppose you are going to?”

“France,” we both answered together.

At this the big man’s countenance fell again. Telling the attending Steward to leave the bedding, he shut the door, and said:

“Boys, I’m afraid you have made some grievous mistake. This boat is not going to France. We are bound for New Orleans.”

It was our turn to look grave. Instead of a passage of six or eight hours, we were in for a sea-voyage of two or three weeks. Added to this, if we should give up all our money it would hardly suffice to pay our way, and moreover we should on landing be stranded, penniless, in a strange city in what was, to me at least, a foreign land. The situation was decidedly serious.

“How did you ever come to make such a mistake?” our interlocutor went on. “And why didn’t you take a ticket before coming on board? A pretty mess you’ve made of it.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, sir,” replied Percy, with a glance at me which I answered with a nod. “We ran away from school last night and intended to go over to France for a time; but we were afraid to offer to pay our passage beforehand lest you should refuse to take us; so we slipped on board and hid in this cabin.”

“Well, well! You have certainly made a mess of it. I must go and tell the Captain——”

“The Captain! We thought you were the Captain.”

“No; I’m the Purser. How much money have you, by the way?”

“Seven pounds, sir, and twenty-five dollars.”

“Hm! Sixty dollars. Not much more than enough to pay your passage by steerage. And then you will be left paupers in New Orleans. Hm! I must go and talk to the Captain.”

“If you please, sir,” said Percy, “can’t we earn our passage somehow? We are both strong, and we’ll do anything.”

“I’ll see what can be done. Meanwhile you must have something to eat. Come with me.”

The Purser led us to the Steward’s pantry, and there left us busily and satisfactorily engaged in demolishing a dish of cold ham and a pile of bread and butter.

“Percy,” said I, as soon as we were left to ourselves, “we’ve got into a pretty hobble. How are we going to get out of it?”

“I don’t know how we are going to get out of it,” replied my companion. “Unless we should meet another ship and the Captain should send us back we shall have to go on to New Orleans. As far as we are concerned I don’t care; it is thinking of the folks at home that bothers me. They won’t know what has become of us, and there will be no means of letting them know for three weeks, perhaps. If there was any way of getting back I’d go back, and chance being hung, rather than let them worry over us such a long time.”

“So would I,” was my response. “It would be quite a pleasure to meet a policeman if he would guarantee to send a message home to say we were all right.”

Though we were, perhaps, rather a harum-scarum pair of youngsters, we were not altogether graceless. We were very sincerely troubled about this matter. As it happened, however, our trouble was superfluous. Though we were not made aware of the fact until long afterwards, it may be well to say at once that our parents had already found out where we were, and, knowing that we were well capable of taking care of ourselves, so far from being overwhelmed with anxiety on our account, they were almost disposed to chuckle over the predicament in which they guessed we must be.

If only we could have known this, what a difference it would have made to our comfort!

But two healthy boys cannot long remain in a doleful frame of mind, and under the genial influence of the cold ham we presently began to brighten up.

“That Purser is a jolly old buffer,” said I; “I only hope the Captain is half as good a fellow. Suppose they let us work our passage, what shall we do when we get to New Orleans?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” replied Percy. “First of all, as soon as ever we set foot on shore, we must telegraph home, if it takes every cent we possess. Then, I propose that we take one of the big river-steamers up to St. Louis,—working our passage, if they’ll let us,—and from there turn eastward, ride as far as our money will take us, and walk the rest of the way to Philadelphia. I have lots of relations in Philadelphia, and they will help us. What do you think?”

I readily acquiesced in Percy’s plan; as, indeed, I should have done in any other he might have proposed. It was not likely that I should be able to contribute any valuable suggestions on the subject, for my knowledge of American geography and American distances was quite microscopic in its littleness. Of St. Louis I had never heard before, while as to the other two cities, I knew that one was somewhere in the South and the other somewhere in the East, and that was all. How far apart they might be I had no idea.

It was well we settled upon a plan of action while we had the chance, for, as it happened, we were destined to have few opportunities of conversing during the rest of the voyage. One of the stewards presently came in with a message from the Purser, to say that the Captain could not see us until next day, and that he—the Steward—would find us a bed. Accordingly, after going on deck in the forward part of the ship to get a breath of fresh air for half an hour, we went to bed and slept soundly until next morning.

Soon after breakfast, our friend (as we had come to regard him) the Purser came and told us to follow him to the Captain’s cabin. It was with a good deal of apprehension that we entered the sanctum of the monarch of this little floating kingdom, but as there was nothing else to be done we plucked up such courage as was left to us and stepped over the threshold.

The Captain was a grey-haired, clean-shaven little man, with a keen eye and a quick manner. He looked up as we came in.

“Oh, these are your stowaways, are they, Mr. Purser?” said he. “So you have run away from school, have you, you young scamps? Do you know I could put you in irons and take you back to Southampton if I chose? I’m not sure but that I ought to do it. How am I to know that you are not running away from the law?”

At this accidental shot Percy and I felt very uncomfortable, perceiving which, and supposing that he had hurt our feelings, the Captain changed his tone.

“Well, well,” said he, good-naturedly, “I don’t think that; your appearance is in your favour; you look like an honest pair of youngsters. So you want to work your passage, do you? Is either of you any good at figures?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, brightening up in a moment, and pointing with my thumb at Percy. “Goodall, here, is a regular nailer.”

“Oh, Goodall is a regular nailer, is he?” repeated the Captain, relaxing into a smile. “Well, Mr. Purser, suppose you take this nailer and set him to work in your office. Keep him tight at it; make him earn his passage. And you, you great hobbledehoy,”—to me,—“what can you do? Your hands are more use to you than your head, I’ll wager.”

I suppose my wits were somewhat confused by this sudden address; at any rate, after a moment’s consideration, I commenced the enumeration of my capabilities by saying thoughtfully:

“Well, sir, I’m a pretty good shot with a bow and arrow”—at which absurd reply both the Captain and the Purser burst into peals of laughter.

“How old are you, boy?” asked the former as soon as he had recovered his powers of speech.

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Sixteen! I thought you were eighteen. Are you willing to shovel coal for a living for the next two weeks?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, eagerly.

“Very well, then. The Chief Engineer tells me, Mr. Purser, that one of his firemen is laid up with a sprained wrist; so find this boy a suit of overalls if you can and turn him loose in the boiler-room. It is a good hot job, and it will take off some of his flesh; he’s a deal too fat. Now, get along with you, you young scamps, and mind you behave yourselves.”

“Well, boys,” said the Purser, after we had retired, “you have come out of that scrape pretty well.”

“Thanks to you, sir, I expect,” said Percy.

“I put in a good word for you, I admit,” replied our big friend. “I was pleased with the way you spoke up last night. Now I must see to putting you to work. Come along.”

As a result of the Purser’s arrangements Percy and I were separated; he being pretty closely confined by his duties in the Purser’s office, while I, dressed up in a canvas suit, was sent down into the black depths of the ship, to shovel coal.

It would be needless repetition to go into all the details of our voyage, every day being but a counterpart of the day before. It is enough to say that when, after a smooth and uneventful passage, the engines at last stopped, and I was at liberty to go on deck, I found myself looking out over a great city,—the metropolis of the Southern States.

Before we went ashore I was told that the Captain had sent for me to his cabin, and as soon as I had washed and changed my canvas suit for my own clothes I hastened to obey the message. I was about to knock at the door when I saw Percy coming towards me, and guessing that he had received a similar command I waited for him.

As I stood there close by the door I heard the Captain’s voice addressing someone inside. He seemed to be much amused by something his companion had just been telling him, for he was laughing heartily.

“Capital idea!” he exclaimed. “It will do them all the good in the world. You may report from me that they have behaved very well, and that in my opinion they are quite capable of taking care of themselves.”

At this moment Percy joined me, when we at once knocked at the door and stepped into the cabin. The individual to whom the Captain had been talking, a small, sharp-faced man in a check suit, rose as we entered, and taking no notice of us apparently, thanked the Captain for his information and went out.

“Well, boys,” said the Captain, “I sent for you to tell you that I have had a satisfactory report of both of you, and to give you this”—handing us ten dollars each; “I’m told you have earned it. Now let me give you something else—a piece of advice. Telegraph to your friends for the money and turn right round and go home again. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir; and thank you,” said Percy and I together, glad to be thus dismissed without the cross-questioning to which we had feared we might be subjected. Having then taken leave of our good friend the Purser, we straightway went ashore.

Pausing only for a few minutes to look down upon the city, and to wonder how the inhabitants ever dared to go to bed with that tremendous river only awaiting an opportunity, apparently, to rush in and drown them all before morning, we set off in search of a telegraph-office, whence we sent a brief message home, and having also mailed a long letter which Percy had written during the passage out, we retraced our steps to the river-side.

As we left the post-office we noticed the sharp-faced man whom we had seen in the Captain’s cabin. He was talking to a policeman, who, as we passed, turned his eyes in our direction and laughed at something the small man said. The sound of the laugh was a great relief to us. If we were the objects of it, well and good. The policeman might laugh at us as much as he liked, provided he did not interfere with us. To tell the truth, we had been somewhat apprehensive lest we might on landing be snapped up by the authorities and shipped off to England, willy-nilly.

Among the many steamboats of extraordinary shape—as they seemed to me—lying along the levee we soon found one about to start up the river, and stepping on board we addressed ourselves to one who appeared to be in authority—an authority he maintained, seemingly, by the use of a copious and needless flow of profane language.

“Well, what do you want?” asked this personage, turning upon us as though he had been a dog, and we had come to steal his bone.

We stated our desires and our qualifications, with the result that we both secured places as “roustabouts”; and thoroughly disgusted were we both with our tasks long before we reached St. Louis. It was not so much the nature of the work to which we objected, nor was it to the society of the negroes and poor-whites with whom we were herded; our main objection was to the stream of foul language for ever being poured upon us by “his profanic majesty,” as Percy called him, the Mate. It required all our resolution not to desert half-a-dozen times on the way up, but being determined to stick to our plan, if possible, we managed to hold on until, at last, the ordeal was over, and we found ourselves one day walking, free and untrammelled, in the streets of St. Louis.

The first thing we did on landing was to enter a cheap clothing store and purchase some underclothes—a much-needed addition to our wardrobe. As we were going out again we brushed past a man who was trying on a new necktie before a looking-glass, and happening to look into the glass, I saw, rather to my surprise, that it was the small, sharp-faced man whom we had twice seen in New Orleans. It struck me as being an odd coincidence, but nothing more, and I did not even mention it to Percy.

Betaking ourselves next to a little eating-house, we ordered some dinner, and while waiting for it Percy amused himself and me by reading items from the old newspaper in which our clothes were wrapped. Presently he gave a subdued whistle, and after glancing around the room to see if anyone was observing us, he leaned across the table and said, softly:

“Tom, here’s something about us. Listen. ‘The police of Philadelphia have been requested by the Chief-Constable of Southampton, England, to look out for two runaway boys. The names of the boys are Per’—there’s a piece torn out here, but lower down it goes on—‘has many relatives in Philadelphia, and it is expected they will probably make for that city.’”

This was a dreadful shock to us. Here was our line of retreat cut off, so to say. The mention of the Chief-Constable of Southampton fully convinced us that the paragraph emanated from Sir Anthony, whose resentment at having his pheasants shot and his keepers entrapped we pictured to ourselves in lively colours. Doubtless, we thought, the police of Philadelphia were all on the lookout, and should we venture within the limits of that city we should instantly be pounced upon by them and sent back across the water to be delivered into the clutches of the vengeful Sir Anthony. What were we to do?

We ate our dinner in silence and perturbation of spirit, and, still undecided as to our future course, we were about to rise and go out, when Percy, with a thump upon the table, suddenly exclaimed:

“I know what we’ll do, Tom.”

“What?” I asked.

“Instead of going east, we’ll go west. We’ll go to Ogden in Utah.”

“Where’s Ogdenenutah?” said I, thinking it was all one word.

“In the Rocky Mountains.”

“Is it? That will suit me. I’ve always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains. But why should we go to that place with the long name in particular?”

“Because I have an uncle and a cousin living in a mining town called Golconda, not far from there. I have not seen them since I was a little bit of a boy, but I have heard my father talk of them, and I am sure they will be just the ones to tell us what we ought to do.”

“All right,” said I. “Let us go to Ogdenenutah. How are we to get there?”

“Why, I think we had better go part way by train and part way on foot. It won’t do to spend all our money on railway tickets, because there’s no knowing what may turn up. We will go by train as far as we think we can afford to go, and walk the rest of the way to Ogden—Ogden in the Territory of Utah, you old stupid!”

“Very well,” said I, nodding my head in approval. “We’ll go to Ogden in the Territory of Utah. How far do you suppose we shall have to walk?”

“I can’t say for certain, of course, until I see how far our money will take us, but five hundred miles perhaps,—possibly more.”

“Phew!” I whistled. “That is something like a walk. Never mind. We’ll do it. We’ll go to the Territory of Ogden in Utah if we have to hop.”

CHAPTER IV
THE MAN WITH THE SQUEAKY VOICE

LITTLE did we realise the magnitude of the task we were undertaking, when, having first written home to explain our reasons for this sudden change of plan, we betook ourselves to the railroad station and started, with fairly clear consciences, on our westward course. In due time we descended from the train at a little station which appeared to have been set down in the midst of nowhere, whence, with all the confidence of youth and ignorance, we set forth upon our tremendous tramp across the plains.

For a whole month thereafter we marched steadily and perseveringly along the endless railroad track; and never, I firmly believe, were two boys so utterly and completely tired as were we by the end of that time.

If our sea-voyage had been monotonous, this voyage across the solid sea of the rolling plains was even more so. Day after day the same green circle of hills surrounded us; every little town we passed was as like the last as one pea is like another; such a perpetual sameness in the landscape was there that we might have thought we were walking in a circle, but for the sun, which every morning rose behind us, and every evening shone in our faces.

The only break in the monotony of our wearisome task was an incident which occurred perhaps half-a-dozen times; an incident with which we could very well have dispensed, for the reason that by no means could we make head or tail to it.

Every now and then, as we came plodding along the track, each with a stick in his hand and a rolled-up blanket over his shoulder, we would, on passing through a station, find the agent standing on the platform, watching our approach, and grinning as though he saw something in our appearance that was irresistibly amusing. Sometimes he would merely eye us as we went by; at other times he would greet us in some such fashion as this:

“Well, boys; glad to see you. Had a longish walk, haven’t you? Getting pretty tired? Well, don’t let me detain you; you’ve got a tidy bit to walk yet. Good-bye.”

Then, laughing to himself, he would go back to his clicking telegraph instrument, while we walked on, wondering how he came to make so good a guess concerning us and our affairs. It really seemed as though these men must have been expecting us, had such a thing been possible. It was very puzzling; we were quite at a loss to account for their extraordinary behaviour.

On one of these occasions I caught a glimpse through the window of the waiting-room of a face which somehow seemed familiar. For a moment I thought it was the man whom we had seen in the Captain’s cabin at New Orleans, but as such a thing appeared to be out of the question I dismissed the idea without a second thought.

In the early part of our walk we were fortunate in the matter of finding a lodging for the night. Our practice was, when the sun began to get low, to look out for a farmhouse of decent appearance, and having first washed off the dust of travel and made ourselves as presentable as possible, to apply for leave to sleep in the barn; a permission which was nearly always accorded.

But by the time we had come somewhere towards the middle of Nebraska this condition of affairs had changed. It is true that we were still kindly received at the farmhouses, but the farmhouses were more widely scattered, and the farther we advanced the less frequent they became. In consequence, we had now and then been benighted on the prairie; on which occasions, especially if it happened to be a windy or a rainy night, we found that the pleasure of camping out lay more in the imagination than the reality.

The farther we went, too, the more tired we grew. It seemed almost impossible sometimes to summon up energy enough to go on when the rising sun warned us that it was time to start on another day’s tramp. In fact, we were beginning to entertain uncomfortable suspicions that we had undertaken more than we could accomplish, when there occurred an incident which relieved us of all further anxiety on that score.

We had been toiling all day against a strong west wind, the sun had gone down an hour ago, we were out on the wide, open plain, with never a house in sight, and, thoroughly weary, we had decided to camp in the first sheltered spot we could find, when we came upon a small trestle-bridge spanning a narrow, but deep, gully. Across this bridge we had walked in order to get under the lee of the creek-bank, when, looking back, we saw on the side we had just left a little tumble-down cabin. We at once retraced our steps, and scrambling down the side of the gully, we approached the building. It was evidently very old. The door was gone; the mud chinking had all fallen out; while, of two bunks built against the end wall, one above the other, the upper one only was sound.

Poor as this shelter was, it was better than none, and we at once decided to take up our quarters there for the night. We were too tired to go and hunt for fire-wood in the dark, so, unwrapping from a greasy newspaper some slices of cooked ham which we had purchased that morning, we made a chilly and comfortless meal, and then, having re-wrapped and re-pocketed the remnants of the ham, we climbed into the crazy upper bunk, rolled ourselves in our blankets, and were soon sound asleep, in spite of the insinuating draughts, and the trembling of the rickety old structure before the assaults of the blustering wind.

How long we had slept we did not know, when we were awakened by the sudden entrance into the cabin of several men, who, unconscious that there were any listeners, began talking together in loud, rough voices. With an instinctive feeling that it would be better for us to remain undiscovered, Percy and I lay silent; wondering what could have brought these men here at this time of night, and why they should carry on their conversation in the dark. We very soon found out.

“What time does she come along?” asked one of the men.

“She’s due at the water-tank in an hour. That’ll give us plenty of time. Now, which are we going to do—signal her, and go through the mail and express cars and the passengers, or pull up a rail and let her take a header through the trestle?”

“Pull up a rail,” growled a third voice—and a very remarkable voice it was too. The man began his remarks in the deepest bass, but after two or three words his voice broke and went off into a thin, treble pipe. It was a voice, once heard, never to be forgotten.

“Pull up a rail,” said the man. “That’s the surest way, by long odds. We’ll pull out the spikes and take off the fish-plates and tilt the rail a bit, and she’ll jump the track sure. Then two of us’ll go through the express car while the other two goes through the passengers—them as isn’t killed.”

At the disclosure of this villainous scheme Percy and I quaked with fear. Our bunk was not so high but that a tall man could overlook it, and should one of them strike a match for any purpose he could hardly fail to discover us, and discovery, we had little doubt, would mean death; for that they should feel any compunction at putting two witnesses out of the way was not to be expected of these ineffable rascals, who, for the sake of a few dollars, were planning in cold blood the murder of an unknown number of innocent people.

“That’s the way we’ll fix it,” continued he of the squeaky voice, clapping his hand upon the edge of the bunk close to my face, and making me start so that my heart seemed to go off like an alarm-clock. “And, see here, boys; after we’ve tilted one rail, we may’s well put in the rest of the time pulling out the spikes all along the lower side of the trestle, so’s to make a sure job of it. While three of us is doing that, one can keep watch on the hill for the headlight, ’cause we won’t be able to hear her coming up against this wind, and when he gives the word we’ll hustle back to this old shanty.”

“That’s a good scheme. Come on. Who’s got them tools?”

“Me.”

“Bring ’em along, then, and let’s get to work.”

To our infinite relief the four villains filed out of the cabin, and the sound of their retreating footsteps was quickly lost in the whistling of the wind. After lying quite still for a moment I ventured to move enough to enable me to peep through one of the chinks in the wall. In the dim light—for, though there was a full moon, the sky was obscured by a thin layer of cloud—I could see the men walking one behind the other down towards the bridge. As soon as they disappeared from sight I whispered to Percy to turn out, and the next moment we were through the doorway and hurrying off up-stream.

“Tom,” Percy hastily exclaimed, after we had gone a hundred yards, “we must climb over the hill and get back to the track below the bridge and signal that train.”

“Yes,” I responded. “But first we have to find a place where we can climb up this cliff; it is too steep here.”

We consumed ten or fifteen minutes of precious time searching for an available spot, but at last we found a place where the bluff had broken away, and clambering quickly to the top, we hurried over the hill and down to the railroad, where we set off down-wind as fast as we could walk—being afraid to run in the dark lest we should break our legs by tumbling through a cattle-guard.

We had gone about half a mile, perhaps, when, looking back, we saw, dimly outlined against the luminous grey sky, the figure of the watcher on the hill. Though it was unlikely that he should be able to see us, we were afraid to risk it, and we therefore stepped from the track and lay down on the lower side of the embankment, whence we could keep a lookout down the line, and also maintain a watch upon the watcher.

“How are we going to signal the train, Tom?” asked Percy. “We have no lantern, and we haven’t time to collect material to build a fire on the track; and if we did so that fellow back there would see it, of course, and the whole rascally gang would be after us directly. And besides that the train might be late and our fire might burn out before it got here.”

“The only way I see,” I replied, “is to use the newspaper that the ham is wrapped up in. We must wait till the train is pretty near and then light the paper, trusting to its being seen before it burns out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Percy responded, “but I think I know a better way still. I will crawl down the bank here and cut a willow stick; we will split the end of it and insert the newspaper, ham and all, into the cleft, and then we shall have a torch which will last five or ten minutes.”

In accordance with Percy’s idea we soon had our torch prepared, and again we lay still, waiting. Some forty slow minutes dragged along, when we thought we could detect a tremor in the rails close to our heads. We were right, for directly afterwards the headlight of the engine appeared coming round the bend. I glanced back at the watchman; he was still at his post, having not yet seen the light on account of the curve in the road. A moment later, however, the increase in the size of the headlight showed that the train had turned the corner, and at the same instant I saw the man on the hill turn and run. As he disappeared from view I called to Percy to light up, and Percy, who was holding six matches in readiness, struck them all at once, and sheltering the flame from the wind as best he could, applied it to the paper. The greasy material flared up in an instant, and seizing the stick I sprang into the middle of the track and waved the light to and fro in front of me.

Thanks to the frying ham—and never was a slice of ham put to a better use—our improvised torch made a very large blaze, and presently, to our great satisfaction, we heard faintly against the wind the toot-toot of the whistle, showing that our signal was observed. We at once walked quickly towards the train, and just as our torch fell to pieces we saw two men coming up the track,—the conductor and one of the brakemen.

“Well, boys,” said the former, as he held up his lantern to look at us, “what did you signal us for? Bridge gone?”

“Train-wreckers,” said Percy. “They’ve pulled up a rail on the trestle.”

The conductor whistled. “How did you come to know of it?” he asked.

“We heard them laying their plans about an hour ago, and so we hurried down the track to stop you.”

“How many of them?” asked the brakeman.

“I WAVED THE LIGHT TO AND FRO IN FRONT OF ME.”

“Four. They are waiting for you in a little cabin near the bridge.”

The two men nodded to each other; they evidently knew the place; and then the conductor, telling us to follow him, led the way back to the train. At the engine he stopped, and addressing the engineer, said:

“George, these boys report a gang of train-wreckers. They’ve pulled up a rail on the trestle. They are waiting in that old cabin up the gully, and I’m going into the smoker to see if I can’t arrange a little surprise-party for them. When I give the signal, you go ahead slowly.”

“All right,” replied the engineer. “And, say, Barclay, see if you can borrow a gun for me; I’d like to take a hand in this little expedition of yours myself.”

The smoking-car was pretty full of passengers, most of them big, brown-faced fellows, miners and stockmen on their way to the mountains. They were lying about on the seats in all sorts of contorted positions, trying to get a little sleep, but no sooner had the conductor in a loud voice reported our story than the scene changed as if by magic. Each one of these peaceful citizens appeared to have a big revolver concealed somewhere within easy reach, and about twenty of them instantly volunteered to take a share in the proposed surprise-party. The signal, therefore, being given, the train moved on towards the bridge. In about five minutes it stopped again, and the conductor, with an extra revolver in his hand, stepped from the car, followed by his volunteer posse; we boys wisely remaining behind.

For half an hour the trainmen and all the other occupants of the car stood around the panting engine whispering together and waiting for a shot. No shot came, however, and presently we saw the party coming clambering up again from the gully. We looked in vain for prisoners. They were returning empty-handed. Without doubt the robbers had taken alarm and fled, for the posse had found no sign of them about the cabin save the marks of their boots in the dust, and an odour of bad tobacco.

The next thing to be done was to examine the bridge, where a brief inspection showed that the would-be wreckers had performed their task with much thoroughness; so, as the train carried none of the tools and materials necessary for making repairs, the conductor, accompanied by six of the armed passengers, set off to bring assistance from the nearest section-house two miles farther up the line.

During the interval of waiting that ensued, Percy and I were the objects of general interest. We were made to tell our story with every detail; eliciting great applause when we described how we had sacrificed our next morning’s breakfast in order to make a torch. All the passengers who were awake, and all the train-crew besides, came up to shake hands with us and thank us, and to say all sorts of complimentary things; in fact it was quite an ovation, which lasted until the conductor had returned with the section-hands and the damaged bridge had been made safe again.

The train was ready to proceed. Before it did so, however, we asked the conductor if he would not allow us to ride with him for an hour or so, explaining that we were afraid the wreckers might come back, in which case it might go hard with us; for though it was unlikely that they were aware of our existence, it was still possible that they might have seen our signal, and if they should guess that it was we who had frustrated their plan——

At this point of our explanation the conductor broke in:

“Let you ride!” he exclaimed. “You bet I’ll let you ride. I’ve telegraphed the Superintendent from the section-station, and you shall ride until I get word from him what I’m to do with you.”

Accordingly, when the train moved on, we moved on too, and finding two unoccupied seats we coiled ourselves up in them, and were soon sound asleep.

We had no reason to regret the sacrifice of our slices of ham, for when the train stopped at the eating-station next morning we received from the occupants of the smoking-car alone sixteen invitations to breakfast, and if we could have eaten them I believe we might have had sixty, for by this time the passengers in the other cars, most of whom had been unaware that anything unusual had happened during the night, had been told the story, and once more we were overwhelmed with thanks and questions and handshakings.

We were still at breakfast when the conductor came in with a telegram in his hand; it was a message from the Superintendent instructing him to carry us on our journey as far as we wished to go, and to see that we were well fed all the way at the expense of the company; adding, also, his personal thanks for our service.

This assurance of a free ride to Ogden, together with the frequently expressed gratitude and the complimentary remarks of the passengers was a very acceptable outcome of the night’s adventure. There was one other consequence of the episode, however, which was less gratifying: the newspaper interviewers sought us out. They wanted to know all about us; our names, where we came from, whither we were going, what we intended to do when we arrived there, and the why and the wherefore of everything. Though we avoided as much as possible making any explicit reply to these questions, we nevertheless found ourselves once more figuring in the newspapers, with a full description of our personal appearance and as many details of our private history as these gentlemen could gather or guess at,—much to our discomfort; for we were apprehensive lest somebody, seeing this report, might connect it with the paragraph in the Philadelphia paper, with the result that we might find a policeman waiting for us at one of the stopping-places.

This harassing idea deprived us of much of the pleasure we should otherwise have taken in our ride; even our delight at the first sight of the mountains—and what a glorious sight that is!—was marred by it. Seemingly, however, our fears were groundless; at any rate, no policeman had as yet put in an appearance when, by examining a railroad map, we saw that our journey was nearly ended.

“We shall be in Ogden in an hour,” said Percy, folding up the map.

But Percy was wrong. Instead of an hour it was a large part of a year before we arrived at Ogden; and the course we took to get there led us over more than a thousand miles of mountainous country, and through scenes such as do not often fall within the experience of a schoolboy.

CHAPTER V
JACK; AND WHAT HE HAD TO SAY

AT one of the little stations at which we stopped, a man boarded the train, and taking a seat opposite at once fell into conversation with us. He appeared to be familiar with the country round about, and, on our mentioning our intention of walking to Golconda, where Percy’s uncle and cousin lived, he told us all about the place and how to get to it; informing us that by continuing our journey as far as Ogden we should only be going out of our way, for if we should alight instead at the next station we might save some fifteen miles of unnecessary walking. As Percy and I had no object in visiting Ogden but to leave it again as soon as possible, we decided to follow our adviser’s counsel, and stepping from the train accordingly, we set off on foot along a waggon-trail which led away in the direction of the hills.

Our waggon-trail led us presently into a well-defined road, and along this we pursued our way for many miles, most of the distance being up-hill; and hard work we found it to walk quickly and steadily at that unfamiliar altitude. At length, having ascended a long and very steep hill, we sat down upon some stones by the wayside to rest. As we sat there we observed, coming up the road at an easy canter, two horsemen, one of whom, as soon as he arrived at the bottom of the hill, alighted from his horse and proceeded to walk up on foot; the other continuing to ride.

“That is a considerate fellow,” said Percy. “It isn’t everybody who would walk up this hill just to please his horse.”

“No,” I responded, “and the horse seems to know it; see how closely he walks behind; the man is not holding the bridle either.”

As the travellers came up the hill we observed that the one on foot was a tall young fellow of about twenty, brown-faced and grey-eyed, with a firmness about the mouth and a thoughtfulness of expression not usual in one of his age. But the other! To my great astonishment the other was the small, sharp-faced man of whom I have made mention on two or three previous occasions. How came he here? Had his presence anything to do with us? Before I could come to any conclusion or say anything to Percy on the subject the pair came opposite to where we sat, and stopped.

“Good-morning,” exclaimed the young fellow, mopping his face with his handkerchief. “Pretty hot, isn’t it? Which way are you going; up or down?”

“Up,” replied Percy. “We are on our way to Golconda. Do you happen to know the place?”

“Oh, yes. Very well. I live there.”

“Do you? Then do you know a gentleman there named Harding, or his son, Jack Harding?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger.

“They are living there still, I suppose?” said Percy, with some anxiety; for, though he had said nothing to me on the subject, he had been worrying himself a good deal over the idea that his uncle might have left the place—and what would become of us then?

Instead of replying the stranger looked hard at Percy for a moment, and then, breaking into a smile which displayed a row of strong, white teeth, he stretched out his hand and said:

“How are you, Percy?”

For an instant we stared at him in astonishment, when, all at once, it flashed upon us who it was.

“Why, it’s Jack!” cried Percy. “It is you, isn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes; it’s me, all right,” replied Jack, forgetting his grammar for the moment. “And this is your English friend, Tom Swayne, of course.”

“Yes,” said I, shaking hands with him with great satisfaction; “and uncommonly glad I am to see you.”

“But, Jack,” Percy exclaimed, as the thought suddenly came into his head, “how did you know I had an English friend named Tom Swayne?”

At this question Jack, by way of reply, burst into a merry laugh, in which, to our surprise, the small man on the horse joined.

“Well, Mr. Harding,” said the latter, “I may as well turn round now and go back to Ogden. My part of the business is completed with the delivery of the goods. You might just give me a receipt for them, if you will.”

“All right, Jenkins,” replied Jack. And taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket he wrote rapidly, and then went on: “Will this do? ‘Received of Hiram Jenkins one Percy Goodall and one Tom Swayne, in good condition. John Harding.’”

“That will do, sir, thank you,” the small man answered, laughing and pocketing the paper. “Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, young gentlemen. I’m glad you’ve got here at last. You’ve been a longish time about it, though, haven’t you? Good-bye.”

With that he turned his horse and rode off down the hill, while Percy and I, in a state of the blankest bewilderment, looked alternately at each other and at Jack, who, standing with his arm across his horse’s neck, was regarding us with a broad and cheerful grin.

“Jack!” exclaimed Percy, at last. “What’s the meaning of all this? What has that man to do with us? How—why—what—what is the meaning of it?”

At this Jack once more broke into a laugh, and stepping forward, clapped one hand upon Percy’s shoulder and the other on mine, and said:

“Percy, old fellow, and you, Tom,—I suppose I may call you ‘Tom’?—forgive me for laughing; but there is such a joke against you two. I’ve been expecting you any day for the past month. That man has been attending upon your footsteps ever since the morning you landed in New Orleans. I have letters from home for both of you up at the house where I am staying. I know all about your poaching scrape, and your trip across the ocean and up the Mississippi, and your walk across Nebraska, and the train-wreckers’ episode, and how the station-agents along the line used to joke you as you went by, and——”

“But how, Jack? How?” we both cried, rendered desperate by this enumeration, which only increased the bewilderment of our already sufficiently puzzled brains.

“Come over here by the stream,” replied Jack. “There is a nice bunch of trees. We can sit down in the shade, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

But to make matters intelligible I must deprive Jack of the honor of telling the story himself, and must add to it a few details with which he was unacquainted. To do so I must go back to the night when Percy and I escaped—as we thought—the terrors of the law by running away from Moseley’s.

It was not until the morning following our “escape” that our absence was discovered,—Percy’s sheet waving in the wind was the first intimation that something was amiss,—but as soon as the discovery was made there ensued some pretty lively bustle in the little community.

Bates and the keepers were rescued from the “den,” Mr. Goodall was notified, and as soon as he arrived and my parents returned home a meeting of the elders was held at the vicarage; Sir Anthony being of the number. The old Baronet was half amused and half indignant that we should have supposed him to be so harsh and undiscriminating as to prosecute two thoughtless boys for an offence which they did not know was an offence. But, “It is just like boys, though,” said he. “They never do stop to think.”

The witnesses were examined, and with the help of Percy’s and my letters a pretty true understanding of the incident was arrived at.

To dispose of one part of my story at a time, I may say that Bates’s share in the transaction showed up so unpleasantly that, as a consequence, he drove away late that evening to the railway-station. His school-days were over.

Going up to London, he there had an interview with the old lawyer, his guardian, to whom he expressed his determination to return to school no more. He had had schooling enough; he was nineteen years old; he would like to see something of the world.

Very well. What part of the world would he like to visit? France? Italy? Germany?

No. What was the use of going to countries where he could not speak the language? He would like to visit the United States.

To this desire his unsympathetic old guardian, glad to be rid of him, gave his consent; and so it came about that, while Percy and I were working our passage to New Orleans, Bates was suffering all the miseries of sea-sickness somewhere between Liverpool and New York, we being, of course, as ignorant of his movements as he was of ours. Little could Bates have imagined, when he laid his plot to oust us from Moseley’s, that the result of its success would be to lead us, all three, such a wild dance as it did.

But to return to the conclave assembled in the vicarage parlour: my father and mother, Mr. Goodall, the Head-master, and Sir Anthony.

A liberal use of the telegraph soon settled the question as to what had become of us. In reply to a message to the Chief-Constable of Southampton, information was received that a policeman had that morning noticed two boys, calling each other Tom and Percy, looking very tired, dusty, and unwashed, go on board the Louisiana, Captain Murchison, bound for New Orleans, and that they had not come ashore again. Further inquiry having made it quite certain that we were the unwashed boys referred to, our seniors fell to discussing the course of action that should be adopted. Sir Anthony and my mother represented the two extremes of opinion. The former advised that as we had brought ourselves into this scrape we might very well be allowed to get ourselves out again, we having—he was kind enough to say—plenty of sense and plenty of courage. My mother, on the other hand, was for telegraphing the passage-money to New Orleans to bring us back instantly.

But as Mr. Goodall, being an American, was much more likely than anyone else to be able to suggest a feasible course of action, the others turned to him for his opinion.

“I think,” said Mr. Goodall, “that we can make a compromise between Mrs. Swayne’s idea and Sir Anthony’s. It would be interesting to see how the boys would get out of their scrape by themselves, and this, I believe, may be done without running any risk of permitting them to get into trouble. I will tell you my idea, and if you agree I will see that it is carried out.

“The boys, presumably, have not much money. It is possible that they may, on landing, telegraph home for funds. If they do not, there is no doubt, I think, but that they will try to make their way to Philadelphia—my home, you know—by some means or other. Now, this is what I propose to do: There is in Philadelphia a man, by name Hiram Jenkins, whom I have frequently employed on private and particular business, a thoroughly trustworthy and most astute fellow. I will send full instructions to Jenkins to go at once to New Orleans, and there to await the arrival of the Louisiana. He shall keep a close watch upon the boys, follow their footsteps wherever they go, and, should the occasion arise, shall make himself known to them. Otherwise—if no such occasion should arise, I mean—he shall not interfere with them, but shall allow them to get out of their difficulties by their own wit. He shall communicate with us at frequent intervals, so that we may know all the time what the boys are doing and where they are. Thus, Mrs. Swayne, your mind will be relieved, and the boys will have an opportunity to show how much of resourcefulness there is in them. Now, what do you think of that?”

The three gentlemen at once declared their approval of the plan, and after a thorough discussion my mother, too, albeit with some reluctance, gave in to their opinion. Mr. Goodall immediately set about making the necessary arrangements, with the result that when we arrived in New Orleans, there, all unsuspected by us, was Hiram Jenkins, waiting to act the part of watch-dog to us in our course across the continent.

While we, in the unenviable position of roustabouts, worked our toilsome way up the Mississippi, Jenkins, on the same boat, was travelling comfortably among the passengers. When we, at St. Louis, unexpectedly turned westward, Jenkins rode on the same train with us. When we set out to walk across the plains, Jenkins, procuring a horse and light cart, trotted along the country roads which followed the railroad track, stopping at the different stations until we made our appearance, and then driving on to the next one.

It seemed to him such an exquisite joke that two boys should thus painfully tramp across the country,—perseveringly running away from nothing,—that, feeling sure the station-agents would appreciate the joke too well to spoil it, he would let them into the secret; and while the agent, standing on the platform, would jocularly cheer us on our way, Jenkins would be sitting in the waiting-room, taking his ease, until such time as it should become necessary for him to drive on again.

After the episode of the train-wreckers Jenkins might perhaps have lost us for a time had it not been for the fact that he was staying for the night at the station to which the conductor had gone for assistance, and walking back with him to the train had heard our request to be carried on. Promptly abandoning his horse and cart, he once more rode on the train with us, occupying a different car. By our action in getting off short of Ogden he did lose us for the moment, but having found out from our talkative acquaintance that we were going to walk to Golconda, he went on to Ogden, where he met Jack, who had ridden down to meet us, Jenkins having kept him, as well as the folks at home, informed of our whereabouts.

Setting out at once on horseback, the pair overtook us when we were yet two or three miles from our destination, and there Jenkins, his mission accomplished, turned back to town, whence he sent to Percy’s father the prearranged telegraphic message, “Goods delivered.”

When Jack had reached this point in his story he stopped. He was too kind-hearted to laugh at us again, knowing pretty well what was passing in our minds, and for a time all three sat silent, Percy and I furtively eying each other meanwhile.

How exceedingly small we did feel! To think that we had taken all this trouble, suffered all these discomforts, travelled all this distance,—for nothing!

As I watched Percy, however, I presently saw a change come over his face. He raised his head and sat up straight; then, to the great astonishment of Toby, Jack’s horse, he suddenly sprang to his feet, dashed his hat upon the ground, and, snapping his fingers and thumbs, shouted “Hurrah!” at the very top of his voice; at the same time waving his arms above his head, and spinning round first on one foot and then on the other.

I knew what he was thinking about, because I was thinking the very same thing myself. I jumped up, too, kicked Percy’s hat far away into the bushes, hurled my own after it, and joined him in his shouting and capering and generally absurd behaviour; while Jack leaned back against a tree and laughed until the tears ran out of his eyes.

“Hold up, hold up, you two lunatics!” he cried, at last. “Don’t you think you’ve made yourselves ridiculous enough already without winding up in this way?”

At this we rushed upon Jack, each seized one of his hands and shook it as though he were a long-lost friend whom we had expected never to see again, and at last, entirely out of breath, we flopped down on either side of him and sat there panting.

“May I inquire,” said Jack, with extreme politeness, “whether this is your usual style of behaviour, or whether the altitude has affected your brains? Or were you, perhaps, merely born foolish?”

It was our turn to laugh. In fact, we felt so light-hearted we were ready to laugh at anything—ourselves included. What did we care about having made ourselves ridiculous! When we thought of how our parents had never been worried about us all this time; how they had kept watch over us without our knowing it; how, too, Sir Anthony had never thought of putting us into jail at all,—the relief to our minds was such that it was no wonder we “carried on” in this flighty manner. For the first time in six or seven weeks we felt free from anxiety. All the policemen in England and America could not make us tremble. We were fugitives no longer!

“But, Jack,” said Percy, after we had sat for some time asking innumerable questions of our new friend, “what is going to become of us now?”

“That is for you to say,” replied Jack. “I have a letter of instructions up at the house. You are to have your choice: you may go straight home again if you like, or—” Jack paused, and sat eying us in a critical manner, as if he were taking our measure; “sizing us up,” as he would have expressed it.

“Or what?” exclaimed Percy and I, together.

“Or this. What do you say to cutting loose from civilization altogether; riding away into the mountains; camping out all summer; living on what we can shoot; and prospecting for gold as we go?”

So magnificent an idea fairly took away our breath for a moment, but then, with one voice, we cried enthusiastically: “I say ‘Yes.’”

“All right,” said Jack. “Then that is what we will do; and uncommonly glad I shall be of your company. You can be of great help to me; for, as soon as you have learned to shoot straight, I shall leave to you the task of providing the camp with game, and that will set me free to go prospecting. You see,” he went on, “I am very anxious to find gold, if possible; for this reason: My father owns a silver mine here in Golconda. He has done an immense amount of work upon it, and has spent a great deal of money in developing it, but just as we were going to begin stoping,—that is, taking out the ore,—a blast in the bottom of the shaft broke into an underground reservoir, apparently. At any rate, the water rushed in and drove out the miners; we rigged a bucket and tried what that would do, but it was quite useless; nothing short of a good pumping-engine will keep the water down.

“Unfortunately my father cannot afford to buy one, for he had just expended the last of his available money in building a comfortable house for my mother and sister, who were coming out to live with us—and now they can’t come! My father has gone East to try to borrow the necessary money, but if he should fail,—why, then I don’t know what we shall do. So you see why it is that I am so particularly anxious to find a gold-placer—though, of course, it is most unlikely that I shall be able to do so; especially as I don’t know anything of gold-washing.”

“I see,” said Percy. “How much money will it require to buy a pumping-engine, and to start up the mine again?”

“Five thousand dollars, perhaps,” replied Jack. “Besides the cost of the pump, there is likely to be a great deal of work to be done in the mine after the water is taken out,—replacing timbers, and cleaning out the drifts, which are very apt to cave in after a prolonged soaking.”

“Well,” continued Percy, “if we should find a placer, is it likely to be worth that much?”

“There’s no telling,” replied Jack. “But if we find one at all, we want to find one worth more than that, because, you see, there’s your share to come out.”

“Our share!” exclaimed Percy. “Oh, we don’t want a share.”

“No,” I chimed in. “Ours is a pleasure-trip. We don’t want a share.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Jack. “If you do part of the work you must have part of the pay—if there is any.”

“Well, I don’t see that,” Percy objected. “We neither of us know anything about prospecting. As for myself, I couldn’t tell the difference between native gold and native brass—if there is such a thing.”

“Which there isn’t,” said Jack, laughing.

“Look here,” I interrupted. “I think I see a way out of this. If we should find a placer,—whatever that is,—the first five thousand dollars that come out of it, if so much ever does come out of it, shall go to Jack, or, rather, to Mr. Harding, and anything over shall be divided equally between the three of us. If our share shall be enough to pay our way home, so much the better.”

“That is a first-rate idea,” said Percy, emphatically; and in spite of Jack’s protests we stuck to our point until, at last, he gave in.

“Well, you fellows,” said he, “that is mighty good of you. Whether we find anything or not, I’m much obliged to you beforehand. But, come. We must be moving. It is past supper-time already, and we have nearly three miles to go yet.”

In course of time we came in sight of a ranch, and Jack, pointing to it, said: “There’s our destination. You see, as my father expected to be absent from Golconda for several months he has rented our house in the town, and in consequence I have taken up my abode with a friend, a ranchman named George Catlin.”

The jolly ranchman welcomed us to his house, and we felt ourselves at home directly. It is true he poked fun at us in a good-natured way on the subject of our late escapade, but it was little we cared for that when Jack handed over to us letters from our parents, and one, addressed to both, from Sir Anthony.

To think that we had ever run away from such friends! How kind the letters were! Not a word of blame in them; merely an intimation that we had acted too hastily and rather foolishly, and an assurance that had we been twice as hasty and twice as foolish it would have made no difference in the welcome that was always awaiting us at home.

CHAPTER VI
TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES

A HAPPY and well-satisfied pair were we when, next day, after writing voluminous letters home, we set about making preparations for our projected expedition into the mountains.

First of all there were the animals to be seen to. Jack already had a horse for himself,—Toby,—and he had besides a pair of stout little mules for packing purposes, one of which was named Calliope, because, under favourable atmospheric conditions, her voice might be heard at a distance of a thousand miles (at least, so Jack said), while the other, on account of his somnolent habits, and his proclivity for eating everything that came in his way, especially things not intended for him, had had bestowed upon him the name of Joe, in memory of the Fat Boy in Pickwick. Besides these, Jack procured for Percy’s use a smart little grey mare, and for me a big-boned, buckskin pony, which, though no beauty to look at, had a great reputation as a stayer.

Last of the animals, though perhaps not least in importance, was Jack’s big, rough-coated, nondescript dog, who had been named Ulysses after the President of the United States, for the reason that, though of a peace-loving nature, he did, when once he got into a squabble, evince a determination to “fight it out on that line if it took all summer.”

Jack’s next care was to provide us each with a rifle and cartridges, a suit of clothes adapted to a life in the wilds, and two pairs of blankets. Then there was the purchase of provisions, consisting mainly of flour and bacon, tea and sugar, and a sack of dried apples; and lastly came the necessary utensils,—a few pots and pans, tin plates and cups, a shovel, a pick, an axe, and the gold-pan; the last-named being a large copper pan with “flaring” sides which Percy and I supposed to be a dish-pan until Jack explained its use.

On the eventful morning that had been fixed upon for the start we were roused from our slumbers by the voice of the ranchman booming up the stairs,—“Roll out, roll out! Half-past five, and breakfast waiting!” and after sundry groans and yawns we bounced out of bed, scrambled into our clothes, and descended to the room below, where a good wash in cold water soon freshened us up.

Breakfast over, the beasts were brought out and we proceeded to pack the mules with our various belongings, or, to speak more correctly, Jack and the ranchman proceeded to pack, while Percy and I looked on; for, being as yet unacquainted with the mysteries of the “diamond hitch,” and all the other arrangements of ropes necessary to the securing of a pack upon a mule, we should only have delayed matters had we attempted to assist.

Under the hands of these two experts, however, the work was accomplished with great celerity. In the course of about half an hour our two stout little mules were loaded with packs weighing something like two hundred pounds apiece, the horses were saddled, and we were ready to start, and after a cordial handshake from our host, the word was given and away we went; Jack first, then the two mules, and Percy and I bringing up the rear.

After riding across country, up hill and down, for a couple of hours, we came upon a rough, little-used wood-road which ran generally in the direction we were going, and taking this road we plodded on until about two o’clock, when, happening to look back, I observed a cloud of dust, in the midst of which was a horseman who appeared to be galloping to overtake us. Our cavalcade came to a halt, and we watched the advancing rider in silence until, much to our surprise, his near approach disclosed the features of George Catlin, our late host.

“Well, boys,” said he, as he pulled up his smoking horse beside us, “you didn’t expect to see me again quite so soon, did you? Phew! It’s hot. We’re in for a thunder-storm directly. And a good thing, too: it will cover up your tracks. Boys, I think there’s someone on your trail,—someone you don’t want to meet.”

“What makes you think that, George?” asked Jack.

“Why,” replied the ranchman, “just before dinner two men came to the house and asked a lot of questions about you: which way you had gone, how long since you had started, whether you were alone, and so on. They seemed to know a good deal about you, but they didn’t get much additional information out of me, because, when I asked them what they wanted to know for, they said that was their business; so I told them that if they couldn’t answer a civil question they might get off the ranch and conduct their business somewhere else—which they did; riding off in the direction of Golconda.”

“But why should you think that we have any reason to be afraid of them?” asked Percy. “What were they like?”

“One of them was a tall, dark-haired young fellow, English, I should say, from his accent. The other was a squat, red-haired man with a broken nose and a very remarkable voice. If he isn’t your train-wrecker friend I’m much mistaken; and if he is, his asking after you bodes you no good. He’s a bad one, if looks count for anything.”

This was disquieting news to Percy and me, for we had a lively dread of the man with the squeaky voice. Instinctively we turned to our leader for counsel.

“What are we to do, Jack?” I asked.

“Get off the road,” replied Jack, promptly. “And the sooner that thunder-storm comes along the better, for our trail must be as plain as daylight all the way. Is there a stream, George——?”

“Yes, right ahead. Let me go first, Jack; I know this country better than you do; I’ve ridden all over it after cattle. You’d better lead the mules.”

Soon we were strung out in line, and for half an hour we pegged along, every now and then casting back an anxious glance to see which was likely to overtake us first, Squeaky or the thunder-storm. Presently we came to a shallow stream rippling merrily across the road, and having advanced half-way across it, the ranchman turned short to the right and proceeded to ride up its gravelly bed; the rest following behind him. After splashing along in this manner for some distance, our guide scrambled out at a point where the stony nature of the ground would prevent the hoofs of the animals from leaving any trail, and thence he conducted us to a secluded hollow between two hills, completely concealed from the view of any traveller down upon the road.

“Now, Jack,” he began—and then stopped. “Hark!” he cried, holding up his hand. “Do you hear that roaring noise? It’s hail. That will wipe out your tracks. But we must get under the lee of this rocky ledge, or it may stampede the stock. Here it comes!” as a blast of cold air swept along the little valley. “Hurry up!”

We had hardly taken our positions under shelter of the rocks when the light of the sun was suddenly cut off and the temperature went down, I should think, fifty degrees in as many seconds; then came a rumble of thunder; there was a spat-spat, as half-a-dozen big hailstones came hopping along the hard ground; and then all at once, the storm seemed to leap upon us, and for the next five minutes one could not hear himself shout for the roaring of the thunder and the rattling of the hail. The commotion ceased again as suddenly as it had begun; out came the sun once more, and in another ten minutes the whole country was steaming with the moisture of the melted hailstones.

“Now, Jack,” said the ranchman, continuing the speech he had begun when interrupted by the storm, “what do you think of camping here? You have made a very good distance for the first day’s march; this is a good spot for a camp; and what I was thinking of mostly is that we can watch the road from the top of this hill and see if that fellow goes by. What do you think?”

We all agreed that this was a good idea, and accordingly, while we three proceeded to unload the mules and make camp, George Catlin ascended the hill with Jack’s field-glass in his hand, and lying down among the rocks near the summit, kept watch upon the road, with little danger of being seen himself. The grateful mules, relieved of their burdens, were still rolling on their backs, kicking their heels in the air, and grunting with satisfaction, when we observed that our sentinel was making signs to us to come up the hill; we therefore hurried to his side, when he informed us that he had caught sight of two men riding along the road whom he believed to be the two who had called at the ranch that morning.

“I shall know as soon as they come in sight again round that bend,” said he.

After lying for a minute or two, peering through the glass, he backed carefully down the hill a little way, and said in a low voice:

“Those are the men. Take a look at them, Jack. The one on the grey horse is the man with the squeaky voice.”

Jack examined the men and handed the glass to Percy. No sooner had the latter obtained the focus than he uttered an exclamation of astonishment:

“Tom, Tom!” he ejaculated; “that other fellow, the one on the black horse, is Bates!”

“Get out!” said I, incredulously, and seizing the glass I gazed long and earnestly at the younger of the two riders.

It was Bates, sure enough.

Here was an astonishing thing. To us it was a fact absolutely inexplicable that Bates, whom we had last seen peering through a hole in the wall of Hengist’s Castle, should be down there, riding along a disused road in the mountains of Utah, presumably looking for us. How came he there? And why, of all people in the world, should he have chosen that squeaky-voiced reprobate as his companion? There was no telling. We were completely at sea.

It was evident that our tracks had been obliterated, for as we watched them the riders splashed across the creek and continued on their way at the same pace, quite unsuspicious of the fact that the farther they went the farther they were leaving us behind. Presently they disappeared again from our view, when, leaving the hilltop, we returned to the camping-place and resumed our preparations for the night.

It was not until darkness settled down that we ventured to light a fire, fearing that the smoke might betray our whereabouts, and it was pretty late that night ere we retired to our beds upon the bare ground after a prolonged and entirely unsatisfying discussion of the subject of Bates’s mysterious appearance and of his and his companion’s object in seeking for us.

Percy and I felt rather stiff and extremely sleepy when Jack aroused us next morning while yet the stars were shining, and prodigious were the yawns with which we greeted our companions and each other. A hot and plentiful breakfast, however, soon put us to rights, and as soon as it was despatched Jack and the ranchman set to work packing the mules, while we two subordinates looked to the saddling of the horses. Everything being ready, we climbed into the saddles, and bidding a final adieu to our good friend, George, we set out over the hills on our second day’s march, just as the first reddening of the eastern sky proclaimed that the punctual sun was preparing to get up for his day’s work.

As a matter of precaution Jack rode about half a mile ahead, in order that he might signal us to get away and hide in case we should come suddenly upon Bates and his companion; though, had those gentlemen been awake and within hearing at the moment, they would undoubtedly have discovered our presence at once, for as Jack galloped off to take up his position in advance, our two mules raised a hideous cry, thinking that their dear friend, Toby, was about to desert them. It is curious how, in a small party like ours, one horse will usually assume the position of “boss”; the others, and especially the mules, looking to him for guidance, and feeling uneasy whenever he is out of sight.

We had been riding in this order for about an hour, when Jack, who had just reached the brow of a gentle hill, suddenly wheeled around and came galloping back, waving his hand to us to draw off to one side behind some willows.

“There’s a camp-fire down the valley to the left,” said he, dismounting, “and I saw two horses tethered there. I noticed that the fire is built near a great pile of loose rocks, and I believe I can crawl up close to it without being discovered, and if I can do so I may be able to hear what they are after, and what they intend to do next. I think it is worth trying, don’t you?”

“Let me go instead, Jack,” said Percy. “I should like to get up close to them so that I may make sure it is Bates. I only half believe it yet.”

“HE LOOKED DOWN UPON THE TWO UNSUSPECTING CAMPERS.”

“All right,” replied Jack. “You shall crawl up to their camp, and I’ll stand guard a little way behind you. Tom shall stay here and take care of the horses.”

This arrangement was followed out. The animals were driven in among the willows, and I, who stayed to look after them, watched my companions as they went dodging and stooping around the end of the hill, until they disappeared from sight.

Percy, leaving Jack behind him to act as a guard, crawled cautiously toward the little column of smoke until he had come within ten feet of it, and then, lying flat between two big stones, his face concealed by the long grass, he looked down upon the two unsuspecting campers, who were sitting on either side of the fire cooking scraps of bacon on sticks. One of them was Bates; there was no question of that. The other, too, disclosed his identity the moment he spoke; it was, without doubt, the squeaky-voiced train-wrecker.

Percy could not repress a tremor when he found himself once more so close to that precious rascal.

“What did I leave Nebraska for?” Squeaky was saying. “Well, Nebraska was getting unhealthy for me, and I thought I’d try a change of climate. I was too much sought after there, and that’s a fact. But what sent you out here? You didn’t have to leave between two days, did you?”

“No,” replied Bates. “I’m travelling for pleasure, you see,—at least, I was,—and I ought to be well on my way to California now, but, unfortunately, I tried my luck in a gambling hall one evening and lost nearly everything I had. I never saw such a streak of bad luck.”

The red-headed man nodded. “I know all about that,” said he. “I was standing behind you when you lost your money, and I guessed by your actions that you was pretty well cleaned out. That’s what made me speak to you, and propose we should work some scheme together to make a raise. I knew that when a man loses all his money gambling he’s generally ready to go into any kind of a scheme, no matter what, to get a fresh supply, and when you told me about these two runaway schoolboys I saw a chance to do it. How did you come to know about ’em, anyway?”

“I was at school with them,” replied Bates. “They got in to a poaching scrape and ran away. The next thing I heard of them was finding their names in the paper as having prevented the wrecking of a train somewhere in Nebraska.”

“What!” exclaimed the other. “Was it them?”

Bates nodded; and Squeaky’s face assumed a very ugly expression as he continued:

“Then that’s another reason for getting my hands on them. They owe me something, and if ever I get hold of them they’ll have to pay.”

“Why? What do you mean? What have you to do with that business?”

“What have I—well, never mind that now. I’ll explain later, maybe. So that’s the pair, is it?”—and he went on mumbling to himself, with his mouth full of bacon.

“Look here, Morgan,” said Bates, presently. “This plan of yours” (Percy wondered what the plan might be) “is all very fine and ingenious; but before we can put it into practice we’ve got to find the boys; not such an easy thing, it seems to me, in this wide-open country.”

“You’re right enough there,” replied Squeaky. “But if we don’t run across them accidentally I know a way of catching them, sure.”

“How’s that?” inquired Bates.

“We know they’re bound for Montana, don’t we? Found that out in Golconda. Just now they may be before us, or behind us, or on either side of us, and if we waste time prospecting around this neighbourhood after them they may get clean away from us. Now, as far as I’m concerned, I’d just as soon go to Montana as anywhere else,—I’ve been there before, and I know the country,—and my scheme is to go straight ahead and ride along the stage-road until we come to the Snake River bridge, and if they haven’t gone by, to sit down there and wait for them. If they want to get to Montana they’ve got to cross the Snake, and if they cross the Snake they’ve got to go by the bridge; it’s too dangerous fording the river at this time of year when the snow is melting in the mountains. She’s a pretty fierce old river, is the Snake.”

“But,” Bates objected once more, “supposing they don’t come to the bridge at all. Supposing they do manage to get across the river somehow. What are we going to do then? The money I have left won’t last very long.”

“We’ll wait for them at the bridge a week,” replied Squeaky, “and if they don’t come we’ll go on to Montana. As to the money, there’s ways of making money. There’s the cards. I know all the tricks in that line, and I can teach you. Then there’s mining-deals,—that’s a good notion. That’s got to be thought about. Here’s you, a rich young Englishman, looking for an investment; and here’s me, the honest miner—yes, that’s got to be thought about. Then there’s stage-coaches to be held up,—that’s a bit risky; and so is running off horses. But a man must live, and if we’ve got to do it, we’ve got to, and that’s all there is about it.”

It did not seem to occur to this honest citizen, or to Bates either, for that matter, that there was yet another way of getting money,—by working for it.

By this time the pair had finished their breakfast, and having collected their few belongings they saddled up—Percy making himself as flat as possible during the operation—and rode away.

As soon as they were safely out of sight, our scout rose to his feet and walked back to where Jack was stationed, and together they returned to the spot where I stood impatiently awaiting them.

“Well,” said our captain, when he had heard Percy’s report, “your friend Bates seems to have gotten into nice company. That is a smart fellow, that squeaky-voiced scoundrel; he guessed our plans pretty well. My original intention was to ride up the stage-road from Corinne to the town of Bozeman, in Montana; but now that we know their scheme we’ll just make a change in our own plan. They will wait for us a long time before they catch us at the bridge; we won’t go near it; we’ll go straight northward across country, leaving the road well away to our left. That fellow is right in saying that the Snake is a difficult river to cross; but we’ll find a way over somehow, never fear, even if we have to go up-stream until we get around its little end. By taking this course we shall give them the slip altogether; they will have no means of knowing what has become of us. All the same,” Jack added, impressively, “it will be well to keep our eyes open. Mr. Morgan, I suspect, would not stick at shooting any or all of us if it suited his purpose to do so. So, remember,—if you meet a short, square-built, red-haired man, with a broken nose, cock your rifle, and don’t let him get behind you. All aboard!”

CHAPTER VII
INTO THE WILDERNESS

FOR several days we marched steadily northward over a rolling country, camping at first upon streams which flowed south-westward to the Great Salt Lake, and latterly upon others which took a northerly course to join the turbulent Snake, the great southern branch of the Columbia. During this time, Percy and I, by systematic practice, became fairly expert in the art of packing; Percy, too, having developed unsuspected gifts as a cook, was unanimously elected to fill that responsible position, while I, having no genius for anything in particular, was allotted the more humble office of dish-washer.

Whenever occasion permitted—while Percy was cooking and Jack chopping wood, perhaps—I would take the little single-barrelled shotgun and wander up the stream to try for some ducks, or over the hills in the hope of stirring up a jack-rabbit or a sage-hen. Many a supper did Ulysses and I and the shotgun procure between us; but as yet we had had little use for our rifles; excepting one antelope which Percy and I had blazed at and missed, we had seen no large game, unless the occasional wolf and the frequent coyote be counted as such.

What astute vagabonds are those coyotes, the street-arabs of the wilderness, their wits sharpened by the unceasing competition for a livelihood with their hungry relations, and with all the other carnivorous beasts of the field,—to say nothing of several of the birds of the air! With what persistency would they sit around our camp-fire at night and serenade us with their doleful howlings, and how silently would they glide away into the darkness when the indignant Ulysses rushed forth to devour them!

Ulysses, having been brought up in a town, was as yet unacquainted with the wiles of those “subterfugious beasts,” as Percy called them, and great store of breath and energy did he expend in frantic efforts to catch one, until, learning by experience the futility of such a course, he contented himself with bestowing upon them a contemptuous glance when they trotted across our path, and, at a distance of twenty yards, impudently stood still to watch us go by.

The coyote is generally spoken of with disrespect as a cowardly, sneaking outcast, a lean and draggle-tailed caricature of his big cousin, the wolf. But, for my part, I confess I rather like him. His big ears, and his sharp, inquisitive nose, make him the most wide-awake-looking animal I know; while, as for activity, not even the antelope is more light-footed. His valour, I admit, is leavened by a large measure of discretion. He will run away, as a rule, from any dog that is more than half as big as himself. But get him into a corner where he has no chance to run farther, and it will be a bold dog that will venture within range of his snapping jaws.

That the coyote possesses good reasoning powers no one who is familiar with him will deny. He is aware, for instance, of the custom of the jack-rabbit to run in a circle when pursued, and on one occasion I saw him take advantage of that knowledge, to the disgust of our honest friend Ulysses. We were encamped on an open plain, and Ulysses, going off on a private hunt, put up a “jack,” which he pursued with vociferous impetuosity. As I stood watching the chase, I observed a coyote come running toward the spot and take up a position on a little hillock, where he sat down to watch also. The rabbit, as usual, made a large circuit, and as he came back to the starting-point, with Ulysses, breathless but still hopeful, a hundred yards behind, the coyote rushed down from his perch, snapped up the rabbit, and ran off with it, leaving Ulysses seated on the ground, his long, red tongue hanging out, thinking—I have no doubt—uncomplimentary thoughts of the thieving vagrant who had defrauded him of his dinner.

It was about the end of the second week of our journey that we came suddenly upon a swift, muddy river running in a rocky channel sunk deep below the level of the plain—the Snake.

Although it was yet early in the afternoon, we went into camp at once in a fine grove of cottonwoods and willows fringing the banks of a little branch stream which there ran down to the river, and here Jack, taking from his pocket a large map, spread it upon the ground and issued a summons for an immediate council of war.

“Now, you fellows,” said he, as we got sat cross-legged before the map, “we have got to get to the other side of this river somehow or go home again. There are three ways of doing it: by fording, by rafting, or by going a long way down-stream to the bridge marked here. The last is out of the question, for our friend Squeaky is probably waiting there for us now. I think that if we can’t find a ford in a couple of days we had better build a little raft at some point where the river is not too swift, ferry our things across, and make the horses and mules swim. I have no doubt we might find a ford if we were to follow up the stream far enough, but you see the country is very little known up in that direction, for most of the branch streams are marked with dotted lines, showing that they are unexplored. So I think a raft— Hallo! Ulysses. What’s the matter with you?”

Ulysses, who had been peacefully snoozing in the shade, at this moment sprang to his feet and began to growl, sniffing the breeze which blew up the river. Jack rose and looked in that direction through the tops of the willows, but hardly had he straightened up ere he ducked down again, and whispered:

“Horsemen. Riding on the other side of the river about a mile off. Coming this way. Get your rifles.”

At some remote period in the earth’s history there had occurred in this neighbourhood a great volcanic eruption, covering the wide-spreading plain with a thick bed of lava. Into this lava-bed the strong, ceaseless flow of the river had cut a channel some fifteen to twenty feet deep, in the perpendicular walls of which there was no apparent break except at the point where the little stream upon which we were encamped ran down to the river. From where we stood we could see a long way down-stream, and with much anxiety we watched the approaching riders. Was Squeaky there? That was the question that troubled us. Had he somehow got wind of our movements, and had he abandoned his post at the bridge below in order to seek for our trail up the river?

“I can’t make them out,” said Jack, who was gazing at them intently through the glass. “The sun is just behind them——”

As he spoke the cavalcade suddenly vanished as though the earth had swallowed it up; but in another minute it reappeared in the river. There was evidently a break in the wall which we could not see.

“It’s all right,” exclaimed Jack, as soon as he got sight of them against the dark background of the rocks. “The first is a white man, then comes a pack-horse, then two little boys on one pony, bareback, then another pack-horse, and the last is an Indian; a squaw, I expect, from her size.”

“Well, that’s a comfort,” said Percy, in a tone of much relief; a sentiment in which we all emphatically coincided.

“What are they going to do?” I asked presently. “What are they riding up the river like that for?” For they were splashing along up-stream close under the opposite bank.

“There’s a ford here somewhere,” replied Jack, “and it must come out at this point; there’s no other place. They know what they are about, you may be sure. That man is an old trapper, I expect.”

The party kept on up-stream until they were nearly opposite the mouth of our little creek, and then the leader, turning short to his right, headed his horse across the river, the rest following. The horses understood their business, evidently; they came slowly across, walking sideways or nearly so, with their heads up-stream; the water, which was very swift, being almost half-way up their bodies. It looked dangerous, especially for the little boys, who, should their horse stumble, would almost certainly be swept away and drowned.

The man was within twenty feet of the bank when the very thing we had been half expecting happened. The boys’ horse stepped into a hole, fell upon his knees, and was rolled over in a trice. The smaller boy was instantly whisked away; but the elder, having the reins in his hands, held on to them. At the cry of the children the man looked back, and promptly swung his horse round to go to their assistance; but seeing that the elder boy still had hold of the bridle, that the horse had regained his feet and was standing steady with his legs wide apart, and seeing also that the woman was making all possible haste to the rescue, he turned back again and came splashing towards the bank, with the intention of galloping down-stream and “heading off” the other boy, who, small though he was, was swimming along like a cork.

The very instant that this catastrophe happened Jack burst out of the willows and ran down towards the river, but Percy, having caught a glimpse of the small boy’s head bobbing along down-stream, grabbed up a long picket-rope which fortunately lay near at hand, and calling to me to follow, set off as hard as he could run down the bank.

Having caught up with and passed the boy, who, with the stoicism of his half-Indian nature, was all this time swimming along without making a sound, Percy flung the coil of rope to me with a “Hold on to that, Tom,” seized the end between his teeth, scrambled down the rocks, waded out as far as possible, and then, throwing himself forward, struck out for mid-stream. As the little brown-faced youngster came sweeping by, Percy grasped him by the shirt between the shoulder-blades, gripped the rope with his left hand, and called to me to haul in.

It was all very well to say “Haul in”; the best I could do, sitting with my feet braced against the rocks, was to avoid being hauled in myself, the current was so strong. The moment the rope tightened, down went Percy and the boy under the water, reappearing directly with much spluttering and gasping; and then for the first time the little shaver began to cry and struggle. At the same moment there was a rush of footsteps, and Jack was down in the water pulling on the rope, which, between us, we drew in hand over hand. Percy and the boy were almost within reach when I heard a clatter of hoofs behind me, and a tall man threw himself from his horse, half climbed and half tumbled down the rocks, waded into the river, and seized the boy by the shoulder and Percy by the wrist; none too soon, either, for Percy’s arm was almost pulled out at the socket.

Two minutes more, and we were all high and dry on the bank again, shaking hands with each other, and praising the little whimpering youngster for being so brave. The whole thing, I believe, occupied hardly five minutes.

The tall stranger, who stood there still holding his shivering little son in his arms, was evidently a man of few words, one of the silent kind who have neither the gift nor the habit of expressing their feelings in flowing language. Setting the boy upon the ground and telling him to “cut along” to his mother, he extended his hand again to Percy and said, “You did that mighty well,—mighty well. I am ever so much beholden to you. Come on. Let’s get back to camp.”

The Indian woman had already lighted a fire, and the two little brown-bodied rascals, stripped of their clothing, were running about quite happy, not a whit the worse for their ducking. While the squaw unpacked and unsaddled the horses, which she set about doing as though it were her regular duty (as no doubt it was), the man came over to the roaring camp-fire I had started, and with Percy and Jack took up a position before it, where he and they were soon steaming away like so many geysers.

“Hunting?” asked our laconic new acquaintance.

“Yes,” replied Jack, with equal brevity.

“Going across the river?”

“Yes; going up to Montana. How’s grass and water and game?”

“First rate. Going up the Henry?”

“Well, I don’t know for certain. I thought of following along the foothills of the Teton range, and doing a little prospecting. Do you know the country?”

“Mighty well, some of it. I’ve hunted around here the last five years. My name’s Jim Perkins; folks call me Tracker Jim.”

“Oh, then, I’ve heard of you,” exclaimed Jack. “Wasn’t it you who held a pass some years ago against a band of Blackfeet, somewhere up beyond the Gallatin valley?”

The man nodded.

“Won’t you tell us about it?” asked Percy, turning round to roast the other side of his person.

“Why, there ain’t much to tell. About a dozen young bucks went off on the rampage, and as some of the settlers was in danger I went to warn them. There was five women and half-a-dozen children and only three men, and the Blackfeet caught up with us just as we were coming out at the top end of a narrow cañon, so I stayed behind to stand ’em off while the rest cleared out.”

“Well?” said Percy, inquiringly; for Mr. Tracker Jim seemed disposed to stop there.

“Well, I got behind a rock, and we had a lively time for a spell, them shooting at me and me shooting at them. The walls of the cañon was too steep for ’em to climb up and get behind me, but one of ’em climbed up part way, where he could get a sight of me, and a mighty good shot he was, considering what an awkward standing-place he had; the bullets kept a-pecking up the ground all around me as I lay flat behind my boulder; and whenever I tried to shoot back at him, all the others would blaze away at me.”

“Weren’t you frightened?” I asked, regarding him with the greatest interest.

“Scared blue,” replied the modest hero. “But I stood ’em off till dark, and then a party of cowboys come along and toted me out o’ there. After that I left that part of the country and come down here.”

“You were wounded, weren’t you?” inquired Jack.

“Why, yes. I had my left hand broke, and I was hit in five other places; but you see they didn’t know that, or they’d’a’ rushed the place, and then I’d’a’ bin a goner.”

The man told this brief tale in the quietest and most matter-of-fact way. He did not look for applause; he merely mentioned the matter because he had been asked to do so; and as to regarding himself as a hero, such an idea, seemingly, had never occurred to him.

As Jack said, in talking of him afterwards, there are two classes of frontiersmen: one whose members brag and talk and “swell around,” and do nothing, performing their deeds of heroism by word of mouth in the bar-rooms of the settlements; the other composed of those men who do things and say nothing—men whose deeds, courageous almost past the understanding of ordinary stay-at-home folks, are the beginning and the foundation of the stirring history of the Great West.

Our friend standing there by the fire was one of the latter; though no one suspected it less than he.

“Is there any danger from Indians between here and Bozeman?” asked Jack presently—a question of great moment to us, for it had been mutually agreed between us that we had no right to take any risk so serious as an encounter with Indians, and should our new friend reply in the affirmative we felt that our duty to our parents, to say nothing of our solicitude for our own safety, would compel us to hark back to the stage-road,—Squeaky or no Squeaky,—or even to abandon our expedition altogether. Tracker Jim therefore lifted a great weight from our minds when, in response to Jack’s inquiry, he said:

“No; not the way you intend to go, between the Tetons and the Henry River; especially so early in the year as this.”

“Can you give us any advice as to the best course?” Jack continued.

“Well, in a general way, all you’ve got to do is to keep the Tetons on your right and the Henry on your left until you come to the head-waters of the river. I’ve heard say it heads in a lake, but I never was up that far. Then you’ll have to bear a little to your left until you strike Bozeman or Virginia City or the stage-road. It’s simple enough. After you’ve crossed the Snake, here, you can head straight for the Grand Teton if you want to. If you’re hunting scenery as well as game it’s worth going out of your way to see; it’s the finest mountain in America that I know of.”

“I think we may as well do that,” replied Jack. “Eh, you fellows? Time and place are no very particular objects with us.”

To this proposition we assented; and just then I observed that the Indian woman was making signs to Tracker Jim.

“The woman says supper’s ready,” he remarked. “Come on, if you’re dried out enough.”

Gladly accepting this invitation, we marched over to the other camp, armed with our own tin plates and cups; being received by the silent Indian woman with a broad smile. A very noble supper we had that night. Two courses,—soup and meat. Uncommonly good that soup was too. It was made of the tail of a beaver; the second course consisting of the beaver itself, baked before being cleaned,—a fact we did not discover till afterwards; which was just as well, perhaps.

Our new friend having volunteered to show us the way across the dangerous ford, we followed him next morning into the river and shortly found ourselves standing in safety upon its northern bank, where, with mutual good wishes, we took leave of Tracker Jim, and turning our faces toward the east plunged into the unknown wilderness; highly delighted at the thought of how we had circumvented Squeaky, who, we had no doubt, was at that moment impatiently awaiting our appearance at the bridge below.

We had not long passed the Snake ere we discovered that we had come into a country very different from that we had hitherto been traversing. For one thing, game of all sorts became abundant. One could not ascend a hill without seeing at least one band of antelope, and more often three or four; while, as we approached the mountains, black-tail and white-tail deer began to make their appearance, elk were occasionally seen, and now and then a bear. These last, by mutual consent, we very carefully left alone; we decided that we had no right to take any risks with them.

With all this game to practise on, Percy and I soon became fairly expert hunters, and it was not long ere Jack abandoned to us entirely the fascinating duty of supplying the camp with meat.

Another particular in which the passage of the Snake had produced a great change was in the nature of the country itself. In place of the long stretches of barren sand we found rolling hills covered with luxuriant grass, intersected by deep cañons which sometimes forced us to go several miles out of our course in search of a crossing-place.

We discovered also that as a guide our map was now practically useless. Such features of the country as the mountains of the Teton range, the most conspicuous objects within a circle of a hundred miles, or a great river like the Snake, were set down with some pretentions to accuracy, but otherwise our speculative map-maker had committed sins both of omission and commission. He had decorated his map with streams and mountains which did not exist, while a trifling feature such as the Teton Basin, a district containing some eight hundred square miles of the finest grass-land, he appeared to think unworthy of notice; at any rate he had neither named nor indicated it upon his map. Evidently this important basin, though well known to trappers and hunters, was a terra incognita to the world in general and to our geographer in particular.

But it was little we cared about that. We were not afraid of losing ourselves. We could not well cross the Teton range to the east without being aware of it, while we knew that by turning westward and continuing in that direction for an indefinite number of miles we should eventually come first upon the Henry River and later upon the stage-road. In fact, the unreliability of our map rather added zest to our enterprise; it proved, to our satisfaction at least, that we might with justice lay claim to the proud titles of “Pioneers of the Wilderness,” “Explorers of the Great West.” So strong, indeed, was this feeling of self-complacency, that, as we rode along in the glorious sunshine, with the peak of the Teton straight in front of us, Percy burst forth singing Hail Columbia with great gusto. He was obliged to desist, however, after the first verse, for Calliope insisted upon joining in, with disastrous results. Calliope might be a good singer (for a mule), but it must be confessed she had one fatal fault: she would not pay attention to the time or the tune; a defect which is ruinous to the proper rendering of a concerted piece.

CHAPTER VIII
A QUEER COUNTRY

AN eastward ride of several days carried us to the neighbourhood of the Grand Teton, a splendid mountain, whose height, isolation, and conspicuous outline have made it a landmark and guide to the trapper and the explorer ever since the days when Lewis and Clark first struggled across the continent; and thence, diverging to the left, we took a northward course along the foothills.

Our progress through this thickly timbered country was extremely slow, for we felt it necessary to test for gold every one of the numberless little streams which cut across our path, sometimes making a stop of two or three days for the purpose.

A common obstacle to a rapid advance, too, was the frequent occurrence of swamps,—the work of the beavers. The cleverness of these little engineers is matter for admiration, but the result of their labours is apt to be annoying to the traveller. They would build a dam across a stream, backing up the water until it overflowed its banks on either side; then they would go a little farther up-stream and build another, and another, and another, until the valley for several miles of its length would be converted into an impassable morass.

These oft-recurring impediments, as I have said, rendered our northward progress very slow. At length, however, sometime early in August as we supposed—for we had but a very indefinite idea of the progress of time—we were forced out of our course by a great series of beaver-dams, and going a long way to the left in the attempt to circumvent them, we came upon a good-sized river flowing swiftly toward the south. On consulting our map we decided that this must be the Henry, or North Fork of the Snake; but our map-maker, though he had knowledge of the existence of such a stream, evidently did not know many particulars concerning it, for he failed altogether to take notice of the fact that it had its source in a beautiful lake, upon whose shore we unexpectedly found ourselves one day. It was the lake that our friend Tracker Jim had mentioned.

By this time Percy and I had begun to understand what was meant by the name “Rocky Mountains.” Previously, I, at least, had taken my idea of this great “system” from the maps in common use in English schools, where the backbone of the continent was represented by an object which might be taken for a long, hairy caterpillar crawling up from Mexico to the Arctic Ocean; sometimes with little caterpillars crawling beside it. It had never occurred to me (or to Percy either, I believe) that one might travel from east to west for seven hundred miles or more and be surrounded by mountains all the way. In common with most schoolboys (begging their pardons if I do them an injustice) I vaguely supposed that I should find a long string of peaks, rough and sharp-pointed like the Grand Teton, with depressions between them, over which one might climb with difficulty; but that anybody could pass over the main range of the Rocky Mountains and not know it, would have seemed to me too absurd to be thought of for a moment. Nevertheless, that is precisely what we did, impossible as it may seem.

Leaving the lake on our left hands, we rode up a gentle acclivity and down the other side,—as we had done a hundred times before,—and presently found ourselves on the bank of a fine creek running toward the north. Without suspecting it, we had passed from the Pacific to the Atlantic side of the great continental watershed; we were standing by a stream which was flowing to join the Missouri, a tributary of that mighty river upon whose bank we had stepped from an ocean-going vessel so many weeks before.

It may appear strange that none of us should have had any inkling of the truth, but, as to Percy and me, how were we to guess that the great river upon whose left bank we had landed when coming from the east should have any connection with a stream upon whose left bank, again, we found ourselves when coming from the south-west? We did not take into account the immense bend that the Missouri makes before it enters upon its southerly course.

Even Jack, with his greater knowledge and his far greater experience, was deceived by the ease with which we had traversed the pass. He did, indeed, express some surprise at finding so large a stream on the other side, and wondered if, and how, it found its way into the lake we had just left, but he was as far as ourselves from suspecting that he had crossed the main range.

“Well,” said he, as we stopped to let the horses drink, “I’m rather puzzled which way to go: up, down, or across this stream. The country to the right looks most promising for a gold-hunter, but we shall be getting a pretty long way from the settlements in Montana if we go in that direction; besides which Tracker Jim told us that we must bear to the left after passing the lake. What do you think about it?”

“We have a fair supply of flour and sugar left,” said Percy; “so, as far as provisions are concerned, there is no need of going near any settlement at present. I should be inclined to say ‘up.’”

“So should I,” was my contribution to the debate. “The country in front of us does not look very promising, and as gold-hunting is the main object of this excursion I think we should go where we are most likely to find it,—which seems to me to be up-stream; so I say ‘up’ too.”

“Suppose we go into camp at once,” said Jack. “And then we can talk it over after supper. Here’s a pretty good place for camp, now, in the shelter of this clump of pines.”

As we rode round the end of the group of trees in order to get upon its leeward side, I caught sight at a great distance of a long string of animals walking in procession across the valley.

“Jack!” I cried. “Look! What are those?”

Jack’s glass was out in an instant.

“Elk,” said he. “A whole band of them. There must be fifty. Tom, will you make camp by yourself? Percy and I will go after them at once.”

Accordingly away they rode; while I unpacked the mules—tethering them to prevent their running off in pursuit of Toby—and made preparations for the night. This occupied me for about an hour, and then, taking the shotgun, I wandered off up the pine-clad spur of the mountain to see if I could get a few grouse. These birds were very plentiful, and, either from natural foolishness or because they had not yet learned from experience how destructive an animal is man, they were very easy to shoot. On being disturbed they would fly up into the nearest tree, and one might shoot three or four of them before it would occur to the survivors that it might be dangerous to remain there.

On this particular occasion, however, my hunt for grouse came to nothing. I was about to walk across a little open space in the woods, when, from among the trees on the opposite side, about thirty steps away, there suddenly appeared two little woolly animals which, though I had never seen such a thing before, I knew must be young bears. They were evidently out for a spree. They chased each other over the grass; bit, buffeted, and tumbled over each other, growling all the time with a great show of ferocity. I was so interested in watching them that I forgot for the moment the fact that the old bear must be somewhere close by. As soon as that thought did occur to me, however, I prepared to slip away, but just as I was about to do so the gambols of the little bears brought them over to my side of the open space, when, catching sight of me, they stopped, and, with their heads cocked on one side, stood thoughtfully staring me out of countenance. As I remained perfectly still they gained courage to advance near enough to sniff at my ankles, and finding that nothing alarming followed this act of temerity they next proceeded to worry the legs of my overalls, just as two young puppies would do. It was great fun for them, and it would have been great fun for me, too, had it not been for my fear that the old bear might come and spoil it all.

I had about decided that it would be an act of wisdom on my part to kick the little bears and send them off home, when, happening to look across the open, I saw something which sent my heart into my mouth,—her Ladyship had arrived. From her great size and her grey colour I guessed she must be a grizzly, and remembering with thankfulness that the grizzly is no climber, I cast my eyes from side to side in search of a tree to ascend, the one which sheltered me being too big. Fortunately I was not reduced to this necessity. The old bear, as soon as she saw where her cubs were, uttered a sound which was evidently a note of recall, for the young ones at once ceased to worry my trousers, and ran across to her. The old lady did not appear to be in the best of tempers, for she saluted each of her children with a cuff on the side of the head which sent him rolling over and over,—it seemed to me to be hard enough to knock their heads off altogether,—and turning about, walked off; my two little friends following demurely behind.

As for myself, as soon as they were out of sight, I departed from the neighbourhood with undignified celerity.

Coming down to the camp again, I was surprised to observe that Ulysses, who had been left in charge, was standing guard over the baggage with his bristles all erect, growling away to himself at a great rate. I observed, too, that the mules were standing with their heads held high, gazing intently in the direction of the pass we had traversed that morning, though they could not see it on account of the intervening strip of woods. Thinking that possibly another bear might be prowling about, I ran down to the camp in order to exchange my shotgun for a rifle, but as I was slipping a cartridge into the latter I paused for an instant, for I had heard a sound I had not heard for a long time,—the sound of a strange human voice.

Calling Ulysses to heel, I crept in among the trees and peered out on the other side. There, coming down the pass, was a bunch of horses, and behind them two men; the whole cavalcade looking very dusty and very weary. They made their way straight to the river, where horses and men at once proceeded to quench their thirst. While the horses were still drinking the two men rose from their knees and began to talk; I could hear them, but they were too far off for me to distinguish more than an occasional word.

They appeared to be disputing. The shorter man gesticulated vigorously, and pointing across the river to some high hills whose rocky tops showed above the trees, he made some remark loudly enough for me to catch the word “to-night.” The other, who leaned against his horse as though he were extremely tired, appeared to be remonstrating; whereupon his companion shouted at him:

“You young fool, do you want to be hung?”

It had seemed to me that there was something familiar in the voices, but when the man shouted in that manner I knew in a moment who he was; for at the word “fool,” his voice went off like a whistle-pipe.

As if to confirm my suspicion, one of the herd, more lively than the rest, broke away, and came galloping in my direction, closely pursued by the taller of the two men. When within about fifty yards of my hiding-place it swerved round, and I then obtained a good sight of the rider’s face. As I had supposed, it was Bates.

“So,” thought I, “you have gone into the horse-stealing business now, have you, you unfortunate chap?”

All this time I had been on pins and needles lest our mules should bray and thus betray my presence, and in consequence it was with very sincere pleasure that I saw the party splash across the stream and make off in the direction of the rocky hilltops; the men pausing to look back toward the pass ere they plunged into the woods. In about half an hour I caught sight of them again, crossing an open space upon the hillside, and again I observed that they paused to look back. Evidently they were in fear of pursuit.

Our hunters presently returning to camp, I at once related to them the event of the afternoon.

“Well, that settles the question for us,” said Jack. “As they have gone off toward the left, we will go off toward the right,—up-stream. They won’t interfere any more with us, I expect, for it is pretty plain that they have given up looking for us, and have taken to horse-stealing as the next best thing to boy-stealing. All they are thinking of just now is to make their way to some place where they can dispose of the horses before they are overtaken. We might even follow in their tracks with safety, for if they saw us coming, they would probably run away from us. On the other hand, as we are only three, they might ambuscade us,—which would not be pleasant. And so, I think, the wisest thing we can do will be to give them as wide a berth as possible by going off in the opposite direction.”

“Decidedly,” said Percy. “The farther we keep away from them the better.”

“That is what I think,” I chimed in. “Let us give them all the start they like; I don’t want to catch up with them. Up-stream for me.”

“And me,” echoed Percy. “Do you suppose, Jack,” he went on, “that if they were caught they would be hung?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Jack; “unless they were shot first.”

“Poor old Bates,” said Percy, reflectively. “To think that the trick he played upon us, which made us run away for fear of being hung, should have worked round so that now he is running away for the same reason. Upon my word I’m sorry for him.”

But however sorry we might be for Bates, we were none the less determined to avoid his company, at least as long as he should choose to consort with his present ally, and accordingly we set off next morning up the stream, following along its left bank until we arrived at the point where its feeders became small and rapid. Passing from one to the other of these little creeks, and working always towards the left, we tested each one as we came to it; always without success, but always hopeful for better fortune next time. Under Jack’s supervision we two novices had taken many lessons in the art of gold-washing,—or, rather, in the art of washing for gold,—and we were now fairly expert in manipulating the pan, but however expert we might be our labour produced nothing; either the country was barren of the precious metal, or we had not found the right places. It was very disappointing,—to Jack especially,—but the hopefulness of youth was on our side, and every failure only determined us the more to persevere.

On one of these occasions of our moving camp from one creek to the next we found that the distance between creeks was much greater than we had expected, and as a consequence the darkness overtook us before we could find a suitable camping-ground. Emerging at length from the woods upon a little grassy plateau which would serve our purpose, we quickly unpacked and turned loose the animals, which, having first enjoyed their preliminary roll, walked off according to custom to take a drink from the creek. To our surprise, they did not seem to like the water; they walked along the bank, tasting the stream in different places, and snorting in a dissatisfied manner. Going over to find out the reason, we discovered that the water was strongly impregnated with iron and sulphur. Presumably some mineral springs ran into it from up above somewhere. However, the horses presently came to the conclusion that they must drink there or go without, and having satisfied their thirst they wandered off and soon were comfortably cropping the grass.

Meanwhile we had lighted a fire, and having cooked and eaten our supper were thinking of going to bed, when the moon rose, and by its light we noticed for the first time that the ground not far removed from where we were was all covered with some white substance, presenting a very strange appearance in the midst of the black woods.

“What is that?” I asked, shading my eyes from the glare of the fire, and peering into the darkness. “It can’t be snow.”

“I should say it was egg-shells,” remarked Percy. “There’s an uncommonly strong smell of bad eggs about here.”

“I don’t think your egg-shell theory will pass, Percy,” said Jack, laughing; “the smell of bad eggs probably comes from some sulphur-springs in the neighbourhood. I expect that white stuff is deposit from the springs; though I never saw so much in one place before. Let us go down that way and have a look.”

We had advanced some distance along the gloomy alley of trees, Ulysses trotting behind, when Percy stopped, holding up his finger.

“Hark!” he exclaimed. “What is that sizzling noise?”

We stood still to listen. Sure enough there was a sizzling noise going on somewhere near; a noise like the frying of a beefsteak. We went poking forward in the dark with our noses near the ground, and presently Jack, who was on the left, said:

“It’s just here, whatever it is. Have you a match, Tom?”

I struck a match and held it low down where the sound came from. To my great surprise—for there was not a breath of air stirring—the match was instantly blown out. I struck another. The same thing happened.

“That’s curious,” said Jack. “Wait a moment; I’ll go back to the fire and bring a lighted stick.”

He had hardly spoken when a most astounding incident occurred. There was a dull thud like the explosion of loose gunpowder; a shower of mud bespattered us all over, and a cloud of steam puffed into our faces.

To say that we were frightened would be to put it altogether too mildly. Ulysses, giving vent to a howl of dismay, clapped his tail between his legs and disappeared into the woods; and as for us, we staggered back, and stood for a moment trembling and speechless. One does not, as a rule, care to confess having been afraid, but I own with perfect readiness that I was on this occasion very much afraid, and Jack and Percy I know will own as much. If anybody shall choose to scoff at us he is welcome; but I should like to see the hero who would preserve his equanimity under such circumstances. An unexpected explosion at any time or in any place is a terrifying thing. How much more terrifying must it be then in the darkness and silence of an untrodden wilderness?

As Percy afterwards said, it was enough to scare anybody to have the solid earth all of a sudden get up and fly at you like that.

As soon as we could collect our senses we ran back to the fire, and there again we stood still for a short time gazing apprehensively into the darkness; wondering what was to happen next, and what it was that had happened already. Our captain was the first to recover the use of his tongue.

“I wonder what that was,” said he. “I never was half so scared in my life. It seems to be all quiet now. Shall we go back and look?”

It was not easy to screw up one’s courage to go near the place again, but anything was better than uncertainty. Making, therefore, a couple of torches, we walked back to the scene of the explosion.

For a space about fifteen feet square we found the turf all broken into pieces and much of it turned upside down, while between the fragments there issued a light cloud of steam. The turf itself was damp and warm.

“Well,” said Jack, “I expect no three fellows ever had such a surprising thing happen to them before. I think I can account for it, though. There must be a good many hot springs about here—there’s the irony taste of that creek, and the white stuff down below, and the smell of bad eggs—and I expect the steam from one of them has found its way under the turf to this spot, and as soon as there was enough of it it blew up.”

“That’s it, I’ve no doubt,” said I. “But look here, Jack; how are we to know that it won’t blow up under our beds to-night? That would be worse than this was.”

“I expect we are all right as far as that goes,” replied Jack. “You see there was no sizzling noise about the camp, and the one we heard was caused, I suppose, by the steam squeezing its way out from under the turf. I don’t suppose such a thing happens once in a thousand years.”

“I hope it doesn’t,” Percy put in. “Two or three more of them would turn my hair grey. Come. Let us go to bed. What’s become of old Lyss, I wonder? Oh, there he is by the fire. Here, Lyss!”—whistling.

But Ulysses was not to be persuaded. He stood by the fire wagging his tail when we called to him, but no blandishments could induce him again to approach the place where he had been so nearly scared out of his wits. Scientific explanations were wasted on him.

After sitting around the fire for some time, discussing this strange phenomenon, we retired to bed, not feeling any too sure that we might not be pitched out and parboiled before morning; and though nothing so serious as this occurred, the night was not destined to pass without disturbance. We had been asleep some time when Jack was awakened by Ulysses’ whining and trying to crawl into his bed. This extraordinary behaviour on the part of the usually discreet old dog naturally disturbed Jack’s slumbers, and rousing himself to see what was the cause of it, he heard a strange noise going on somewhere, which caused him to call out:

“Tom! Percy! wake up!”

As we had gone to sleep with our nerves set with a hair-trigger we awoke in a second, and, sitting up on our beds, listened.

From the valley below there came a mixed sound of thumping, roaring, and splashing; and presently in the bright moonlight we saw a great cloud, like a bolster five hundred feet high standing on end, go sailing up the valley, soon to be followed by others, a dozen or two, one behind the other.

It was a strange country indeed that we had come into.

Suddenly Jack startled us by clapping his hands together and shouting out:

“I know! I know what’s the matter. We have crossed the range without knowing it,—it must have been the day we left the lake,—and we have wandered into the geyser basins of the Yellowstone region. That’s what’s the matter.”

“Wandered where?” asked Percy and I together.

“Into the geyser region.”

“What’s that?”

“What! Haven’t you heard of the geysers of the Yellowstone that were discovered a year or two ago?”

“No.”

“Well, then, go to sleep, my unsophisticated infants,” said Captain Jack, with a patronising air, as he lay down again; “and if I’m not mistaken you shall see to-morrow some of the most wonderful sights that are to be found in all the wide world.”

CHAPTER IX
SQUEAKY SCORES ONE

JACK was right, both in his conclusion that our crooked course had carried us into the geyser basin and in his promise that we should see marvellous things. Next morning began a week during which Percy and I went about with our eyes so wide open with astonishment that I wonder we ever managed to get them shut again.

Immediately after breakfast we walked to the edge of the pine-wood and looked out over the little valley which lay below us. It was an impressive and rather an awe-inspiring sight, even by daylight. The valley was almost entirely covered by the white deposit I have mentioned; whichever way one looked, up stream or down, he would see jets and clouds of steam rising in the sharp morning air; while the throbbing, rumbling, hissing noises going on all around gave one an uncomfortable feeling that a great unknown power, which might break out at any moment and from any point, was lying in wait somewhere below the surface.

Near the head of the valley, not very far removed from where we stood, was an extensive white mound, from which a puff of steam now and then issued as if in warning that something was going to happen. Walking over to this mound and ascending it by a series of natural steps, we peered cautiously down the hole at the top. It was like looking down a rough-walled well, coated with coloured plaster. There was a growling and a grumbling going on down below, and presently, puff! came a great ball of steam into our faces; we thought our eyebrows were gone. With admirable unanimity we jumped back and retreated to a more respectful distance.

Soon there was a great spasm, and a mass of hot water—tons of it—was jerked out of the crater. Percy and I, with one impulse, turned to fly, but Jack calling out, “It’s all right; it’s all right,” we stopped again; standing, however, all ready to run at the shortest notice.

This casting out of hot water was but the preliminary to a regular eruption. It was followed by volumes of steam which—like the “bolsters” of the night before—were blown away by the wind; next, a pillar of water about twenty feet high rose out of the orifice and sank down again; and then the strange monster seemed to take a deep breath, and a roaring column of water, five or six feet in diameter and a hundred and fifty feet high, as we judged, was ejected from the crater and stood erect, sometimes rising a little, sometimes falling a little, for ten minutes. Gradually it subsided, sank down, stopped. The exhibition was over.

None of us had said a word while this glorious display was in progress,—we were too full of wonder and admiration for speech,—nor did we, for a minute or two after it had ceased, break the silence. But then, Percy, suddenly stretching out his hands, relieved his mind by apostrophising our old enemy of Moseley’s school.

“Bates,” he exclaimed, “I forgive you! Bates, I’m much obliged to you! If it hadn’t been for you, Bates, my boy, I should never have seen this thing; and it’s worth—why, it’s worth a year in jail to have seen it.”

How we did chatter when once our tongues were loosened! We were as proud of having come upon this wonderful region as if we had discovered it ourselves.

It is a great temptation, and it would be very easy, to fill a chapter or two with descriptions of the marvels we saw in this truly astonishing country,—marvels at that time almost unknown to the world,—the many great geysers, and the thousands of hot springs of all sorts, sizes, and colours; but I refrain. It is enough to say that for a week we three proud and happy explorers went about in a state of chronic ecstasy and amazement; a state from which I, for one, expect never entirely to recover.

Much as we should have liked to prolong our stay, we remembered that ours was a business trip and not merely a sight-seeing excursion; we had qualms of conscience, too, when we recalled how long it was since we had been near a post-office; and accordingly, one morning, we packed up our belongings and reluctantly rode away from the enchanted valley.

We had gone but a short distance when we were startled by the sound of a jolly laugh issuing from the woods before us. With thoughts of Squeaky in our minds we cocked our rifles and stood waiting anxiously for whatever might turn up, when there rode into sight four horsemen, the leader of whom looked so very much more respectable than we did ourselves that our fears were at once allayed.

We expected the strangers to be as much surprised to see us as we were to see them, but, strangely enough, they were not surprised at all.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said the leader, heartily. “I’m glad to see you. Where’s the Doctor?”

“What doctor?” asked Jack, wondering.

“What doctor! Why, Doctor Hayden, of course. Don’t you belong to his party?”

“No sir,” replied Jack. “We don’t belong to any party. We are just travelling by ourselves.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman, eying us as though he thought we were rather young to be doing anything of the sort. “I supposed you belonged to Doctor Hayden’s branch of the Geological Survey, which is coming up from Bozeman; we are expecting them any day. Which way are you travelling?”

“Why, we are not very particular, sir,” replied Jack, “but we want to get down to Bozeman pretty soon, that’s all. Can you tell us which is the best way?”

“You may follow down the Firehole, here,” responded the stranger, “or you may cut across country in that direction”—pointing eastward—“until you strike the Yellowstone, and follow that. By taking the latter course you would have the trail of the survey-party as a guide.”

“Thank you, sir. I think we’ll go by way of the Yellowstone, then. Should we strike due east from here?”

“Yes. Due east. Or you may bear north of east if you prefer; you will save a little time by doing so.”

“Then we will go north-east, as we wish to get to Bozeman as quickly as possible. Is there any danger from Indians on the way, sir?”

“No; I think not. But you will do well to look out for horse-thieves. They have a secret hiding-place somewhere about this country, and if they can run off your stock they will do so.”

“We will take care, sir. And many thanks for your information. Now, you fellows [to us], right about face, and quick march!”

At which command, waving our hands to the strangers, we turned our backs upon geyser-land and once more plunged into the woods.

In the middle of the second day we came out into a fine, park-like stretch of country, and there, straight before us, ran a large, easy-flowing river,—the celebrated Yellowstone.

Following along this handsome stream, stirring up flocks of wild ducks, and disturbing the snowy pelicans which were fishing in rows upon the banks, we came presently upon the trail of a large number of horses and mules going in the opposite direction.

“Good!” exclaimed Jack. “Here’s our guide to Bozeman. This is the trail of the survey-party, whom we must have passed in the woods sometime yesterday. With this trail and the river to steer by we ought to have no trouble in finding our way.”

The discovery of this trail had a very cheering effect upon us all. Not that we needed any cheering up, for our life in the wilds was, to Percy and me at least, the jolliest time we had ever spent, but after “wandering around loose” so long, never knowing with any certainty just where we were, it was pleasant to feel that in the winding thread cast down here among the grass we had the beginning of the road home; that by taking up this thread we might follow it to the great waters upon whose farther shore we should find, we were very sure, loving hands outstretched to welcome us.

But if the finding of the trail was pleasant to us, there were two members of our party who, I almost believe, were still more delighted; namely, our faithful mules. Sober old Joe turned into it at once and pegged along with his usual businesslike air; but Calliope, feeling that the occasion demanded a more emphatic expression of her satisfaction, lifted her head and sent forth so piercing a war-cry that the ducks and the pelicans fled squawking from the vicinity, the slumbering deer sprang startled to their feet, and even my Lord, the Grizzly, roused from his lair among the distant rocks, indignantly wondered what strange wild beast it might be that thus dared to molest his ancient, solitary reign.

With merry chatter, and with pleasant thoughts of the folks at home, we jogged briskly along, camping that night on the verge of a magnificent chasm, which, Jack said, would some day be known all over the world as a sight to come and see. It was worthy of such a destiny; for it was that splendid work of Nature, the Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone, than which, as it seemed to me, there could be nothing under heaven more beautiful or more impressive.

There was a threat of rain in the sky when, early next morning, we started out again upon our northward course. Soon the roughness of the country pushed us away from the river, and we found that the trail was leading us up over the shoulder of a big mountain, among whose rock-slides and ridges it was not always easy to follow it. As we ascended we shortly found ourselves among the clouds, and through their damp and chilly folds we urged our way, ever going up and up. Presently there was a grumble of thunder and the rain began to fall; the rain soon changed to snow; so, slouching our hats over our eyes, and turning up the collars of our overcoats, we plodded on for an hour or more, until, suddenly and unexpectedly, we rode out of this premature winter into the glorious autumn sunshine. We were above the clouds.

Towards the south and east, as far as we could see, was spread the dazzling white carpet, pierced in a thousand places by the mountain peaks which lay like islands on a shining sea. Nowhere else on the continent, I should think, can there be so vast a number of mountains crowded into so small a space; and nowhere else are they more inextricably jumbled together. It seems as though the mountain-chains which radiate from this common centre have here been pressed together and crumpled up; the symmetry of their lines destroyed. This confused and intricate mass of mountains might very well be called “The Cradle of the Rivers,” for from the snows which crown their heads issue three of the longest rivers of the United States: the Missouri, the Colorado, and the Snake. The rain-drops now falling from the clouds spread out beneath us might eventually find their way to the Gulf of Mexico, the Gulf of California, or the Pacific Ocean.

But while we were admiring the scene the clouds had gathered more heavily, and now we were treated to the interesting phenomenon of a smart thunder-storm going on beneath our feet. We could see the flashes of lightning illumine the clouds, we could hear the booming and the banging of the thunder, and knowing no reason why we should descend into this turmoil only to be wet through, we dismounted, and sat down in the sunshine to wait till it was over; a novel situation for all of us.

In the course of half an hour the storm began to break, and great rifts appeared in the clouds through which we could look down into the wet valleys below. It reminded me of pictures illustrating the spots on the sun. We were still sitting in the sun looking down through these rents in the cloud-carpet as they softly opened and closed, when Percy, seizing Jack by the arm, hastily exclaimed:

“Look, Jack! Look! Get your glass, quick!”

He pointed downwards, and there we saw, going at a brisk trot across one of the little valleys a bunch of horses with two men riding behind them.

Jack’s glass was out in a moment.

“Is it—?” Percy began.

“I believe it is,” interrupted Jack, knowing very well what the question was going to be. “Have a look yourself, and see if you recognise them.”

“That’s the pair, I believe,” said Percy. “Here, Tom, look quick, before they disappear. Should you know the horses again?”

The gap in the clouds was closing rapidly, but I had time to get a good look at the cavalcade.

“I can’t be quite certain,” said I. “You can’t very well identify a man by the back of his neck, especially when he has his collar turned up; but the number of loose horses is the same, and if the rider on the black horse isn’t Bates I’m very much mistaken.”

“What are they doing here now?” asked Percy. “I supposed they would have been far ahead of us by this time.”

“Perhaps they have been hiding in that secret place the gentleman spoke of,” Jack replied. “Or perhaps the horses were worn out and they have been resting them up in some high part of the mountains where they could keep a good lookout for anyone coming after them. They seem to be in a good deal of a hurry at present, anyhow; which is just as well, for they will make twenty miles to our ten, and if they are bound for Bozeman—though I should hardly think they would go there—they will keep well ahead of us at that pace. It won’t do to trust to that, though. I think we must set a guard at night for the rest of the distance; especially as they might even reach their destination, turn round again, and meet us on their way back, if they should return this way. And that, I think, is rather probable; for all those horses and mules of the survey-party must be a great temptation to gentlemen in their way of business.”

This decision of the commander-in-chief met with our cordial approval, and for the next few days we moved cautiously forward, keeping a sharp lookout by day, and setting a guard at night. And a most unpleasant duty did we find it, after a long day’s march, to stand guard through the hours of darkness, when, by rights, we should have been asleep; for, there being only three of us, and the nights being divided into two watches of four hours each, we could each secure but one clear night’s rest out of three—a great hardship to youngsters of our age.

It will be readily understood, therefore, that we had no spare blessings to bestow upon Squeaky for putting us to all this extra trouble, and that it was with much pleasure we went into camp one evening, believing that two more days’ march, and consequently only one more night of guard-mounting, would bring us to our destination.

We had unsaddled and turned loose the horses and mules that evening as usual; Percy was on his knees, making the fire; Jack, followed by Ulysses, had gone off to the creek for a bucket of water; I was in the act of stooping to pick up my rifle preparatory to making a tour of our camping-ground,—for it was my first watch that night,—when a voice behind me said in a low but peremptory tone:

“Drop that!”

I looked round sharply to find, pointed square at my chest, the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of a squat, red-haired man; while another taller man was covering Percy. That their intentions were evil it was easy to guess, for each of them was disguised by wearing a strip of rag across the upper part of his face, having holes cut in it to look through.

“Come here!” said the short man in a low voice. “Quick! Both of you.”

We advanced towards him.

“Sit down!” he commanded.

Having no means of resisting, we sat down, side by side.

“Now, keep quiet,” said the man; and turning to the other he went on: “Pardner, get behind them. If either of ’em moves, blow his head off.”

“DROP THAT!”

This gentle hint was not lost upon us; we sat silent and motionless while the red-haired man, slipping away among the trees, disappeared in the direction of the creek. In half a minute we heard his voice again; there was some angry growling of old Ulysses, a few loud, sharp words, and directly afterwards Jack appeared, carrying a bucket of water in one hand and dragging Ulysses by the collar with the other; urged upon his way by the persuasive influence of a rifle, the muzzle of which was being held within two feet of the small of his back.

“Tie up your dog,” said the man, “if you don’t want him shot; and then sit down by your friends.”

Jack did so—and there we were, captured at last, in spite of our precautions.

That our captors were Squeaky and Bates we had no doubt whatever. Squeaky’s voice would have betrayed him, even if we had had no previous suspicions. It was plain, from their wearing masks, that they wished to avoid recognition; besides which, Bates, as an extra precaution, and evidently by preconcerted arrangement, was careful not to say a word, knowing that we should almost certainly recognise his voice. As someone, however, must issue orders, it fell to Squeaky to take that risk of being found out; he perhaps hoping that if we should notice his peculiar voice we should never think of connecting it with the man whom we had overheard in the dark in the little cabin by the railroad track away back in Nebraska. It must be remembered that neither of them was aware of the fact that we had knowledge of their presence in this part of the world.

“What’s all this about?” asked Jack, with a great show of boldness, as soon as he was seated. “And who are you?” he added, at the same time giving me a surreptitious nudge in the ribs, which I passed on to Percy.

Jack, of course, knew very well that Squeaky would not give the desired information as to who they were; he merely asked the question as a hint to us to pretend we did not know them.

“I’ll give you all the explanation I think proper after supper,” Squeaky replied. “But there’s one thing I want you to understand right now: if one of you tries to get up off the ground he won’t succeed; he’ll be dead first. I mean it, mind you; so you’d better sit still if you don’t want a bullet through you.”

As we had some knowledge of the peculiarities of our captor’s character we took his word for it, and having little doubt that he did mean it we sat still accordingly. Had we been dealing with Bates alone we might perhaps have made a fight for it; he seemed to be nervous and agitated. But with Squeaky it was quite another matter. He had no nerves; and we felt pretty sure that if he should think it a good stroke of business to shoot one or all of us, no tenderness of conscience on his part would withhold him.

“Pardner,” said he, addressing Bates, “round up those guns; stack ’em there against that tree, and take the cartridges out.”

Bates did as commanded, always in silence, and then Squeaky said:

“That’s good. Now, you’d better go and bring down the horses. I’ll hold the prisoners.”

Bates retired into the woods, and in a quarter of an hour reappeared, riding the black horse and leading another, both of which he proceeded to picket in a little open space below the camp.

“Which of you boys is cook?” then asked the leader of this gang of two.

“I am,” replied Percy.

“All right. Get up, then, and cook supper for five. And don’t try any tricks. I’m a pretty good shot. Pardner, take your stand by the guns.”

Percy rose to his feet, and for half an hour we sat still while he made tea and cooked steaks of deer-meat enough for us all. Bread we already had in plenty, for only the day before he had made a batch large enough to last us until our journey’s end, as he supposed. He had not reckoned upon entertaining two uninvited guests.

Squeaky was a methodical rascal; we could not help admiring the orderly manner in which he conducted this affair. He must have thought out all the details beforehand; or else he had been engaged in a similar transaction on some previous occasion. As soon as the simple supper was ready he proceeded again to issue his orders.

“Cook,” said he, “feed your friends.”

Percy brought our suppers to Jack and me and set them down before us.

“Get your own share, and come and sit down again.”

Percy did so.

“Pardner, help yourself.”

We four having eaten our supper, Bates, at the command of his leader, once more took up his station behind us, while Squeaky helped himself to something to eat. Kneeling on his right knee, his rifle held ready for use in his left hand, he took a large piece of meat from the frying-pan, and holding it in his fingers he tore big fragments from it with his teeth; all the time keeping his watchful little eyes upon us. He reminded me of the Mississippi steamboat-mate, in that he resembled a dog engaged with a bone, who suspects that some other dog might like a share of it.

“Now, cook,” said he, as he wiped his greasy fingers upon his trouser-leg, “you can wash up; I guess you may as well help him”—nodding at me.

“Finished?” inquired the systematic villain, as soon as the culinary operations had been completed. “Well, then, just you sit down again, close together. I want to have a little talk with you. Pardner, stand a little way off from the end of the row, so as you can rake ’em if desirable.”

Having made these dispositions, Squeaky upturned our bucket and sat himself down upon it about ten feet away from us, his rifle across his knees and his finger on the trigger, and thus addressed us:

“Well, boys, I’m glad to see you at last. We’ve been looking for you for quite a spell, me and my pardner. We thought we’d lost you. It was just a chance we see you coming along this evening, and decided to look you up. Hope you’ve had a pleasant trip since you left Golconda.”

Squeaky made this final remark with so evident an expectation that we should be overcome with astonishment, that we hastened to accommodate him by looking as surprised as we conveniently could at such short notice.

“What do you mean?” asked Jack. “How do you know we came from Golconda? We’ve never met you before.”

“Oh, we know a thing or two, me and my pardner—eh, Pardner?”

Bates nodded.

“We know who you are, well enough. Don’t we, Pardner?”

Again Bates nodded.

“Can’t your partner speak?” asked Jack, innocently.

“Born deef and dumb,” replied Squeaky, without the slightest hesitation.

At this unexpected reply I forgot for the moment the awkwardness of our present situation, and the fact that we did not wish to betray our knowledge of the identity of the enemy, and began to laugh, when Jack, by a monitory pinch, brought me up again with a jerk.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Squeaky, scowling.

I became preternaturally solemn in an instant; and by good fortune I thought of a reasonable reply to the question.

“Why,” said I, “I was only thinking that your partner seemed to understand pretty well for a man born deaf.”

“Yes, he does that,” assented Squeaky, in such a matter-of-fact manner that I nearly laughed again.

“Well,” he continued, “we must get to business, because we won’t have any time to-morrow morning. Now, just listen to me, and you,”—pointing at Jack,—“you just pay attention; because the lives of these two boys depends on you. Just you keep that in mind, now. This is no laughing matter, you’ll find, young fellow,” with a grim nod at me. “I’m going to tell you what me and my pardner have been hunting you for; and mind you, I mean what I say.”

Squeaky hitched his bucket a trifle nearer, and shaking his forefinger at Jack he thus addressed him, slowly and with much emphasis:

“Attend to me, now,” said he. “To-morrow morning you’ll take your horse, and you’ll ride to Bozeman—you can make it by night if you start early—and as soon as you get to Bozeman you’ll telegraph to the fathers of these boys to send you ten thousand dollars.”

He paused for a moment to let his words take full effect, and then went on:

“As soon as you get the money you’ll ride back here with it alone, and you’ll go to the top of that flat-topped rock up there on the end of that rise—See it? You may stand up if you can’t.”

“I see it,” said Jack. “Well?”

“You’ll bring the money with you, you’ll go to that flat-topped rock, and you’ll build a big fire of green boughs on it so as to make a big smoke. We shall see your smoke, ’cause we shall be looking out for it, and my pardner here will come down to the rock, and you’ll follow him to the place where me and these two boys’ll be. Then you’ll turn over the money to me, and you and the boys can go where you like.”

We had little inclination to laugh now, and still less as Squeaky went on.

“We’ll give you time enough,—say, ten days. That’ll allow for accidents. We’ll look out for your smoke on the ninth and tenth days. If there’s no smoke by sunset of the tenth day—remember! sunset of the tenth day—I’ll shoot the boys, and you needn’t trouble to come at all.

“There; that’s your part of the business. Do you understand what you’ve got to do? or shall I tell you all over again? I’ll tell you as often as you like; because a mistake is likely to prove fatal.”

“I understand,” said Jack. “But——”

“Hold up a bit,” interrupted Squeaky; “I haven’t quite done yet. As soon as you leave to-morrow morning we shall go off to a hiding-place I know of. It won’t do you any good to bring a sheriff and posse to hunt for us; you couldn’t find the place in a thousand years unless it was by accident. If you should take the fancy to try the experiment—well, we shall know of it, and the effect is likely to be injurious to the health of your two friends here. You won’t find us; we shall be gone. And so will the boys—only they’ll be gone to the place that nobody ever comes back from.

“That’s all I’ve got to say. You know what you’ve got to do; and you know the consequences if you fail. It’s just a plain business deal. We have two boys for sale at ten thousand dollars the pair. If anyone wants them, they can have ’em. If not——”

He finished his sentence with a grim nod, and a significant pat upon the stock of his rifle.

CHAPTER X
THE VALLEY OF THE MUSHROOM ROCK

WE were far from laughing now. The calm, everyday tone in which Squeaky had uttered the words, “I shall shoot the boys,” together with what we knew of his character, convinced us that no mercy was to be expected of him; and we trembled. Glancing at my companions to see how they took it, I observed that I was likely to get little comfort from them. Percy was sitting with his eyes unnaturally wide open, staring at Squeaky without a wink; while Jack’s lips were tight shut, and his face, I could see, was quite pale beneath the sunburn.

When I saw how much troubled Jack was I became more alarmed than ever; for Jack was far more likely than I to be able to appreciate correctly the seriousness of our position. Besides which, not having been threatened himself, his fear, of course, was all on our account; and when I thought of that I became cold all over.

I knew that the generous fellow would be taking all the blame to himself if any harm should befall us two, and at that thought another fear drove out the old one. I was afraid he might attempt something desperate for our release.

I can never be thankful enough that that idea occurred to me in time. Even as I thought of it I heard a rustle in the grass, and I saw that Jack, who had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, had drawn one foot beneath him and had placed one hand upon the ground, all ready for a spring at Squeaky. It would have been madness to make the attempt; and without a second’s hesitation I flung my arms around him, crying, “No, Jack, you sha’n’t!”

“Very well, old chap, I won’t,” he whispered in my ear, with a rather husky voice; and at this assurance I sat up again, still holding him by the arm, however.

Squeaky had sprung to his feet, and, covering Jack with his rifle, he said, quietly, “I wouldn’t if I was you.”

“I don’t intend to,” replied Jack; whereupon our captor sat down again, and Percy, who had half risen, sank back upon the grass.

It was a rather curious fact, and it showed the comparative estimate in which we held our two enemies, that, had the rush come, all three of us would have gone straight at Squeaky, entirely forgetful of Bates; though, had we known it, Bates was at that moment quite as dangerous as his leader, perhaps more so, for he was holding his rifle pointed in our direction, and he was trembling so that its unintended explosion was more than a possibility.

The temporary excitement of this incident having abated, our captain once more assumed his former position, and, addressing Squeaky, said:

“Look here, Mr.—Mr.——”

“Never mind names,” interrupted the other. “‘Mister’ is good enough.”

Jack nodded. “All right,” said he. “Then, Mister, I have one or two things to say. First: Ten thousand dollars is too much.”

“No, it isn’t,” Squeaky promptly contradicted. “Me and my pardner has means of knowing the financial standing of these boys’ fathers, and we have fixed upon that amount. We’re not going to ’bate as much as a ten-cent shinplaster, so you needn’t waste your breath on that point.”

Jack nodded again. “Well,” said he, “then there’s another point. Ten days is much too short a time.”

“No, it isn’t,” interposed Squeaky, firmly.

“Yes, it is,” Jack repeated, with equal firmness. “Just consider a minute. It will take me one long day to get to Bozeman; if my horse should fall lame—he has no shoes—it would take two. It might take me two to get back. There are four days out of my ten. Then the boys’ parents may not be at home; they may be travelling on the continent of Europe, and it may take them two or three days to get home; besides which, ten thousand dollars is a very considerable sum, and it may take them several days to raise it.”

I thought Squeaky seemed to be impressed; and I thought, too, how clever Jack was to think of all this when his thinking faculties had just received such a shaking-up. But Jack had not finished yet; he had reserved his most telling argument for the last.

“There’s one thing more,” he went on. “You want this money in cash, I suppose. Well, do you think the town of Bozeman could get together ten thousand dollars on the spur of the moment? Of course it can’t. The money will probably have to come up from Salt Lake City by stage, and that, as you know, will take four or five days itself. Your ten days’ limit is absurd; you’ll beat yourself if you stick to that. You ought to make it a month.”

I half expected that Squeaky would be offended at Jack’s emphatic manner of speech, but I was mistaken.

“You’re a smart chap,” said he, admiringly. “That sounds like a sensible argument. Shut up, now, and let me think about it.”

After sitting for some time with his chin in his hand, frowning at the landscape, the chief bandit straightened himself up upon his bucket and delivered his final decision.

“We’ll give you three weeks,” said he. “That will allow plenty of time for accidents and delays. Two days each way for you to ride to Bozeman and back. That’s four. Ten days for the people on the other side to raise the money and send it out. That’s two weeks. One whole week for the money to come up from Salt Lake. That’s three weeks. You’ll be back here with the money in three weeks. If you don’t get here by then—well, I needn’t go over all that again. You know what’ll happen if you don’t, that’s all. So, now we’ve got it all comfortably arranged, we’ll go to bed.”

Squeaky here arose, and, taking up his old position behind us, said:

“Here, you,—no, not the cook, the other one,—get up and bring all your blankets.”

Seeing that I was the “other one” alluded to, I brought the blankets and threw them down in a heap.

“Make your bed,” was the next command.

I did so.

“Roll yourself up tight.”

I obeyed.

“Now then, next one, do the same; close to number one.”

Percy, and after him Jack, followed my example, and in ten minutes we were lying side by side, tightly encased in our wrappings, like three cocoons. It was an excellent arrangement from Squeaky’s point of view, for it was impossible to rise in a hurry.

“Now, Pardner,” he continued, “I’ll go to bed myself. You shall take the first watch. Wake me at midnight. If any of the prisoners tries to get up, you know what you’ve got to do: shoot first, and inquire into it afterwards.”

The head jailer then went to bed, taking his rifle with him, and Bates, having placed the upturned bucket about ten feet beyond our heads, sat down upon it and commenced his solitary vigil.

I was too much troubled to sleep, and I surmised that my companions were in the same condition, for I could feel that Percy, who lay in the middle, was fidgeting and squirming about, and now and then I could see Jack’s head move. The night wore on, the fire died down and ceased to pop and crackle, and presently a new sound began to make itself heard,—a mixed sound of snorting and choking. It was Squeaky, snoring.

Directly afterwards there was a rustle among the grass, followed by a sound of whispering, and turning my face in that direction I was surprised to see Bates on one knee whispering something in Jack’s ear. He had given up being deaf and dumb,—for the moment at any rate.

Jack listened without moving, and then, in low, eager tones, appeared to be making some request. Whatever it was, Bates replied in the negative, shaking his head emphatically, and rising to his feet again he returned to his bucket.

Jack, however, apparently made a motion as if to rise, for Bates, in a hasty, anxious manner, said, under his breath, “Lie down; or I shall have to shoot”; upon which Jack lay still again.

Presently I heard more whispering, and the next thing was that Percy turned toward me and said softly:

“Tom. Awake?”

“Yes.”

“Bates says he won’t let him shoot us.”

Oh, excellent Bates! If it had not been too dangerous an experiment to attempt I would have jumped up and shaken hands with him. Under the circumstances, however, I thought it better to refrain. Percy went on:

“Jack asked him to let us go; but he daren’t. Squeaky would shoot him.”

At this moment Squeaky gave such a snort that he woke himself up, and I heard him say, “All right, Pardner?” To which Bates, as it was no use to nod in the dark, replied aloud, “All right.”

“I guess you may as well turn in,” Squeaky continued. “It isn’t midnight yet, but I’ve had sleep enough, and you want more than I do, anyway.”

Needless to say, we three lay as still as mice while this change was being effected, pretending to be asleep, and my mind being greatly relieved by Bates’s assurance that we should not be shot, my simulated sleep soon turned into the real thing, and I did not move again until Squeaky’s unpleasant voice aroused me next morning to a sense of our situation.

In the same systematic manner in which he had directed affairs the previous evening, Squeaky superintended the cooking of the breakfast and the saddling and packing of the horses and mules. Before that operation was completed, however, Jack requested that his rifle be restored to him. “I might need it,” said he; “especially coming back with the money.”

“That’s a fact,” replied Squeaky. “Yes, you may take your rifle and cartridge-belt. You needn’t load just yet, though.”

“There’s another thing,” said Jack. “I want the correct addresses of these boys’ parents.”

“All right,” Squeaky assented. “Hurry up, though.”

Jack produced a pencil and a scrap of paper, wrote down the addresses, and handed the paper to Percy.

“Is that all correct?” he asked.

“All correct,” replied Percy, in a rather peculiar voice as I thought, passing the paper over to me.

If there was anything peculiar in the tone of Percy’s reply, the reason for it was in my hand; for, at the bottom of the paper, Jack had written, “I’ll put in two or three days tracking you, if you say so.”

“Perfectly correct,” said I, handing the paper back to him, and looking hard at him, meanwhile, that he might understand I referred particularly to the last line.

“Very well,” said Jack. “Then I’m ready to start. I’ll take something to eat with me, if you please, as I may not get in to-night.”

He pocketed some bread and meat, untied Ulysses, mounted Toby, and, turning to us, said cheerfully, “Good-bye, you fellows. Keep up your spirits. I’ll see you safely out of this; don’t you be afraid.” Then, turning to Squeaky, he said abruptly, “Say five thousand.”

“Ten,” replied Squeaky, with equal abruptness, “or you needn’t come at all. And no tricks, mind you. It’s dangerous for the boys.”

Jack nodded. “Twenty-one days from to-day, then. Good-bye.”

Waving his hand, away he rode; Ulysses, who could not understand why he should have been tied up all night, running and leaping joyously before him.

For half an hour we stood watching our captain, until we saw him, against the sky-line of a distant hill, turn and wave his hand as he disappeared over the brow. Then, and not till then, Squeaky gave the order to mount.

It was not a very hilarious procession that set out that morning from our late camping-place. First rode the speechless Bates, then came the two mules, who were, after their fashion, as uneasy at the departure of Toby as we were at the departure of Toby’s master, and lastly came Squeaky, who, that we might not from ignorance run any needless risks, had significantly informed us that any attempt on our part to swerve to the right or left would result in a bullet in the back.

For half a day we rode slowly but steadily upwards, until, having passed through the pine-woods, we came out upon a long, bare ridge, connecting two mountain peaks. Ascending to the crest of this stony, wind-swept “hog-back,” upon whose hard surface the hoofs of our animals left no trace whatever, we presently found our further progress barred by a little precipice some thirty or forty feet high which ran the whole length of the ridge from one peak to the other. It was plain we could not jump down there, but unless we had come to the end of our journey we could not see what else we were expected to do.

At this point, whence we could see a long stretch of the Yellowstone Valley behind us, Squeaky ordered us to stop, and taking Jack’s field-glass, which he had appropriated to his own use, he examined the trail by which we had come up and all the country about with the greatest minuteness. Evidently he had a suspicion that Jack might be following. Our hearts were in our mouths while this examination was going on, and great was our relief when at length Squeaky put up the glass, and turning to Bates gruffly ordered him to go on.

Bates swerved to the left, and continued along the ridge until he had come near the foot of one of the peaks,—an unscaleable mass of rocks. In spite of our anxiety, Percy and I could not help feeling interested in the problem as to where we were to go now. With a precipice on the right and an impassable mountain in front of us it seemed as though the only course remaining would be to turn still more to the left and descend again into the valley.

But Bates knew what he was about; he had been here before. He turned down-hill for a short distance, and, threading his way between numbers of great rocks which had rolled down from the mountain, he presently entered a narrow chasm—so narrow that the mules with their loads had barely room to pass—and began to go steeply down-hill.

For ten minutes we scrambled down this dry watercourse, the walls on either side becoming higher and higher as we descended, until presently we heard the splashing of water, and looking ahead we saw a shallow stream rushing madly past the mouth of our gully. Arrived at the edge of this stream we found that immediately on our left it fell foaming in a miniature cascade into a pool a hundred feet below, while from the right it came tearing down its smooth stone bed like a mill-race. Straight before us towered a blank wall of rock.

“Which way now?” I said softly to Percy; for the gully had here widened out, and I had resumed my place beside him.

“Up the bed of the stream, I suppose,” he replied. “There’s no other way.”

Percy was right; for Bates without hesitation entered the water, which, fortunately, was no more than a mere sheet an inch deep, and began slowly to clamber up the slope.

Happening at this moment to glance upward, I noticed, on the edge of the cliff exactly above my head, a great wedge-shaped rock which looked so very much as though it were on the point of falling down that instinctively I pressed forward to get past the danger-point. As I did so, Percy, who was slightly in the rear of me, whispered hastily:

“Tom; hold back. Let me get in front of you. I have a shotgun cartridge in my pocket, and I want to drop it near the water as a guide to Jack, in case he should be able to trail us this far.”

“All right,” said I, without looking round; and forging ahead he succeeded in dropping the cartridge without exciting the suspicions of our watchful guard; with great circumspection making it appear that he was intent only upon urging the reluctant mules to follow Bates’s horse.

After a short upward climb between overhanging walls, we turned a corner and saw before us the low, arching mouth of a cave, whose floor, as far as we could see, was entirely covered by a pool of water, the source, undoubtedly, of the stream in which we stood.

Into this gloomy den rode Bates, the mules following, and Percy and I, side by side again, behind them. The depth of the water appeared to be about three feet, and as the darkness of the cave increased it was by the splashing of the mules alone that we were able to tell which way to go.

“Tom,” whispered Percy, when it had become so dark that we could no longer see each other, “Tom, here’s our chance. Let us slip off and sit down in the water until Squeaky has passed us.”

“All right,” said I. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

But Squeaky frustrated our design. As if he had been suspecting some such move on our part, the wily rascal, at the very moment when I had freed my feet from the stirrups, struck a match, and holding it aloft, said:

“No tricks, now, boys.”

He was a sharp fellow, if he was a bad one.

As soon as that match burned out he struck another and another, until the appearance of daylight before us—for the cave turned out to be merely a natural tunnel—rendered such precautions no longer necessary.

Emerging again from beneath the arched roof, we found ourselves in a second dry watercourse, enclosed like the other by high perpendicular walls. Evidently the springs which fed the pool were strong enough to send the water down this way also when the snow-banks were melting on the mountains in the early summer. Along this deep cleft we made our way for half an hour, going sharply down-hill all the time, until, at a point where the rocks came more than usually close together, we were stopped by an unexpected barrier,—a set of bars such as form the entrance of a corral. As soon as Percy saw these bars he whispered to me, “The horse-thieves’ hiding-place.”

I had no doubt that Percy was right, especially as we saw beyond the barrier, on a natural shelf some six feet from the ground, a stone-built fortification large enough to hold a dozen men, loopholed for rifles, and so placed as to command the steep slope we had just descended.

Passing the bars, which Bates let down and Squeaky set up again, we turned a corner to find that the passage suddenly terminated, and that we had come into the upper end of a very remarkable little valley, in the bottom of which several horses were feeding,—the stolen horses, we had no doubt.

But it was the valley rather than the horses which claimed our attention. It must have been, I believe, the crater of an ancient volcano,—there are many of them in that country,—which in the course of thousands of years had been nearly filled up by the débris falling from the surrounding peaks. The bottom of the valley consisted of a beautiful smooth meadow, some two miles long by a mile in width. Around this meadow were high banks composed of earth and fragments of stone, thickly covered with pine-trees, while behind the trees, encircling the whole valley, was a wall of rock from fifty to a hundred feet high. As far as we could see, the wall was without a break, excepting only that at its northern, or right-hand, end it was split from top to bottom; the split forming a narrow gap through which a voluminous stream went boiling and foaming over the stones. The stream was much larger than one would expect from the limited size of the valley, but we observed that at least six little waterfalls—and how many more we did not know—came pouring over the edge of the valley-wall, having their sources in the mountains which on every side rose high above the rim of the wall itself.

To all appearance there was no way in or out of the horse-thieves’ hiding-place save through the passage by which we had come down, unless, possibly, one might pass down the gorge where the stream ran out.

That the elevation of the old crater was pretty considerable was evident from the fact that, though the slopes below the wall were well wooded, the mountains above were bare, or nearly so, a few stunted, twisted trees growing here and there among the rocks showing plainly enough that we were but a short distance below timber-line.

As soon as we had descended through the fringe of trees which bordered the grass-land, we descried upon the opposite side of the valley a little, roughly built cabin, standing with its back to the wall and its face toward us; a wretched little hovel, with a stumpy stone chimney and a doorway without any door. Behind the cabin rose a fine peak from whose sides there had fallen so large a heap of loose rocks as to make it appear that at that one point perhaps it might be possible to climb out of the valley. Percy quietly called my attention to the fact as we rode across the meadow.

Beside a stream which came down from this peak, and not very far removed from the cabin, there stood an object which at once attracted our attention,—a rock of very peculiar shape. It was like a gigantic mushroom, forty feet high; the stalk, which must have been thirty feet thick, constituting about half of the total height, while the cap, projecting on all sides far beyond the stalk, must have been more than twice as wide as the latter. Indeed, considering how much the cap overhung, and considering, moreover, that it was split in two across the middle, it was a wonder to us that it did not fall off; one would think that a good stiff breeze might blow it down.

Having traversed the little valley at its upper end, we drew up before the cabin, and there dismounted. By command of Squeaky, Percy and I unsaddled the horses and unpacked the mules,—which at once wandered off to fraternise with the strange horses, they, with equal curiosity having galloped up to see who we were,—during which operation Bates busied himself by cutting a supply of fire-wood, while the vigilant Squeaky kept watch and ward over us.

After a hearty supper, which Percy and I cooked, and of which, in spite of our unpleasant situation, we ate a very fair share, we were ordered into the cabin for the night. Our blankets were thrown upon the floor, and a fire of big logs was started in the fireplace.

“That’ll help to keep you warm,” remarked our captor, “and it’ll keep you from trying to climb out by the chimney,”—an idea which had occurred to both of us the moment we entered the hovel.

Squeaky next took an elk-hide, and, extracting the nails from several old horseshoes which lay about, he pegged the hide over the doorway, thus shutting us in completely.

“Now, boys,” said he, from the other side of the hide, “you can go to bed whenever you like. Don’t try to get out. One of us will be on guard all the time and if we hear you trying to scratch out we shall just fire through the doorway or through the chinks, and you’ll have to take your chance of being hit. So take my advice, and go to bed like good boys. Good-night.”

CHAPTER XI
A COUNTER-STROKE

IT was all very well for Squeaky to recommend us to go to bed; we had something else to do first, namely, to talk over the situation. The possibility of escape was naturally the first subject to be discussed.

“I don’t see any chance of it at present,” said Percy. “But perhaps, after we have been here a few days, if we don’t show any desire to get away, they may become less vigilant and we may find an opportunity. If Squeaky for any reason should go away and leave Bates in charge, that would be our best chance. We might tackle Bates—I’m not very much afraid of him—but I am afraid of Squeaky, most decidedly afraid.”

“So am I,” I responded. “I’m pretty certain he would kill us if he thought proper, and though Bates might try to prevent him I’m not so sure that he could do so. If Jack——”

“Sh!” whispered Percy, tapping me upon the knee, and pointing with his thumb toward the doorway. There was a rustle in the grass, and the sound of breathing close to the elk-hide. Somebody was listening.

“Jack is sure to be back in three weeks,” Percy announced in an audible voice for the benefit of the listener. “Three weeks ought to be ample time, and you may be sure he won’t let the grass grow under his feet. As for ourselves, as there’s no chance that I see of getting out of this place, the best thing we can do is to make ourselves as comfortable as we can while we stay here.”

“You are right,” I replied. “That’s the best thing to do. Your father and mine will certainly pay rather than have us killed, and these men probably know that. If it should take more than three weeks to get the money out, Jack will come and say so, and they will give him the extra time necessary; they will hardly be such idiots as to kill us when they might get a thousand pounds apiece by keeping us alive.”

“That’s true,” said Percy. “Well, since we are agreed to make the best of it, let us begin at once by going to bed.”

With that we arose and proceeded to make the beds, keeping our ears cocked meanwhile toward the door. Percy winked at me when once more we heard the swishing among the grass which announced the retreat of the spy.

The night passed without incident, and very early next morning Squeaky unbuttoned the door and commanded us to come out. Both he and Bates were still wearing their masks; whether they slept in them or not I cannot say.

“Pardner,” said the former, as soon as we appeared, “you may as well go and bring up my horse. Cook, start the breakfast. You other, chop some wood.”

We set about our allotted tasks; but presently Percy, pointing to an empty bucket, remarked:

“I haven’t any water.”

“Go and get some, then,” said Squeaky; but as Percy picked up the bucket he added, “You other, go with him. It’s easier to keep an eye on you while you are both together. You’ll find a place down by that rock,” pointing to the mushroom rock, which stood about fifty or sixty yards away.

Leaving our warder watching us, rifle in hand, we walked down to the spot indicated. The little creek, we found, had cut for itself a groove in the stone floor of the valley, and just below the rock was a little waterfall about a foot high, very convenient for filling a bucket. As Percy stooped for the purpose, he suddenly checked himself, and exclaimed in a quick whisper:

“Tom, Tom! Look there!”

Following the direction of his gaze—for he dared not point—I saw, just above the little cascade, a round, basin-like pot-hole in the stone bed of the creek, and in it, lying upon a layer of very black sand, a yellow lump resembling in size and shape a soldier’s button.

“Is Squeaky looking?” whispered Percy.

“Yes,” said I, glancing out of the corners of my eyes at our guard.

Without any further delay Percy filled the bucket and rose again, but as he straightened up he said softly:

“It’s gold! I’m going to upset the bucket and come back. Stand between me and Squeaky when I do so.”

“All right,” said I.

With an admirable imitation of naturalness, Percy, when we had covered half the return distance, caught his toe against a root and fell upon his face, sending the water all over my legs and filling my boots so that they went squish-squish when I hopped about, which I did with a naturalness in which there was no imitation; it was perfectly genuine; so genuine that Squeaky burst into a loud guffaw at the sight.

Percy at once arose, threw out the remnant of water, and walked straight back to the creek, while I interposed my body between him and Squeaky as best I could. He soon returned, and walking up to the camp-fire without looking at me set down the bucket; but I observed that his right coat-sleeve was soaked, and as the corner of one pocket showed a wet stain I felt pretty sure that he had the nugget safely in that pocket.

Anxious as we were to get together in order that we might talk over this surprising find, we had no opportunity just then, and events followed each other so quickly immediately afterwards that, impossible though it may seem, we actually forgot all about the nugget until several days later.

It will naturally be supposed that any events which could make us forget so notable an occurrence as the discovery of gold after all our fruitless searching must be events of some importance, and that they were so I shall, I believe, be able soon to show.

Breakfast was no sooner over than Squeaky, turning to us, said:

“Boys, I’m going for a bit of a ride this morning up to the hog-back. I want to see that your friend hasn’t taken a notion to follow us. My pardner, here, will stand guard over you while I’m gone.”

Here was news! Here was the head jailer about to give us the very opportunity we had been hoping for! I was afraid to look at my fellow-prisoner for fear I should be unable to restrain my inclination to wink at him. My exultation, however, was short-lived, for Squeaky went on:

“But he’s a tender-hearted sort of chap, is my pardner, and he might make some bones about shooting you if you tried to get away, so I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you up for a couple of hours. You’re valuable property, you see—and I can’t afford to lose you.”

This announcement was not so pleasant. I wondered if Squeaky could possibly have overheard us speaking of our chances of escape if he should leave us in charge of Bates. Probably not. It is more likely that his natural acuteness led him to suspect that we might make the attempt if only he himself were out of the way. This time, though, he was not quite sharp enough. My quick-witted chum very cleverly stole a march on him.

I was on my knees at the time, washing up; Percy was kneeling beside me drying the things with our own private dish-rag; while Bates stood a little distance off saddling a horse—not the same horse, I noticed, that Squeaky had ridden the day before. Percy also noted this fact, and, with a presence of mind I have never ceased to admire, he took instant advantage of it. Nodding his head toward Bates he remarked in a casual manner:

“Isn’t he saddling the wrong horse?”

The remark caused Squeaky to turn his head, and in that brief instant Percy slipped the knife he happened to be wiping into his high boot, snatched up another, and in a perfectly unconcerned manner went on rubbing away with the dish-rag.

“No,” said our unsuspecting proprietor, “he’s all right. Come, hurry up. I’ve no time to waste.”

Our task completed, Squeaky instructed Bates to cut off a length from one of our picket-ropes, which being done he unravelled the piece, and taking a couple of strands he tied Percy’s arms behind him just above the elbows. Having performed the same office for me, he stood for a while contemplating the result.

“Put your hands in front of you,” he commanded.

We obeyed, to find that our finger-tips would just meet. Squeaky shook his head.

“Won’t do,” said he. “You might untie each other. I may as well make a good job of it while I’m about it. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but it won’t be for very long. I guess you’ll have to stand it.”

With that he took two more strands of the rope, and tied our wrists together behind us. Once more he examined his handiwork, and this time appeared to be satisfied.

“That’ll do,” said he. “Now get into your cabin.”

Having driven us in, like a couple of sheep, he fastened the hide over the doorway, and left us, with the information that he would be back in about two hours; unless, indeed, he should happen to get sight of Jack prowling around, in which case it might take him another two hours to stalk and shoot him. It was a horrid suggestion, expressed in his usual matter-of-fact way, and we did not doubt he meant it. It filled us with anxiety. We heartily wished we had never consented to Jack’s proposition that he should try to follow our trail. Our only comfort was in the thought that Jack was fully aware of the risk he ran, and that he would take every precaution—for our sakes as well as his own.

Standing close to the doorway, listening intently, we heard Squeaky giving instructions to Bates, and directly afterwards the clatter of hoofs proclaimed that he had ridden off.

“Tom,” Percy hastily whispered, at the same time going down upon his knees, “get up on my shoulders, quick.”

The reason for this seemingly senseless request was that, the elk-hide being too short to cover the whole of the doorway, there was a gap of three inches at the top through which one might look out if he could reach high enough. Following Percy’s instructions, I bestrode his neck, and he then rose carefully to his feet; no easy task for either of us, considering that we were deprived of the use of our hands. For Percy it was especially difficult, but fortunately he was very stout on his pins, and after one or two preliminary wabbles which threatened to send me headlong to the floor, he succeeded in standing upright.

For five minutes he thus supported me, while I watched Squeaky as he rode across the open, entered the strip of woods, appeared again on the other side, and vanished into the gorge, when I whispered, “All right,” and Percy going down upon his knees again, I dismounted.

Without an instant’s pause my companion leaned back against the wall, put up his foot, and whispered to me to pull off his boot. Backing up to his foot I seized the boot-heel with my bound hands, and after some ineffectual struggles Percy withdrew his foot; in doing so he pulled out the knife also, which fell upon the floor with a clank loud enough, as it seemed to us, to wake the echoes. We paused, breathless, listening for Bates to make some movement, but he apparently had heard nothing.

Percy, by lying down upon the ground, managed to get hold of the knife, and grasping it firmly by the handle, point upward, the edge toward himself, he rose to his feet again.

“Now, Tom,” said he, “get back to back. Pass the rope that ties your wrists over the point of the knife and work it up and down against the edge. I’ll hold the knife steady. Don’t cut yourself; it’s pretty sharp.”

With some difficulty, being unable to see what I was doing, I followed these instructions, and after about two minutes’ sawing the rope broke with a pop and my hands were free. I took the knife from Percy, and being able now to see my work, I soon cut his bonds; when he, in turn, freed my elbows, and our hands once more became serviceable members.

“What’s the next move, Percy?” I asked, as I cast the remnants of rope into the corner. “How are we to get at Bates?”

“Let us cut a hole in the hide first, so that we can see what he is doing,” Percy replied. “Climb up on my shoulders again.”

I was soon up this time. Bates was sitting quietly on a log with his face towards the cabin.

“Is he looking?” asked Percy.

“Yes,” said I.

“Tell me when he looks away, and I’ll cut a hole in the hide.”

Bates presently turned his head.

“Now!” said I; and Percy instantly “jabbed” the knife through the hide and withdrew it again. He then inserted a small bit of bark into the hole to keep it open, and as the hairy side of the hide was outward, and the hole therefore invisible, we could keep watch on Bates’s movements without his being aware of the fact.

“We must make him move somehow,” said Percy, after I had once more descended to the ground. “It won’t do to try to rush him from here; he might be surprised into shooting us, even if he didn’t intend to.”

After proposing and dismissing a variety of more or less impracticable plans, we hit upon a device which, as it seemed to us to promise well, we agreed to attempt.

The chimney of our cabin projected only about six inches above the roof, and, the cabin being built upon the slope of the hill, its roof was so much above the level of the ground at the camp-fire that anyone standing down there could not see the chimney-top. Percy had noted the fact that very morning, and it was upon that fact that we based the plan for our deliverance.

While I kept watch upon Bates, Percy climbed up the inside of the chimney, and with great care removed the stones which formed its front wall, laying them one by one upon the roof. In ten minutes this was accomplished, and he then came softly down again.

“Did he move?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “He didn’t hear a sound, evidently. Did you get it all down? Can you get out, do you think?”

“Oh, yes, I can get out. The thing now is to bring him up close. Watch, while I stir him up.”

Percy stepped to the wall of the cabin, and taking hold of a big piece of loose bark he ripped it off. At the sound Bates sprang to his feet, all alert in an instant, advanced a step or two, and stopped.

“Scratch!” I whispered.

Percy scraped the piece of bark upon the floor, making a small but distinct sound, upon hearing which Bates advanced again on the tips of his toes. His suspicions were aroused; which was just what we wanted.

I held up my finger. Percy stopped, and so did Bates. I could see by his expression that he was listening intently. Once more the operation was repeated, with the same result, and Bates being now within ten feet of the cabin, Percy handed the piece of bark to me and himself crept into the fireplace.

I stepped to one side of the cabin, scratched a little, and hopped back to the peep-hole, just in time to see Bates go picking his way round the corner of the house. Immediately afterwards a handful of dirt fell into the fireplace: a preconcerted signal to let me know that Percy was safely up on the roof.

I then got inside the fireplace myself, that being the safest situation in case Bates should fire through the chinks,—though we did not believe he would do so,—and reaching as far as I could round the corner, I began scraping the floor of the cabin near the wall with the crackling bark, pausing every now and then to listen.

It was an anxious moment, for the success of our plan depended upon my being able to induce Bates to come close to the wall. Percy, I knew, was lying flat upon the roof, eagerly awaiting his opportunity; but where was Bates? That was the important question.

Once more I began scratching on the floor, when, as if he had known of my anxiety, and was desirous of removing it, Bates, with an assumed gruffness of voice which nearly made me give vent to an inopportune laugh, called out:

“Stop that! If you try to scratch out, I’ll shoot.”

I stopped for an instant, and then began again, very softly, hoping to draw him close to the wall to listen. The ruse was most successful. Not only did he come close, but he stooped down with his ear to one of the chinks.

Now or never was our chance! and my watchful chum was not the one to miss it. At the moment when Bates bent down with his head close to the wall, Percy, leaping lightly from the roof, landed—by no means lightly—with both knees upon the middle of our jailer’s back, sending him to the ground with all the breath driven out of his body.

“Come on!” he shouted; and at the call I rushed at the door, burst it bodily from its fastenings, and ran round the house, to find Bates lying upon his face with Percy sitting upon him, holding him firmly by both elbows.

“Get some rope!” cried Percy, the instant I appeared.

Back I ran to the camp, cut off three feet of rope, and returned to the rear of the cabin. Within five minutes Bates was bound hand and foot—perfectly helpless.

Leaving our prostrate enemy where he lay—after first taking away his rifle—we hastened to the camp, whence, with our own rifles and cartridge-belts in our hands, we set off as hard as we could run across the valley.

Arrived at the bars, we paused for breath; and having held a brief consultation as to whether we should go on or await Squeaky’s return where we were, we decided finally to go on; for, though this would be an excellent place in which to lie in wait for him, and though by going on we might come upon him unawares and thus lose our present advantage of taking him by surprise, we were bound to think of Jack, who, for all we knew, might at that moment be in need of our help.

We had arrived at this conclusion, and I had put my foot upon the lowest rail preparatory to climbing over, when we heard faintly the sound of a horse’s hoofs clattering down the bare stone bed of the gorge.

“This way, this way!” whispered Percy, in great excitement; and turning about, we ran back a few steps and clambered up into the little fortification which I have before mentioned as commanding the passage.

“We’ll let him come through the bars and set them up again,” said Percy, speaking very quickly, “and then he won’t be able to run back. As soon as the bars are up I’ll step out and order him to throw up his hands. If he makes any sign of an intention to shoot, you must shoot at him through the loophole. Will you do it?”

Percy asked this question, knowing very well by his own feelings how reluctant I should be to shoot a man.

“Yes,” I replied, after a short hesitation, “I’ll do it. As far as I see there’s nothing else for it. It is his life or ours; so, as it can’t be helped, I’ll do it.”

Seeing how hard it went with me to assent to this course, Percy magnanimously offered to change places with me, though it would have been quite as hard for him as for me; but to this I would not agree, and so we let the arrangement stand as it was, sincerely hoping that Squeaky might submit without a fight. Had we had more time we might have hit upon some other plan, but hurried as we were we had no opportunity for a full discussion of the matter.

As it was we had hardly settled upon our course of action, when round the corner there came, full into view, a man on foot, with a horse walking behind him.

It was Jack!

CHAPTER XII
A GOOD RIDDANCE

JACK, when he rode away towards Bozeman the morning before, had no sooner placed the hill between us and himself than he turned short to his left and galloped off in a new direction. Keeping in the shelter of the woods, he circled back until he arrived at a point considerably higher than the camp, whence he could look down upon us and note the direction we took when we set out for the horse-thieves’ hiding-place.

Having no pack-mules to drive, it was easy for him to keep ahead of our party, and when, about three in the afternoon, Squeaky stopped to scan the valley behind us for signs of our captain’s presence, our captain himself, half a mile to one side of the trail, was lying flat upon his stomach on the mountain-side five hundred feet above, looking down at us.

There he lay, watching, while we followed Bates along the top of the ridge and in among the loose rocks which concealed the entrance to the little cañon, which in turn led up to the tunnel. Knowing nothing, and for the time suspecting nothing, of any such underground passage, Jack lay still, waiting for our reappearance, or at least for a sight of the smoke of our camp-fire, until dark, when he went back to the dry gully where he had left the horse and dog, and riding part way down the mountain again he made camp for the night. In a secluded hollow well concealed by the trees he lighted a little fire, and wrapping himself in the saddle-blanket, he passed a rather comfortless night; for at that altitude and at that time of year the night-frosts were decidedly sharp.

At daylight next morning he returned to his post of observation, and there he again kept watch until an hour after sunrise, waiting, in vain of course, for the telltale smoke of a camp-fire to inform him of our whereabouts. As no such smoke appeared he became convinced that the hiding-place must be some capacious cave, whose entrance was concealed among the loose rocks; and very much troubled he was to decide whether to go on or to give up the attempt. He decided at last to go on.

Riding down to the point where we had disappeared from view, he there left Toby standing, and went forward on foot, with Ulysses, who seemed perfectly to comprehend the state of the case, sniffing along in front of him. The ground was so hard that no sign of a hoof-mark was to be seen; nevertheless there must have been a lingering scent of the mules and horses, for the old dog, without any hesitation, led the way to the dry watercourse, and down it to the edge of the stream. There, to his great satisfaction, Jack picked up a shotgun cartridge, and at once he jumped to the conclusion that one of us had had the sense to drop it as a guide for him.

Hastening back he brought Toby down, and taking up Ulysses on the saddle—not knowing but that the stream might be strong enough to knock the dog’s feet from under him and send him rolling over the fall—he rode up the steep incline until he came in view of the arched mouth of the tunnel.

“Ah,” thought he to himself, “so it is a cave.”

Once more he stopped to consider whether to go on or to turn back, and once more he decided to go on.

Advancing into the cavern until there was but a glimmer of light behind him and perfect darkness ahead, he stopped again, this time for three or four minutes, listening with all his ears. There was no sound of voices, no sound of a horse snorting or shaking himself, no crackling of a fire, no smell of smoke. Jack began to suspect that the cave was merely a passage. To make sure, he ventured to strike a match, and looking quickly around he saw that he was probably right; there was no opening visible anywhere, the walls were quite solid. At the same time he observed that the reason he could not see daylight ahead was that a big bulge in the wall at one side cut off his view.

Throwing the match into the water, he advanced around the bulge and rode on slowly until he came in sight of the second dry watercourse which led down to the valley, and there he paused again to listen. It was well he did so. He had not been standing there one minute ere he distinctly heard the click of horseshoes on the bare stone, and a moment afterwards Squeaky rode into view, coming leisurely up the gully.

Jack backed away until he could no longer see the approaching enemy, and then turning about he rode quickly but silently back to the far side of the bulge. There, leaving Ulysses on the saddle, and putting the reins into the dog’s mouth, with an order to keep quiet, he himself slipped into the water, and wading some steps forward, squatted down in the middle of the pool, his head and his hands only being above the surface. It was not his intention to risk a shot in the dark,—indeed, he was as much opposed to shooting a man as we were,—but he hoped to be able to seize Squeaky by the foot as he passed and to throw him from his horse into the water, when he would have a good chance of mastering him.

Meanwhile Squeaky came riding into the tunnel, quite unsuspicious of Jack’s presence, and advanced straight upon him, until Jack, fearing that he was about to be trodden upon, was on the point of hitting the horse upon the side of its head with his rifle-barrel to make it swerve, when the horse itself, suddenly thrusting forward its nose, snorted in Jack’s face and whirled round. This unexpected action unseated Squeaky, who fell flat upon his face upon the water, at the same time dropping his rifle, which exploded as it fell.

Jack was upon him in a moment, like a cat upon a mouse, and grasping him by the collar with his right hand he pressed his head beneath the water, while he held his rifle ready in his left to strike him upon the skull if he must.

Squeaky was a powerful fellow, but on this occasion he had to do with one as strong as himself. Taken by surprise, deprived of his weapon, assaulted suddenly and vigorously from behind by a silent, unseen enemy, and more than all, choked by the water every time he tried to draw breath, he had no chance. The struggle lasted less than five minutes, during a great part of which time Squeaky’s head was under water. His efforts grew more and more feeble, and at length ceased altogether.

Then, still holding him by the collar, all ready to duck him again if he should be shamming, Jack dragged his defeated foe to the end of the tunnel and dropped him upon dry ground, where he lay motionless, streaming water from every part of his body. He was, in fact, very nearly drowned.

Having whistled to Toby, who at once came wading out of the darkness, Jack cut from the saddle three of the long buckskin strings with which it was adorned, and with them he bound his still unconscious antagonist by his wrists, his elbows, and his ankles.

The enemy being thus rendered entirely helpless, it remained to find out whether he was dead or alive; a question which was solved in a few minutes by the gasping and coughing of the captive as he began to get his breath again. At these signs of recovery Jack felt a good deal relieved, for though in his opinion it would be a benefit to the community if Squeaky were dead, still he had no desire to be himself the executioner.

As soon as Squeaky was sufficiently recovered to sit up, Jack, seeing that he was shivering with cold, unceremoniously seized him by the collar again and dragged him to a spot where the sun’s rays found their way to the bottom of the cañon, and there propped him up with his back against the wall.

“Well, Mr. Morgan,” said he, “it looks to me as if it were my turn now.”

At this address Squeaky opened his little piggy eyes as wide as they would go. His hat, and with it his mask, had remained in the pool.

“Who are you calling ‘Mr. Morgan’?” he asked, with an injured air.

“You,” replied Jack. “That was your name back in Utah, I remember. But I suppose a name doesn’t last more than three months or so with gentlemen in your line of business. Never mind that, though. Where are my friends?”

Squeaky looked hard at Jack for a minute, and then, thinking perhaps that it would be as well to propitiate his captor, he replied:

“They’re in a little cabin on the other side of the valley down here. They’re all right; at least they were half an hour ago.”

“Very well,” said Jack. “Then I’ll go down and call upon them. You will have to stay here till I come back. I’ll leave you the dog for company; and let me recommend you to sit still—he bites sometimes. Here, Ulysses; mind him.”

Ulysses, who had left his perch on Toby’s back, advanced at the call, and, lying down with his chin upon his crossed paws, stared fixedly at the prisoner in a most embarrassing manner; upon which Jack, having patted the dog and repeated the command to “mind him,” shouldered his rifle, and, whistling to Toby to follow, walked off down the gully.

As he had surprised Squeaky, so he was destined to suffer a surprise himself, for, ten minutes later, he was impetuously assaulted by us two escaped prisoners, who, regardless of the rifle he instinctively presented at our heads, rushed from our fortification, scrambled over the barrier, and were “all over him” in a moment.

What a joyous meeting that was! What an immense relief to our minds to find ourselves once more together, alive and unharmed! It was hard to realize that we had been parted only for twenty-four hours; it seemed much more like twenty-four days.

Very few words sufficed to explain the situation; when, assuming the command again, Jack directed me to go back and look after Bates, while he and Percy returned to the pool to bring Squeaky down.

In a short time our two prisoners were seated side by side with their backs against the cabin wall, Ulysses and I standing guard over them, while Jack and Percy at a little distance discussed in low tones the somewhat difficult question as to what we were to do with them.

Percy presently came and relieved guard, and I then walked over to Jack, who explained to me the plan decided upon—subject to my approval.

It was, in brief, that we should set out at once for Bozeman, and there deliver up Squeaky to the authorities; charging him with kidnapping, or blackmailing, or whatever the proper term might be by which his offence was known to the law; at the same time giving information of the stolen horses, which were to be left in the valley.

As to Bates, some time in the course of the journey he was to be allowed accidentally to escape. Besides a natural inclination to be easy on our ex-schoolfellow,—an inclination to which Jack readily deferred,—we felt sure that he had been led into this business more or less against his will; we knew that he had expressed his intention to preserve our lives, and we felt grateful to him accordingly; moreover we were pretty sure that when free to go where he would, he would fly with all speed to the other side of the Atlantic. And that, we were agreed, was the very best thing he could do. We did not wish to ruin his life by consigning him to jail for an unknown number of years; and we reasoned that if anything would deter him from taking such risks again, it would be the scare he would get when he found himself, as he would suppose, about to be turned over to the tender mercies of the Territorial authorities—a scare which, as his pale countenance testified, was already beginning to press upon him pretty heavily.

As to the question whether or not we should disclose to Bates the fact that we were aware of his identity, we decided in the negative, thinking that it would be an act of charity to allow him to escape unrecognised, as he would believe; for he still retained his mask, and unless he should voluntarily discard it, we should have no difficulty in keeping up our pretence of ignorance.

We decided also that Jack should do all the ordering, and that we two should hold as little communication as possible with the prisoners.

The matter being settled we at once set about our preparations for departure. While Percy, with Ulysses’ assistance, remained as guard, Jack galloped off on Toby to bring up the mules and horses,—Squeaky’s horse had returned of its own accord,—and I put together the packs, now very light, for our provisions were almost entirely expended.

The mules being packed and the horses saddled, Bates’s bonds were cut, and he was ordered to mount, I being set over him as guard. Next, Squeaky’s horse was brought up, but before its owner was allowed to mount, the bridle was pulled over the horse’s head and attached by a short length of rope to the pack-saddle of the more sober of our two mules—old Joe. Then, while Jack with cocked rifle stood over him, Squeaky’s bonds were cut by Percy, and he was told to get into the saddle. I was half afraid he would make a dash for liberty, but having glanced from Jack to Percy, and from Percy back to Jack, and judging from their attitude of determination that it would be well to obey, persuaded too by the gleam of teeth displayed by the ready Ulysses, he obeyed accordingly, growling to himself like a discontented bear.

We three having mounted, the procession started; Bates first, then I, riding Toby in order that the mules might follow with docility, then Calliope, who always took precedence of Joe, then Joe himself, towing Squeaky’s horse, and last of all, Jack and Percy, side by side.

At the bars Bates was ordered to dismount and let them down, while Percy, when we had passed through, stopped to put them up again. Soon we entered the tunnel. As it began to get dark Jack produced from his pocket half-a-dozen slivers of pitch-pine, and putting a match to them, held them aloft for a torch. The flare showed up the walls and the arched roof for a long distance before and behind, and if the prisoners had entertained hopes of slipping away in the darkness they were disappointed.

By midday we reached our old camping-ground, for we had descended much more quickly than we had gone up the range, but without stopping there we went on until six o’clock, when Jack gave the order to camp. Our prisoners were fed and sent to bed, tightly rolled up in their blankets, after the fashion that Squeaky had adopted with us, and one or other of our party stood guard over them all night, Ulysses acting as an efficient assistant to each of us. In the same order we set out again next day, and jogged along till near noon, by which time we judged we must be coming soon within sight of our destination.

All this time Bates had made no sign of wishing to escape, and I was wondering how we were to get rid of him, when Percy came riding along the line, and joining me, began a whispered discussion of that very subject. He did not advance very far, however, for ere he had finished his first remark an event occurred which rendered any further discussion unnecessary.

Just ahead of us, beside the trail we were following, stood a big old pine-tree, the upper half of which was dead. As we passed this tree there came one of those sudden, whirling wind-storms so common in the mountain-country; the top of the tree was twisted off and cast upon the ground close to old Joe’s quarters. The startled mule sprang forward, Squeaky’s horse sprang backward, and the result was, naturally, that the head-stall of the bridle broke. At the same moment we were assailed by a vicious, spiteful blast of sand and small pebbles, which stung our faces so that everyone instinctively lowered his head and threw up one arm as a protection. The squall lasted only a quarter of a minute, but in that quarter-minute Bates and Squeaky seized the opportunity they had doubtless been waiting for and went off down-wind with the dust-cloud. When we looked up again they were just disappearing into the woods behind us, lying flat upon their horses’ backs to avoid the bullets they evidently expected to be sent after them.

It was uncommonly well done on their part, I am bound to admit. I had not given Bates, at any rate, credit for such promptness of action.

Jack’s first impulse was to fulfil their expectations by sending an experimental bullet after them. He half raised his rifle; but on second thought he lowered it again, and turning to us, said:

“Well, after all, I believe that that is the best way out of it. They won’t trouble us any more. We’ll inform the authorities, and if they want to go after them they can do so. I’m sorry for Bates, though; he’ll live to be hanged, I’m afraid.”

“I wish he had escaped before,” said Percy. “Now that he has gone off again with Squeaky there’s no telling what scrape he will be led into next. It is a pity we didn’t tell him we were going to let him escape.”

“I’m sorry too,” Jack responded; “but we acted to the best of our judgment. I don’t think we are to blame. There is one thing:—he may have been so badly scared by the prospect of going to prison that he may conclude to part company with Squeaky at the first opportunity.”

“Do you suppose they will go back to the hiding-place?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” replied Jack. “They will know that we shall give information of the place as soon as we get to town, and that somebody will probably set out at once to recover the horses, when they might be caught like rats in a trap. They are more likely, I think, to get as far away as they can from the place. Come on. Let us jog along. We must get in before sunset, if possible.”

The citizens of Bozeman were accustomed, I suppose, to the sight of rough-looking strangers riding through their streets; and we were rough-looking enough, surely, with our elbows showing through our coat-sleeves and our knees through our trousers, with our hair down below our collars, and our faces so sunburned that Jack and Percy looked like a pair of Mexicans, while I was about the colour of the rising moon. At any rate, nobody took any notice of us as we rode along the main street of the little town to the post-office, and there pulled up.

Jack dismounted and went in, returning in a few minutes with a handful of letters, and we then passed on through the town and encamped upon the stream just outside. There were three or four letters for each of us. Eagerly, and with a bit of a tremour, Percy and I tore open the envelopes, one after the other, glanced at the contents, and simultaneously heaved such a big sigh of satisfaction that Jack looked up.

“All right?” he asked.

“All right,” we replied together.

“Good!” said he. “Same here.”

After which laconic dialogue, silence ensued for the space of half an hour, while we read and re-read the welcome letters from home.

Letters from home! Nobody knows their right value until he reads them five thousand miles away from the hand that wrote them.

It was plain that my parents had great confidence in Jack, for they expressed no anxiety on my account, though they did intimate that it was rather a long time since they had heard from me. They also suggested that it was about time we came home again, though, if there should be a really good reason for our not returning at once, we were given permission to stay on.

They were too wise, however, to leave the question of the goodness of the reason to our prejudiced and immature opinions; Jack was to be the sole and only judge.

Jack, we found, had a letter from Percy’s father repeating these instructions, and having read it, he sat silent for five minutes, thinking, while Percy and I fidgeted about, waiting for his decision. At length he delivered judgment.

“Well, you fellows,” said he, regretfully, “I suppose you must go home.”

“Oh, no!” we both exclaimed together. “Not yet.”

“My instructions are to send you home,” Jack went on, “unless there is a good reason against it; and I’m afraid there’s no good reason. We’ve had a jolly outing; but from a business point of view it has resulted in nothing. From the day we started to this present moment we haven’t seen so much as a speck of gold.—What’s up?”

It was no wonder he asked what was up; for Percy, springing from the ground as suddenly as though he had just discovered that he was sitting on a nest of red ants, dived his hand into his trousers pocket, and then, holding it out, palm upwards, exclaimed, “What’s that?”

“Where did you get that?” cried Jack, full of excitement in a moment.

“I found it in a pot-hole in the bed of the creek, close to that curious rock in the horse-thieves’ hiding-place.”

“You did!”

Jack took the little nugget; looked it over and over; took out his pocket-knife and cut little nicks in it; and then, for several seconds, stood staring hard at nothing; while we stood silently by, staring hard at him.

Presently he heaved a big sigh, shut up the knife with a snap, and said quietly, but with much decisiveness:

“I’m going back.”

“Then so are we,” said Percy.

CHAPTER XIII
THE CLEANING OF THE POT-HOLES

“NO, no,” said Jack. “I think you ought to go home. Besides, it’s too dangerous. I don’t like the responsibility of taking you back there.”

“But look here, Jack,” Percy persisted. “We are given leave to stay if there is a good reason for staying; and surely we have a good enough reason now. When we set out from Golconda our chief object was to help you to find gold, and here is not only the best, but the only real chance we have had. Then again, as to the danger, the only danger is from Squeaky, and in my opinion we run less risk from him now than we did in the beginning, for he is disarmed,—for the present, at any rate,—and, besides that, we know what to expect of him, and we will keep on the lookout accordingly. I don’t think he will catch us again.”

“There’s another thing,” said I. “It is a great deal more dangerous for you to go by yourself than it is for all three to go together. You can’t prospect by day and stand guard by night.”

“But——”

“Hold up!” exclaimed Percy, cutting in before Jack could get any farther. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do—if Tom will agree. As Tom says, you certainly can’t prospect by day and stand guard by night; you’d wear out in two days. Well, we may not be much to brag of as prospectors, but we can stand guard just as well as anybody; and here is what I propose to do: We’ll go back to the thieves’ den; we’ll carefully examine the whole valley to make sure that Squeaky hasn’t returned,—though as to that, we should see his tracks, because, you remember, it rained as we came out,—and if he is not there, which he won’t be, I’m pretty sure, Tom and I will take it in turn to stand guard in that little fortification, day and night, and night and day; we’ll just live there; and I’d like to see Squeaky or anybody else pass those bars while we are squinting at them through the loopholes with a rifle in our hands. There! What do you say, Tom?”

“I’m agreed,” said I, briefly.

“Then what do you say, Jack?”

“I say you’re a bully good pair of fellows, and I’m ever so much obliged to you, and I accept your offer. Back we go, all three of us.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Percy. “When?”

“To-morrow morning, if possible. But we must hustle, for we have plenty to do before then. Let me think.”

Our captain stood silent for a minute, and then, in a quick, decisive manner, issued his orders.

“I must go,” said he, “and hunt up the sheriff and tell him about those horses. If he’ll go back with us, so much the better. While I’m doing that—and there’s no telling how long it will take me—you must go and buy some hay—the grass here is no good—and a small sack of oats, and give the mules and horses a good feed. When you have done that, go to a store—the one where the post-office is—and buy two fifty-pound sacks of flour and twenty-five pounds of sugar, and wait there until I join you. While you are waiting, buy some writing-paper and write home. That’s all. Off you go!”

In the course of an hour or so we had fulfilled these commands, and had each of us written a long letter home, when Jack joined us in the store. He had been obliged to wait for some time in the sheriff’s office, and had himself utilised the time by writing letters.

“It’s all fixed,” said he. “A deputy sheriff is coming with us; he will come to our camp the first thing to-morrow morning, and we’ll all go together.”

This was very satisfactory; we felt that we should have the law on our side, and if there was any shooting to be done, the deputy would be the one to do it, which, I must confess, was a very comforting reflection.

It was a great satisfaction to me, therefore, when, soon after sunrise, the deputy appeared, a thin, wiry man, with a hooked nose and high cheek-bones; and not only he, but another man, a burly fellow with a black beard. A determined-looking pair they were, and I thought I would a good deal rather have them on my side in a fight than against me.

We set off at once, and soon after midday of the second day we were back again on the hog-back.

As we went down the dry watercourse, the bearded man, looking upward at the rock which overhung the edge of the chasm, remarked:

“That there rock up there, if it was to fall down, would block this passage pretty neat. A man ’ud need stand from under if he didn’t want to be squeezed out as flat as the king of trumps.”

“That’s what,” replied the deputy. “Looks as if a man might shove it down with his foot, too, don’t it? Hallo! Up that way, eh?”—as Jack, who was leading, turned to the right and began to go up the waterway.

We ascended the slope, waded through the tunnel, which greatly excited the astonishment of the two men, and went on part way down the second dry watercourse, but as we turned the corner which brought us in sight of the bars Jack pulled up, and addressing the men, said:

“There’s a set of bars here, and a little stone fort just beyond. If the men have come back, and if they have any arms, that is where they’ll be.”

“Very well,” said the deputy, calmly, “then it’s my business to turn them out. It’s no concern of you boys; so you can keep out of range. Just stay here while I go down.”

Without more ado he stepped round the corner, stood for a minute with his cocked rifle in his hand gazing earnestly at the loopholes, and then marched straight down the middle of the ravine, climbed over the bars, and scrambled up into the little fort.

“Nobody here,” said he, jumping down again; and coming back to the bars he let them down for us to pass through.

It was an extremely plucky thing to do, in my opinion. I know that nothing would have induced me to face those loopholes. But the deputy seemed to be absolutely without fear; I myself, standing in safety around the corner, was a great deal more afraid for him than he appeared to be for himself. He was taking his life in his hands, for all he knew, and yet he did it as calmly as though it were part of an ordinary day’s work. He was an uncommonly plucky fellow, that deputy.

We were soon at the exit of the gully, and there Jack once more requested a halt. Going forward a short distance, he examined the ground carefully, and then called out: “It’s all right. Nobody has been down here.”

At the mouth of the gully there lay a fan-shaped bed of sand, brought down by the overflow of the spring above. The rain of three or four days ago had been heavy enough to send a thin stream of water over it, obliterating all the old tracks and leaving it perfectly smooth. There was not a foot-mark or a hoof-mark upon it, old or new.

This was a very satisfactory discovery, and we rode on down into the valley with a great accession of confidence.

“Well!” exclaimed the deputy, as he issued from among the trees and surveyed the little valley with its surrounding wall, “if this isn’t the very finest ready-made corral for the horse-thief business ever I saw, call me a horse-thief myself!”

“And how they ever come to find it beats me!” added his companion.

“Some hunter or prospector, maybe, hiding from the Indians in among the rocks up above there, got into the stream to cover his tracks, and so found the tunnel,” suggested the deputy.

“That’s it, likely,” said the other. “But there’s deer in here too. I see a bunch of ’em down at the far end now. How’d they get in? Same way?”

“Same way, I guess, unless they tumbled in. The horses is down there too, I see; we may as well go and round ’em up right away. It isn’t more ’n two o’clock, and we may just as well dig out at once. We’ll make ten miles on the back track before night.”

“Then,” said Jack, “while you are getting up the horses, we three will make a tour of the valley to see if there is any way but this of getting in or out. Come on, you fellows; if we set off at once we can make the round before the others are ready to leave.”

Our survey, which occupied about an hour, disclosed the fact that, excepting at two points, the wall surrounding the valley was at least forty feet higher than the tops of the trees which grew upon the slopes below it. The first of these exceptions was immediately behind the Mushroom Rock. There the bank extended from the foot of the rock up to within twenty feet of the top of the wall; if one had a ladder of that length he might get out there. The second exception was at the cañon, where the stream left the valley; but as to getting out in that direction, it seemed as impossible as it would be to fly over the wall itself. The gorge was crowded with great boulders fallen from above, between which rushed the foaming stream—the maddest, fiercest little river I ever saw. None but a man in the last straits of desperation would ever think of attempting the passage; he would be pounded to death in five minutes, almost to a certainty.

The result of this tour was most gratifying to us; it proved conclusively that if Squeaky should entertain the idea of paying us a visit, he could not come in except by the “high road,” and as long as we occupied the fort he could not come that way either without our leave. It was therefore with perfect confidence in our ability to take care of ourselves that we watched the departure of our two friends, and, accompanying them as far as the bars, shouted “Good-bye!” to them as they rode off round the corner, with the clattering herd of stolen horses going on before.

“Now,” said Jack, “we will go to work systematically, and we’ll begin by setting a guard. Tom, will you go on from now till supper-time?”

“All right,” said I, promptly.

“You and I, Percy,” he continued, “will see if we can’t improve this barrier, so that nobody can come in without making a noise. I think I know how it may be done. Come with me. Ulysses shall stay with you, Tom.”

As I took my station in the fort, the other two walked off down the gulley, and soon afterwards I heard above my head the sound of an axe; they were chopping wood up there for some reason or other. Presently Jack appeared upon the edge of the ravine, called out, “Look out, below!” and then, crash! came a small dead pine-tree to the bottom of the gully on the upper side of the bars. Two others followed, when Percy came down again, and having arranged the three trees so that they lay side by side, completely covering the whole width of the bed of the gorge, he looked up and shouted, “All right, Jack, send down the rest!” Down came three more trees, which were placed upon the top of the others, and the bars were then restored to their places. It was a great addition to our defences. The trees, arranged with their butts down-hill, presented a mass of brittle points to any intruder, and nobody could possibly climb over them or remove them without making a noise loud enough to arouse the sentinel if he should happen to be dozing; and as it was our intention that the sharp-eared Ulysses should always be a member of the guard, we were satisfied that now, at any rate, neither Squeaky nor anybody else could pass the bars without our permission.

This abatis being completed, Jack and Percy went off to arrange the camp, selecting a position in a bunch of trees a little to one side of the mouth of the gully, and soon after sunset Percy came up to relieve guard and to give me an opportunity to get my supper.

While I was thus engaged, Jack explained to me the course he proposed to follow, and the arrangement of the order of guard-mounting, of which he was to take his share at night; after which, leaving Percy and Ulysses to keep the first watch, he and I retired to bed.

Until all these preliminaries had been settled, Jack did not so much as mention the word “gold,” but next morning, soon after sunrise, while I took my place as sentinel for the day, he and Percy, who, as the finder of the nugget, naturally accompanied him to show him the place, went off together for the first day’s prospecting.

The stream, as I think I have mentioned, had cut for itself a little groove in the solid stone floor of the valley, while the floor itself, for a space of twenty feet on either side of the groove, had been laid bare by occasional freshets. Upon this level, smooth-swept surface stood the Mushroom Rock.

How it ever came there was a puzzle. It could not have rolled down the mountain, for, as Jack at once discovered, it was composed of two different kinds of stone, the lower being a sandstone, the upper a granite rock, and, of course, had it fallen from the mountain the pieces would have come apart in doing so. Jack’s solution of the problem appeared to be the only reasonable one. He said it must be one of those vagrant rocks known as “erratic boulders,” which had been carried here during the glacial period, and had been left standing when the ice melted away under it. That such a top-heavy rock should not have upset on the journey was hard to believe, but, in all probability, the stem had been originally as large in circumference as the cap—larger, perhaps—but being of softer material it had worn away in the course of ages more rapidly than the upper part.

Percy led the way to the spot where he had found his gold button, and pointed out to Jack the curious round hole in the bed of the stream from which it had come. There were several of these pot-holes, all of them, as it happened, down-stream from Mushroom Rock. They had been formed by the rattling around in them of a pebble, the hole ever growing larger and the pebble ever becoming smaller, until at last in the unequal contest the latter had been worn out entirely. Some of the holes were large enough to hold a bucketful of water; it must have taken hundreds of years and worn out hundreds of pebbles to make them.

Having inspected these pot-holes, and having found that each one of them had its little bed of black sand lying in the bottom, Jack said:

“Well, Percy, the first thing to be done is to gather as much as we can of this black sand and test it for gold. The greater part of the gold—if there is any—will be below the sand; so the holes must be scraped out perfectly clean.”

Percy agreed that this was undoubtedly the proper course; but having come to this decision without any trouble they were next confronted by the question,—How were they to do it? It would be an everlasting task to pick up the sand in pinches between one’s finger and thumb, and even then it would be impossible to clear the holes entirely of the residue which they expected to be the most valuable, if not the only valuable, part. Jack’s inventive mind hit upon the means of getting out the bulk of the sand. He ran back to the camp, and returning with one of our spoons in his hand, he bent the head of this domestic implement at right angles to the handle, thus forming of it a kind of scoop.

Selecting as the first to be tested the hole in which Percy had found the nugget, he went down upon his hands and knees and ladled up a spoonful of the deposit. Up came the spoon, brimming with sand, but the moment it reached the surface the current whisked away the contents, and the spoon was empty. This process had every appearance of being a failure.

“Hold up a second,” cried Jack; and off he ran once more to the camp, returning directly with a small tin cup in his hand. This he set in the bottom of the hole and filled by means of the spoon, and then, taking it up with the palm of his hand covering the top, he emptied it into the gold-pan which Percy was holding in readiness.

So far, so good; but presently Jack had scraped out all that the spoon would take up, and still there was a good deal of material left at the bottom of the hole. In turn they peered down through the water, persuading themselves that they could detect a yellow shimmer about the residue—though the ripple and flash of the stream rendered it very uncertain whether they were right or not—but scrape and scrape as they might, they could get up no more of the sand. The matter could not, of course, be left in this unsatisfactory state;—but what were they to do?

For some time they sat side by side upon the edge of the stream, like a pair of pelicans waiting for a fish, trying to think of some means of clearing out the hole, until, presently, Percy slapped his knee and exclaimed:

“I know, Jack, how we can do it! Do you remember, in the story of ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,’ how Ali’s brother’s wife put some tallow on the bottom of the pot she lent him to measure his money with, and how a piece of gold stuck to the tallow? Well, let us take a lump of deer’s fat and press it down all over the bottom of the hole; it will pick up everything there is there.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Jack. “But I’m afraid, if we use fat, we shall have a great deal of trouble in getting rid of the grease afterwards. An old prospector once told me that. And besides, grease floats, and is apt to carry off the gold with it. Isn’t there anything else we can use?”

“Dough,” suggested Percy, thoughtfully.

“H-m. Dough would do perhaps,” said Jack, dubiously, “but I expect it would be about as bad as grease as far as getting the gold out of it again is concerned. Think again.”

“Clay,” said Percy.

“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Jack, jumping up. “All hands turn loose and hunt for clay!”

I have said before that Jack did not profess to know much about gold-washing. Had his friend, the old prospector, been at hand, he would have told him that the extraction of gold from clay was a process of notorious difficulty and tediousness; but of this fact Jack was ignorant,—very fortunately for him, as it turned out. “A little learning is a dangerous thing,” perhaps, but, strange to say, the littleness of Jack’s learning in the art of gold-washing proved to be most advantageous to him.

The two clay-hunters had not far to seek. On the bare stone beneath the Mushroom Rock they found a fair supply of some white material which they took to be clay—it was soft and sticky, and would therefore suit their purpose excellently,—and gathering all they could find they carried it to the edge of the stream, where Jack, going down again upon his knees, made up a ball as big as his two fists, dropped it into the pot-hole, and kneaded it about all over the bottom until he supposed it must have picked up everything there was down there. He could not see how the process was working, for the water turned “milky” the moment the clay was put into it.

Percy having returned the black sand from the pan to the cup, Jack fished up the clay ball, which being now in a slimy condition concealed anything it might contain, dropped it into the pan, and filled the pan with water. As the clay gradually dissolved, he poured away the muddy water and renewed the supply, repeating the process many times, until at length the soft material had been all washed away and the water remained clear.

“OUT CAME A LITTLE PATCH OF YELLOW GOLD.”

Percy, gazing into the pan as Jack held it up, concluded that they had had all their trouble for nothing, for the only result appeared to be a further supply of that ever-intruding black sand,—he was tired of black sand,—but Jack, telling him to have a little patience, poured away nearly all the water, and then, holding the pan almost upright, he, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, set the sand trickling from left to right along the hollow where the bottom of the pan turned up to form the side.

And then, like the passing away of an eclipse of the sun, the black shadow moved to one side, and out came a little patch of yellow gold,—a teaspoonful.

CHAPTER XIV
HIGH TIME TO LEAVE

GLANCING at his companion, Percy, rather to his alarm, saw that Jack’s face was quite pale, his eyes wide open and staring, and that, though the day was cool, the perspiration was running down his cheeks. The fact was that Jack was taken with a brief but sharp attack of that curious disease known as “the gold fever.” To Percy the amount of gold in the pan was no more than he had expected; but Jack, on the other hand, was well aware that a spoonful of gold to one small pan of “dirt” was something extraordinary.

“Percy,” he burst out, in a high state of excitement, “this is tremendous! Perfectly tremendous! There is fifty times—a hundred times—as much gold in that pan as I expected to see. There must be a vein of extraordinary richness somewhere about here. We must set to work to find it.”

“I’m ready,” responded Percy, catching something of his companion’s excitement. “But how are we to set to work? I don’t know where to look for it, nor what to look for.”

“First of all,” replied Jack, “we’ll clean out all the pot-holes, and test them, one at a time, to see how they compare for richness with the first one. After that we’ll test the soil on both banks, and after that—well, after that we’ll see. Will you just go over to the camp and bring down the wash-pan, a tin plate, and another spoon, while I try to get rid of a little more of this black sand in the pan?”

Percy was soon on hand with the desired articles, when Jack set him to work scouring the plate and the wash-pan with sand in order to remove any particles of grease there might be adhering to them. This being done, the gold was turned into the plate, and the pair, each armed with a bent spoon, applied their labour to clearing out the next two pot-holes; depositing all the black sand in the wash-pan, and dabbing a clay ball over the bottom of each hole. Jack then proceeded to extract the gold from the clay balls, while Percy cleaned out hole number four. In this manner they worked their way down-stream until they had cleaned up fourteen holes, each one of which yielded more or less gold, though, as a rule, the quantity decreased as they descended. There were only three holes left, but by this time the supply of clay had given out, and Percy therefore went back to look for more. There was no more where they had found the original deposit, but a few steps away, still beneath the cap of the Mushroom Rock, he found another heap which he gathered up and carried back to the stream. This lot of clay, he observed, had a reddish tinge, whereas the other had been almost pure white; but though he noticed the fact he thought nothing of it, and set to work on the last three holes without delay.

To the surprise both of Jack and himself none of these three holes produced a scrap of gold—not a “colour.”

“That is curious,” remarked Jack. “But I suppose the first fourteen holes are so arranged in the bed of the creek as to intercept all the gold that comes down. Are you sure that you cleaned up the last three as thoroughly as you did the others?”

“I believe so,” replied Percy, “but I’ll do them over again and make sure.”

“One’s enough,” said Jack. “Do the first of the three.”

The result was the same, however. They got black sand, but not a speck of gold could they see, even with the aid of the magnifying-glass which Jack produced from his pocket.

“Well,” said he, “then I suppose that is all the gold we are going to get out of the creek, so let us go ahead and try the soil on the banks to see if the vein it comes from is on this side or that, or from the mountain which supplies the creek itself.”

Percy was about to assent to this proposal, when a sudden chill in the atmosphere caused them both to look up. The sun was going down.

“Why, just look at the sun!” Percy exclaimed. “I’d no idea it was so late.”

“Neither had I,” responded Jack. “We’ve been so busy that I forgot all about the time. Come, let us get back to camp.”

“Poor old Tom!” said my chum, remorsefully. “There he has been, perched up in his sentry-box all day, and not a scrap of dinner has he had. He’ll think we’ve forgotten him.”

“If he does, he’ll be right,” said Jack, laughing. “Poor old chap, though, I’m sorry. Here, Percy, I’ll carry the things; you run on and let him out.”

I did think they had forgotten me, I confess. All day long I had stood, or sat, at my post, with nothing to do but whistle and talk to Ulysses. Noontime came, but no dinner. Should I run down to the camp and get something to eat? No, I shouldn’t. I was here to keep watch, dinner or no dinner, and watch I would keep if I got none for a week. There was one way, I knew, by which I could make my companions come flying to my relief, namely, by firing my rifle; but that, I thought, would not be fair; it would alarm them unnecessarily. I remembered, besides, the fable of the shepherd boy who called “wolf” when there was no wolf. No; I must stick it out. And stick it out I did, though such a long, tedious day I never spent before.

But when Percy came running up the gully, and, clambering into the fort, with one breath apologized for forgetting me, and in the next told me how it happened, I forgave them. And when, going down to the camp, I saw the little heap of gold in the tin plate, I forgave them still more. I did not wonder that they had forgotten me for I should certainly have done the same by them.

“What do you suppose it is worth, Jack?” I asked, as I stirred up the wet and shining heap with my finger. “Thirty or forty dollars?”

Jack laughed. “Three or four hundred is nearer the mark, I expect,” said he. “Just lift it.”

The tin plate was standing in the gold-pan, and when I went to take it up I thought for the moment they must be stuck together; it was so much heavier than I had anticipated.

“Why,” said I, “it must weigh two pounds.”

“Just about,” replied Jack; “tin plate, black sand, and all; and so I make a guess that the gold is worth four hundred dollars or so, reckoning gold at eighteen dollars the Troy ounce, as they do here.”

It seemed impossible; such a little heap.

“But, Jack,” said I, as the discomforting thought suddenly occurred to me, “suppose it should not be gold at all. How do you know it isn’t copper?”

“Oh, there’s no mistaking gold when you’ve once seen it,” replied Jack. “This stuff is gold, all right; I have no doubt about it at all. But still, if you like, I’ll test it and make certain, just to set your mind at rest, and to satisfy you that we haven’t put in ten hours’ hard labour to-day on a wild-goose chase.”

Stepping over to the baggage, Jack hunted out an old cigar-box in which were a tiny porcelain cup and a little glass-stoppered bottle, the latter containing nitric acid. Pouring a little of the acid into the cup, Jack dropped a scrap of the gold into it, and raking some hot ashes from the fire he set the cup upon them. Soon the acid began to simmer, and for five minutes it continued to do so, without, however, producing the slightest effect upon the metal; nor did the liquid itself change colour.

“It is gold, all right,” said Jack, removing the cup. “Now, I’ll just show you what would have happened if it had been copper.”

With his knife he cut a shaving from a copper rivet, dropped the fragment into the cup, and replaced the cup upon the ashes. In an instant the acid attacked the copper, and pretty soon it had eaten it all up, turning itself a beautiful green colour in the process.

“You see,” said Jack, “the copper can’t stand against this powerful acid, whereas the gold doesn’t care a rap for it. Gold will hold its own against any single acid; you must make a mixture of two of them before you can dissolve ‘the royal metal,’ as it is called. So that question is settled. We have found gold, without doubt. The next thing to find is the place it came from.”

Until bedtime that evening we sat together in the sentry-box talking over our find and arranging the programme for the morrow, and next morning, Percy, whose turn it was to go on guard, went off up the gully,—wisely taking his dinner with him,—while I accompanied Jack down to the creek.

Above the Mushroom Rock the bed of the stream was cumbered with boulders fallen from the mountain, but in between them were many crevices and hollows containing more or less sand and small gravel. These little depositories we examined carefully, picking up the residue by means of the red clay, of which we had a good supply left over from the day before, but in none of them was there so much as a colour of gold. At length we had worked up close to the circular basin which the stream, falling from the cliff above, had worn in its hard stone bed, and there, just below the basin, we found a natural “riffle,” as Jack called it; a little ledge two inches high running across the stream, with an accumulation of sand on its upper side.

This sand Jack proceeded to clear out with his spoon, but as we had again used up our stock of clay, he sent me back to the old place to look for more. There was very little left, but I managed to collect a double handful, including a small amount of the white material which I scraped up with my knife, and carrying it back to the scene of operations I handed it over to my chief. This time we did find gold, a small amount, certainly, but enough to convince Jack of what he had suspected all along, namely, that the vein was somewhere upon the mountain above the wall.

“We shall have to make a ladder,” said he, “and set it up on top of the bank there in order to get up the wall; a ladder twenty feet long will do, I think. But before we do so we will test the soil on both banks of the creek to make sure that the gold did come from up-stream, and not from the mountain on either side.”

As we fully expected, our tests of the soil, and we made many of them, were unproductive; the vein, we felt certain, was somewhere on the mountain in which the stream had its source.

With that belief impressed upon our minds we turned to, forthwith, to build a ladder. Carrying a couple of long poles to the highest point of the bank, and setting them against the wall, we next cut into strips the elk-hide which had once served as a door to the cabin, and with the thongs bound cross-pieces to the uprights every two feet of their length, making by these means a rough but serviceable ladder.

Though by this time it was getting on towards sunset, we scrambled up to the top of the wall to make a brief survey of the country we proposed to prospect; and a tremendous task, it seemed to me, we had set ourselves. Dozens of gullies, big and little, wide and narrow, straight and crooked, led down to the creek, in any one of which, and in any part of any one of which, the vein might lie concealed; a vein perhaps no wider than one’s hand. It looked to me very much like a hopeless task. Jack, however, did not seem to be disconcerted by the outlook.

“We’ll begin to-morrow,” said he, “and take these gullies one at a time and search them thoroughly. It is my belief that the vein is composed of some soft material which washes away easily, and that we shall find it, when we do find it, in some deep crevice; for, as you will have noticed, all the gold we have washed out yet has been entirely free of any quartz or other rock, or of vein-matter of any kind—rather unfortunately, for we have no sample of the rock to go by. As it is, we shall have to bring down specimens of any veins we may find, grind them up between two stones, and wash them like any other gravel.”

“It seems to me, Jack,” said I, “that it might take us a year to go over all the country that drains into this creek; there is so much of it.”

“I hope not,” replied Jack, “because we can’t give it more than a month at most. It will be high time for you fellows to be going home; and what is more, at this altitude we are likely to have a snow-storm any day, which would cover up the country and stop our prospecting anyhow. Let us go back to camp now. To-morrow, while you are on guard, Percy shall go and bring in a deer, so that we may have a good supply of meat on hand, and I will come up here and make a preliminary survey, in order that we may get to work in a systematic, businesslike manner.”

This plan was duly followed out, and for twenty days thereafter Percy and I, taking it turn about, accompanied Jack up the mountain, tramping up and down all day long, prying into all its cracks and crannies, and bringing back every night one or more samples of rock for the sentinel of next day to grind up between two stones. And a blessing it was to the sentinel to have such an occupation to fill up the time; for, as it was not necessary that he should keep his eye glued to the loophole without intermission, he had a large amount of spare time on his hands.

But of all the dozens of samples we ground up not one showed so much as a trace of gold. It was very disheartening. To Jack, especially, it was a great disappointment. After our astonishing find in the pot-holes his hopes had been so high; he had felt so sure that before next spring the mine at Golconda would be going again, full blast; he was so full of plans for the future, when he and his father and mother and sister would be all living there together, that his disappointment at our non-success was all the more keen. And now our time was almost up. The threatening weather warned us that we must prepare to leave; and not a vestige of a gold-vein had we found for all our searching. Poor old Jack! He became more and more gloomy as the days went by; and what with the hard work and the shortened allowance of sleep—for he always took his share of night-watching—he was beginning to look quite gaunt and careworn. Percy and I had less cause for worry and more time for rest, but the work was beginning to tell upon us too. It was hard enough in any case, tramping over the rocks at the heels of a leader so eager and energetic as Jack, but the loss of one-third of one’s natural sleep made it almost unbearable. Day after day we became more and more tired; the tiredness seemed to accumulate, it became chronic; we dragged our feet after us as we walked; and as to running, nothing less than a ramping, raging grizzly bear could have induced us to run a step.

It was a good thing we had those samples of rock to grind up in the daytime, or, I fear, without that occupation for mind and body there would have been a very good chance of the sentinel being caught napping, had there been anybody to catch him—which apparently there was not;—for, all this time, we had seen no sign of Squeaky, and we had come to the conclusion that he must have been scared out of the neighbourhood altogether.

It was after supper on the evening of the twenty-first day of our stay in the valley that Jack came to the sentry-box where Percy and I were sitting over a little fire discussing our prospects, and after standing thoughtfully warming his hands for a few minutes, he said, evidently with much reluctance:

“Well, you fellows, the jig’s up. We must go. We’re all pretty well worn out; and what’s more, there is a snow-storm brewing; and a heavy snow might make it difficult to get out of the valley. We’ll put in one more day here, and the next morning we’ll pack up and get out. I hate to give up, but there’s nothing else for it that I see. We must go.”

“But look here, Jack,” said Percy. “It seems a pity to give up until we are obliged to do so. Let us take a day off to-morrow and rest up. And I believe we might leave off mounting guard at night if we all three were to sleep here in the fort; Ulysses would never let anyone come near us. Then we shouldn’t feel so desperately tired all the time, and we could go on with our prospecting until it does snow.”

“That seems to me to be a pretty good idea,” I put in. “And if it clouds up so that we feel sure that it is going to snow, why, then, we’ll clear out at once. I vote that we don’t give in till we must.”

“You may be sure,” said Jack, “that I don’t want to give in any more than you do; but I’m afraid it is going to snow very soon, and if it does, that will be the end of our prospecting, for the ground won’t be clear again till next spring. You have noticed, perhaps, how the wind has been blowing from the south for the last two or three days; well, it has chopped round to the north since supper, and that means snow before long, I expect. In fact, I would get out to-morrow, but that there are still two gullies I am anxious to inspect before we go. Percy and I will each take one of them, and if we make an early start we can give them a pretty thorough going over before dark. Then, whether we find anything or not, I think we must pack up and leave next morning. I’m really afraid of being caught down here by a snow-storm.”

“We ought to have some meat for the journey,” remarked Percy, who, as cook, took charge of such matters; “there is hardly enough left for three meals. How are we going to get it, if Tom is on guard, and I go with you up on the mountain?”

“We’ll manage it this way,” replied Jack, after a moment’s hesitation. “You shall take the smaller of the two gullies to-morrow, Percy, and whether you have time to go over it all or not, you shall come back here about the middle of the afternoon and go down to the lower end of the valley and get us a deer; there are always deer to be seen down there, and you ought to be able to get one before night.”

“Very well,” responded Percy. “I’ll do so. We must have meat for the journey.”

“Yes. Three days’ supply, at least. It will probably take us that length of time to get to Bozeman.”

According to this arrangement the pair set off at daylight next morning, while I remained on guard in the sentry-box. The day passed uneventfully, as usual, until about half-past four in the afternoon, when Percy looked in upon me on his way down the valley, and having handed me one sample of rock to grind, walked off again, his rifle over his shoulder.

A quarter of a hour later, perhaps, I heard a shot. Ulysses, who was lying stretched out beside me, cocked up one ear, but otherwise took no notice. The next moment, however, to my great astonishment, he sprang up, leaped out of the fort, and ran, helter-skelter, out of the gully.

I dropped my grinding-stone, seized my rifle, and sprang to the loophole. There was nothing to be seen there. What, then, was the matter with Ulysses? He must have heard something that I had not; something to alarm him, too, or he would not have thus deserted his post,—for the old dog, I believe, knew just as well as I did that he was on guard.

I jumped down from the shelf and ran to the mouth of the gully, where I stood still to listen. I could hear nothing; but, fearing that Percy might be in need of help, I ventured to run on until I had passed through the fringe of trees which interrupted my view of the valley-bottom.

There, the first thing I saw was our herd of animals. They were close to the camp, each one standing with his head held high and his ears pointed forward, snorting and gazing down the valley. I looked in the same direction, and, instantly, I, too, forgot that I was on guard. I, too, deserted my post, and raced off down the valley.

About half a mile away, and on the far side of the stream, was Percy, running, as never mortal boy ran before I should think, in my direction. Close behind him, in full chase, was a bear—an immense beast. It looked to me to be about the size of a full-grown steer, though not so tall. Between Percy and me—but a good deal nearer to him than to me—was Ulysses, going like a mad creature to the rescue.

I had not cleared half the distance between us when the conditions of the chase were suddenly altered. The bear had come so close to Percy that the fugitive, fearing to be caught the next moment, doubled like a hare and ran back again towards the trees. The ponderous pursuer, unable to check himself so quickly, ran on for several yards, but then, doubling also, he was about to resume the chase in this new direction when Ulysses, leaping the creek, and rushing up the opposite slope, darted in like a flash and seized him by the hind leg. The enraged beast whirled about and made a slap at Ulysses that would have torn the dog in two had it taken effect. But our old friend was cunning as well as brave. He let go and jumped away; and then the two stood, their noses about six feet apart, eying each other like two gladiators; the bear growling and showing all his formidable teeth, and Ulysses going “G-rrr, g-rrr, n-yam, n-yam, n-yam,” as a dog does when he sees through the parlour window another dog come into the front yard and scratch up the grass as if it belonged to him.

This diversion, as I believe, saved Percy’s life. It gave him time to reach a tree, up which he went like a demented squirrel.

Meanwhile I had come within fair range of the bear, and kneeling down I took careful aim and fired. That my bullet struck the beast was evident, for he roared with anger, and then, with an activity surprising in so unwieldy an animal, he sprang at Ulysses. Ulysses, however, knowing that in this case discretion was very much the better part of valour, nimbly got out of the way, upon which the bear turned short round and came charging at me.

My! How I did run! Nobody knows his own capabilities as a foot-racer until he has undergone the experience of running away from a wrathful bear, whose firm-set determination it is to tear him to pieces if he can catch him.

Though Ulysses, the moment the bear turned his back, seized him again by the leg, the big beast took no notice of him. Strong as a bull, he dragged the dog after him with ease, and even with that incumbrance hampering his movements he gained upon me at every stride. Fortunately, having a good start, I succeeded in reaching the trees while the pursuer was yet some distance behind; seeing which, the bear gave up the chase and stopped again to slap at Ulysses.

I had dropped my rifle, as had Percy, also, I found; so, there we were, on opposite sides of the little valley, each perched in a tree, with a vengeful bear keeping strict watch and ward over us. I wondered how long we should have to stay there; and I wondered also whether Jack would presently come to our rescue. From the positions of the two trees we occupied neither of us could see up the valley, and for the same reason Jack would not be able to see us. He might, however, observe Ulysses and the bear out in the open; though not unless he came pretty soon, for the clouds were heavy that evening, and it was already growing dark.

Two or three times both Percy and I made attempts to recover our rifles, but our watchful antagonist would not permit it, each time driving us back in haste to our places of refuge. The time wore on, and the darkness rapidly increased, but at length, when it had become so dark that I could no longer distinguish with certainty between the dog and the bear, I saw through the branches of the trees a sudden flash of fire, followed by the report of a rifle. Next I heard the joyful barking of Ulysses, and directly afterwards the sound of Jack’s voice calling to Percy. Down I scrambled from my tree, and running to the spot whence the voice came, I found Jack standing over the body of the bear, while Percy had just arrived from the opposite direction.

“Hallo, Tom!” exclaimed our captain in surprise. “You here too?”

“Yes,” said I, remembering for the first time that I was supposed to be acting sentry. “I was obliged to come. I quite forgot, I confess, that I was on guard, but I have no doubt I should have come just the same if I had remembered. I had no time to think, as it happened, but all the thinking in the world would have made no difference; I should have come just the same.”

I then related to Jack the circumstances of the case, upon which, to my relief, he remarked:

“I see. Yes, of course. You were quite right. You couldn’t do anything else. I should certainly have done the same, even if I had known that Squeaky was likely to be down on us in the next five minutes. Oh, yes; you were perfectly right. I think, though, you had better find your rifle and go back now. Percy and I will follow as soon as we have cut out one of the bear’s hams.”

It was a long time before I could find my rifle, even with Percy’s help, and in consequence, when I did at length get back to the fort, it was so dark in the narrow cañon that I could not see my hand before my face. However, I knew my way into the sentry-box well enough, and there I took up my station again until, an hour or so later, Percy came up to relieve me.

After I had had my supper, Jack and I carried all our blankets up to the fort; for it was our intention to sleep there that night. We had had a hard day and were very tired, and as we expected another day as hard on the morrow we had decided to go without a sentinel for that one night, trusting to the ever-watchful Ulysses to give us notice if anyone should approach the bars.

For half an hour we sat about the little fire we had built inside the fort, while Percy related to us how he had accidentally stumbled upon the bear that day, and how the bear had charged upon him without provocation—a very unusual thing. After which Jack explained his part of the affair, telling us how, when he returned to camp, he had espied Ulysses and the bear standing in the midst of the valley, and how, guessing that Percy must be in trouble, he had run to help him,—never thinking that he should find me there as well.

“You must have been in a pretty awkward position, Percy, about the time Ulysses arrived,” said he.

“I was,” Percy responded. “I was badly scared, I can tell you. Ulysses, old chap,” putting his arm around the dog, who was sitting with his chin in the air, blinking at the fire, “whenever I get my share of that gold we can’t find, you shall have a medal. Just you remember, now.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to go without his medal, then,” said Jack; “because we must get out of here to-morrow as early as possible. I don’t like the look of things. I’m rather afraid the snow may catch us down here. Come, let us turn in; we shall want all the sleep we can get.”

It was still pitch-dark when Jack’s voice roused us next morning.

“Tumble up, you fellows, tumble up!” he cried. “No time to waste! Snow in the air! We must dig out at once!”

He was right about there being no time to waste. Already the snow, fluttering into the fort, was covering our beds with ominous rapidity, and, to our dismay, when we jumped down from the ledge we felt—for we could not see—that the ground was carpeted with snow a foot thick, while the continuous pattering upon our hands and faces proclaimed only too plainly that the storm we had feared was upon us in earnest.

As it would be useless to attempt to find the horses in the dark, we set about the difficult task of getting breakfast first; nor was it until we had finished that meal that there was daylight enough to enable us to see clearly how hard it was snowing. Jack was alarmed.

“Percy,” he exclaimed, “run at once to the fort, bring down the blankets, and then put the packs together. Tom, take a turn up the valley and look for the horses. I will go down-stream. If you find them, fire your rifle. I will do the same. Hurry!”

Away we all went, in three different directions; but Jack and I had not gone far ere we heard the report of a rifle in the direction of the cañon. Back we hurried at once, to meet Percy coming down to the camp at a run. His face was pale, and he was so out of breath, more from agitation seemingly than from exertion, that he could not speak.

“What’s the matter?” cried Jack, sharply, feeling a vague alarm at the sight of Percy’s troubled countenance. “Anything wrong?”

“The horses are stolen!” he gasped.

Most boys who have played through a football season will remember the sensation of being knocked over backwards by one of his opponents taking him “in the wind” with the point of his shoulder. It was some such sensation that Percy’s announcement produced upon us. It did not knock us over, but it deprived us for the moment of the power of speech. Only for a moment, however.

“How do you know?” asked Jack, as soon as he had recovered from the first shock of this staggering news.

“The bars are down, and the dead trees are all pulled to one side,” replied Percy. “They must have done it yesterday when Tom and I were down the valley; and we didn’t notice it because of the darkness. What’s to be done, Jack?”

“Done?” cried our leader. “Clap some bread and meat into our pockets, and follow at once. I don’t suppose we can overtake them, but we must get out of this place as fast as we can; the snow is coming down harder than ever.”

Without more words we set off, and having toiled up the steep, snow-cumbered cañon and waded waist-deep through the tunnel, we carefully descended the water-slope and turned into the dry gorge. But no sooner had we turned the corner than we stopped short, with an exclamation of dismay; for a new misfortune, and one even more serious than the loss of our horses, had overtaken us. The great wedge-shaped rock had fallen, or had been upset, from above. The gorge was blocked. We could not get out!

CHAPTER XV
A WAY OUT

THREE shivering, miserable mortals were we, as we stood there in our wet clothes contemplating the impassable rock which barred the way. Two badly scared mortals were Percy and I, as we turned instinctively to our leader for comfort.

“What’s to be done now, Jack?” asked the former, tucking his hands beneath his arms to warm them. “There’s no getting over this thing.”

Then did our captain come out strong. If ever I get into such a predicament again, give me a fellow like Jack for a leader. He knew better than we did the danger of the position in which his bad management—as he considered—had placed us; he was quite as much alarmed as we were at the plight in which we found ourselves; but, seeing that if he should give way to his fears his two followers would instantly be plunged into the depths of despair, he assumed a cheerfulness he was far from feeling, and with an air of assurance which was most encouraging he answered Percy’s question as promptly and decisively as though, far from being taken by surprise, he had been thinking over the matter for a week beforehand. A very fine fellow was our captain; though he would be the first to laugh at me for saying so.

“This rock must be about thirty feet high,” said he, contemplating the obstruction in a calm, critical manner, as though it were some natural curiosity, “and, as you see, it fits down so closely there is no crawling under it. All we have to do, therefore, is to crawl over it.”

“That’s a good deal, though,” said Percy, brightening up a little, however, under the influence of Jack’s example. “How do you propose to do it? The rock leans over this way so much that we can’t possibly climb up it.”

“We’ll bring up a thirty-foot pole,” replied Jack, “lean it against the rock, and climb up that. Simple enough, eh? So, let us get back to camp at once. You two shall transfer our baggage to the cabin, because I think it quite probable that we shall have to stay here until the storm is over, and a roof will be a good thing in this snow, and while you are doing that I will go and cut the pole, which we will bring up at once, so that, even if we don’t get out to-day, we may have it ready when we want it.”

“But, Jack,” said Percy, “suppose we should not be able to bring the pole up here. What then? Shall we—shall we—?”

“Shall we have to stay here all winter?” I blurted out, unable any longer to keep down the momentous question we all of us had in our minds.

“Stay here all winter?” cried Jack—and he actually managed to scare up a laugh. “Not we! Why, Percy, where’s your American enterprise? Where’s your English bull-doggedness, Tom? Do you think we’ll give in at one failure? Not we, indeed! If we should be unable to get over this rock, why, then, we’ll just go up our ladder and walk home over the mountains. Give in! I should think not. We’re not babies; we’re men!”

That was a grand stroke of Jack’s: calling us men. I felt myself grow two inches immediately; and Percy, taking his hands from under his arms, and repressing his shivers as well as he could, straightened up and exclaimed:

“Go ahead, Jack! You lead; we’ll follow!”

“Come on, then!” cried our captain.

Back we went at once, up the waterway, through the pool, and down to the fort, where we picked up our blankets and carried them over to the cabin; after which Percy and I busied ourselves in transporting the rest of our baggage to the same haven, while Jack went off in search of a pole which should be at once sufficiently long and not too heavy.

The better part of an hour passed ere we were ready to set out again, by which time the snow had so increased in depth as to be up to our knees, making the task of carrying the heavy pole one of great labour. After innumerable pauses to rest and recover breath, and after a great deal of manœuvring to coax the awkward burden around the corners, we at length reached the pool. But there we encountered a new and unexpected obstacle. We were met in the face by a rush of wind, which was driving out of the mouth of the tunnel with force enough to make us stagger under our load. It had been perfectly calm down in the valley when we left it, and in the cleft in the rocks up which we had just come there was no air stirring, but judging from the blast which came out of the tunnel, we guessed that there must be a high wind sweeping over the hog-back above our heads.

“Stop!” cried Jack. “You fellows wait here, while I go through and see what it is like on the other side. From the look of things, I expect we have got to get back to the cabin at once.”

We “up-ended” the pole and leaned it against the rocks, so that it should not be buried in the snow, and then Jack, for the third time that day, waded into the pool. In a short time he came splashing back again, and reported, as we had expected, that there was a gale blowing on the other side of the valley-wall.

“It’s no use to think of going on at present,” said he; “the snow is drifting badly out there. We should only lose ourselves; and the result of that would probably be that we should freeze to death or die of exhaustion, tired as we are, and wet through as we have been all day. We must make our way down to the cabin again as fast as we can.”

We accordingly retraced our steps; and it was well we turned back when we did, or we might never have reached the little shanty at all. As we were about to enter, Jack stopped and held up his finger.

“Hark!” he cried. “Do you hear that booming noise? The wind in the pines. It will be down on us directly. Come in, and help me fasten the waggon-sheet over the doorway.”

Such a storm as that which burst upon us five minutes later I never saw before; and I shall be well content if I never see such another. The wind leaped upon us like a wild beast, and instantly the whole atmosphere seemed to go crazy. Our little, creaking cabin shook and trembled so that the mud “chinking” fell out upon the floor; several of the stones composing our chimney came tumbling into the fireplace; three or four times our door was dashed from its fastenings—when the room was filled with snow in an instant—and hard work we had to get it back again.

The fierceness of the wind, and the whirling, stifling, never-ceasing rush of the snow were enough to frighten the boldest. It was one of those storms which drive the range-cattle headlong before them for miles and miles, until the poor beasts give in, exhausted, and fall to the ground, never to get up again; one of those storms which, catching the solitary immigrant-waggon unprepared, pass on and leave it with its occupants—men, women, and children, perhaps—and the horses which pulled it, all stiff and dead together.

“This is a bad one, and no mistake,” said Jack, after one of our periodical struggles to replace our door. “It is fortunate for us that we have four stout walls and a roof to shelter us. If it was Squeaky who upset that rock into the passage up above, he did us a good turn in my opinion. If it had not been there to stop us, we should have been caught half-way down the mountain; and that, I expect, would have been the end of us. I don’t believe a man could live half an hour in this storm if he were exposed to its full force.”

All the rest of that day we sat still or walked restlessly up and down listening to the commotion outside, and all through the night we slept in fitful snatches, roused now and then when a blast of extra power burst in our door or sent crashing to the ground one of the trees on the slope close behind the cabin. It was an anxious night; nor did we get relief until midday next day, when the wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Jack stepped to the doorway and removed the waggon-sheet.

The sky was clearing rapidly, the snow had ceased to fall. Except for a few drifts, the valley was swept clean, the mountain-tops were bare, and the branches of the trees, which before had bent under the weight of snow, had now shaken themselves free of their burden.

For a minute Jack stood in the doorway, silent, and frowning to himself, and then, “Come over and look at the pass,” said he, and set off across the valley.

The pass was gone—vanished! We could not tell even where it ought to be, so completely was it filled up, and such a maze of drifts of all shapes and sizes was there among the woods which bordered it. The entrance—supposing we had found the right place—was buried under fifty feet of snow.

I glanced at Jack, expecting to see him overwhelmed by this crowning misfortune. But not a bit of it. He merely nodded his head in the direction of the pass, and said: “No getting out that way seemingly. Let us go and look at the ladder.”

But that way, too, was barred. Nature seemed to have made a dead set at us. A freak of the wind had piled a great drift upon the top of the wall just above the ladder, where it hung like a combing wave, ready to fall at a touch to all appearance. Indeed, a large mass had already fallen, breaking the ladder in two.

Our case seemed to me to be pretty desperate, and from the concerned expression upon Percy’s face I guessed that he was of the same mind. But upon Jack this accumulation of difficulties, instead of casting him down, seemed to have the opposite effect; it aroused his fighting-spirit.

“Give in!” he cried, just as though someone had suggested it, and shaking his fist at the world in general. “Not if I know it! We’ll find, or force, a way out somewhere! You see,” he went on, addressing us, “some of these drifts are pretty sure to reach to the top of the wall somewhere, and as soon as the snow has settled a bit, and after the sun and frost have hardened the surface, we shall be able to get about, and then we’ll make an exploring expedition. All we can do at present is to go down to the cabin and make ourselves as comfortable as we can for a few days. It is no good trying to get out while the snow is soft, we should bury ourselves in the drifts.”

In spite of Jack’s heroic efforts to put a good face on the situation, I confess that I, at least, felt much inclined to despair of being able ever to climb out of the old crater by means of the unstable drifts, while Percy, I have good reason to believe, felt much as I did about it.

How we should have scoffed at anyone who should have ventured to suggest that anything could possibly happen to make us forget, even for a moment, the pressing question of finding a way out of the valley! Yet such an event did actually occur; and no later than the next morning.

When I first described the Mushroom Rock I mentioned, it will be remembered, that the cap was split in two, and, that the pieces overhung the stalk in such a manner as to make it appear that a strong wind might blow them down. Appearances were deceitful, however, or the late storm would certainly have upset them. But where the blustering wind had failed, the sun and the frost, working in turns, succeeded. The crack dividing the cap was drifted full of snow, and this snow the sun next day reduced to a state of slush, the frost at night converting it in turn into ice. The lateral pressure thus brought to bear upon them by the ice was sufficient to move the pieces the quarter-inch or so necessary to destroy their balance, and when we looked out of the cabin door next morning, there were the two great rocks lying on their backs—one of them bridging the creek.

Percy and I walked over to look at them, and as we stood beside the fallen fragment which lay athwart the stream, our conversation—I forget why—turned upon the subject of the pot-holes and the gold button that Percy had found in one of them.

“That’s the hole,” said he, pitching a snowball into the water, “and I should like to know why that one should have had a nugget in it while the others had nothing but scales and grains.”

“What I should like to know,” said I, “is why we should find gold in the pot-holes and nowhere else. Is there a goose around here that goes about laying golden eggs and using these holes for nests? Perhaps she has been along again by this time and laid another in your pot-hole.”

“Highly probable,” replied Percy, ironically. “I’ll look.”

As he spoke he stepped over to the spot and looked down into the hole. To my great surprise he fell upon his knees, tucked up his sleeve, and plunged his hand into the water.

“Look here!” he exclaimed, holding out a yellow lump in his dripping fingers.

My imaginary goose had laid another egg; an egg three times as big as the last one too.

We were nonplussed this time. If the presence of gold in the pot-holes had been a puzzle to us before, what were we to think of the conjuring trick that Nature had played upon us now? Without a word—for, indeed, we had nothing to say—we hurried back to the cabin, outside which was Jack, busy chopping wood. To him Percy held out his hand just as he had done to me.

“Well, Percy,” cried the wood-chopper, straightening his back and stretching himself, “what have you found this time?”

“This,” replied Percy, briefly.

Jack dropped the axe and took the nugget.

“Where did it come from?” he asked, opening his eyes wide.

Percy told him.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You found it in the same pot-hole that we cleaned out a month ago? Well, that is the most astonishing thing I ever heard of. Where can it have come from?”

As he talked he kept turning the nugget over and over, examining it on every side, and presently, in a little crevice or fold, he espied a tiny white streak. Taking out his pocket-knife he extracted a little of this white material and thoughtfully spread it upon the palm of his hand. It made a mark like white paint.

We two stood patiently waiting for him to offer some explanation of this mysterious “find,” when, with startling suddenness, he cast his knife upon the ground, slapped his leg, and burst into a great laugh; a laugh half of amusement and half of annoyance.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he went, stamping about and clutching his back hair as if he had been stung by a hornet. “Oh my, oh my, oh my! What a blundering dunderhead I must have been never to have guessed it before! Here, give me a hand with this pole, one of you,” picking up, as he spoke, the butt end of a dead pine-tree which formed part of our heap of fire-wood.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Percy, as he shouldered the little end.

“Show you that vein, I hope,” replied Jack. “Come on!”

Down we went to the stream, and there we reared the pole on end and leaned it against one piece of the prostrate cap, when Jack at once shinned up it and stepped upon the top of the rock. In half a minute he looked down, at us and said, in a rather excited tone of voice “Come up!”

Up went Percy, with me close behind him, and soon we were standing at our leader’s side.

“Look here!” said he.

About half the surface of the rock, originally its under side, was covered with a layer of reddish, clay-like material some two inches thick, across the middle of which ran a white streak about a span in width. Going down upon his knees, Jack pointed out to us little flakes and lumps of gold, showing in several places along the white streak.

“There is our gold-vein,” said he. “It has been lying under our noses, or, rather, above our heads, all this time. The gold we got out of the pot-holes with the help of the clay balls came out of the clay balls themselves. With our own stupid hands we put the gold into the pot-holes, and then ‘discovered’ it. Did ever such a thing happen before? And to think that I never suspected it! No wonder we couldn’t find the vein up in the mountain, when, just as likely as not, this rock rode on a glacier down from Alaska or Hudson’s Bay, or anywhere else you like, ages ago, when half this continent was covered with ice.”

“Then that nugget I found this morning,” said Percy, “tumbled into the water when the rock fell down.”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “And the water had not had time to wash it quite clean. It was the little scrap of clay left sticking to it that showed me where it came from.”

“I suppose this white streak probably runs across the other rocks as well,” said I.

“Probably. We’ll soon see.”

The three rocks lay close together, and being all about the same height there was no difficulty in stepping from one to the other. Each of them was traversed by the same white line, which, like the first one, showed scraps of gold in various places; one scrap, which I picked out with my knife, being as big as the top of my thumb.

At last, then, we had found that elusive gold-vein; a small one, indeed, but to all appearance a rich one; and having found it, we determined to make the most of it.

That day, and the next three days as well, we spent upon the top of the rock exposed to the full blast of the wintry wind—for the winter now seemed to have set in in earnest,—each with a sheath-knife cutting a trench along the line of the white streak, and carefully saving every scrap of the frozen clay thus laboriously collected. By the time the work was finished, we had accumulated some five hundred pounds of the precious stuff, which we carried to the cabin and there proceeded to wash, a double handful at a time, in the gold-pan; a slow and tedious undertaking.

Our reason for doing this work in the house was that the little creek had ceased to flow, being now frozen solid, and we were obliged in consequence to resort to melted snow for washing and drinking purposes. The iron pot was kept continuously upon the fire, and one of us was constantly engaged in bringing in shovels full of snow with which to feed it, in order to supply Jack’s insatiable demands for more water.

In the corner of the house we dug a hole two feet deep to serve as a sink, and in this corner sat Jack, hour after hour, with his feet planted on either side of the hole, washing “dirt” in the pan, pouring away the muddy water into the sink, and saving the precious residue of gold and black sand.

By the time all of the original five hundred pounds of clay had been washed, we found ourselves in possession of about a tenth of that amount of black sand, which was then all washed over again with the greatest care. At last Jack declared that he was afraid to wash it any more, for fear of losing some of the fine particles of gold; so our labour was concluded when the mass had been reduced to about thirty pounds’ weight, of which two-thirds, perhaps, was gold.

Percy and I were anxious to know what was the value of the little heap; but to make the calculation was beyond our power, for we had not the least idea of how many Troy ounces there might be in a pound Avoirdupois; and gold, of course, is sold by Troy weight.

Jack said he thought he could calculate it, and with a burnt stick he forthwith proceeded to work out the sum upon the waggon-sheet.

“In the first place,” said he, “there are twenty-nine thousand one hundred and sixty-six Troy ounces in a ton of two thousand pounds Avoirdupois.”

“How do you know?” asked Percy, promptly.

“Learnt it in a book on assaying,” replied Jack, with equal promptness.

“All right,” said Percy, “peg away, then.”

“We are supposing that we have twenty pounds of gold here,” Jack went on. “Twenty pounds is one-hundredth part of a ton. H-m—h-m! Two hundred and ninety-one ounces and a fraction Troy—say, two hundred and ninety. Multiply that by eighteen. Gold is reckoned at eighteen dollars an ounce up here in Montana, you know. There!” as he drew with his burnt stick a line beneath the total.

“Oh, get out!” exclaimed Percy, when he saw the figure. “You don’t mean to say that this little heap is worth five thousand two hundred and twenty dollars!”

“Something of the sort,” replied Jack. “Of course there is a great deal of guess-work about it, but I expect that my calculation is not far out. I shouldn’t wonder if this heap, and the gold we got out of the pot-holes, were to mount up to six thousand dollars, or even more.”

It was hard to believe that so small a heap could be worth so much; but Jack seemed to be pretty confident, and so we took his word for it, hoping he might turn out to be right.

That our treasure might be packed in handy form for travelling we applied our time that evening to making little bags of canvas cut from the waggon-sheet, and these having been packed tight and sewn up, they were put into other bags made of buckskin, having thongs of the same material attached with which to tie them to our belts.

“There,” said Jack, as he restored the needles and thread to the case, and the case itself to his pocket, “now we are ready to get out as soon as we can. We’ll try the drifts to-morrow. Those near the north end look most promising. We’ll try them first.”

But, as it happened, we had no occasion to try the drifts after all. Before we set out next morning, Percy suggested that it might be worth while to look into the cleft in the valley-wall through which the stream ran out.

“For,” said he, “if this creek here is frozen so solid, it may be that we can walk on the ice down the cañon, and if we can, that will be much the easiest way to travel, because then we can follow along the stream—which is sure to bring us out somewhere—instead of climbing over the mountains.”

“We’ll have a look,” said Jack. “But I doubt if we shall find it frozen; the water runs at such a tremendous pace.”

Jack was right. The water was not frozen; it was just as wild as ever. But we could walk over the top of it nevertheless. For at the very entrance of the cañon, the stream vanished into a tunnel of snow. The great storm had drifted the gorge half full. Resting upon the boulders which cumbered its bed lay a heavy mass of tightly-packed snow, roofing the stream from one end of the cañon to the other.

We might walk out of the valley whenever we chose!

CHAPTER XVI
ALL ACCOUNTS SQUARED

THAT very day we started on our tramp into the unknown wilderness, trusting that the stream would, as Percy had said, “bring us out somewhere.”

Heavily laden with a week’s provisions, our rifles, two blankets each, the axe, and last, though by no means least in importance, the little bags of gold-washings, and leaving all the rest of our camping outfit behind, we bade adieu to our late residence and set out, full of hope that now indeed we were homeward bound.

Having passed over the snow bridge without accident—though Jack made us tie ourselves together with a long rope, like Alpine climbers, before he would venture—we found ourselves in a crooked valley of considerable width, walled in by high mountains down whose sides came many streams, which, uniting with the one we were following, formed a respectable little river. Our spirits rose at the sight.

“This looks well,” said Jack. “This is a stream of some importance, either the Gallatin, I should guess, or else one of its main branches. If we meet with no insurmountable obstacles we shall certainly get down to the settlements by following it.”

It was getting on for sunset, and we were beginning to look out for a suitable camping-place, when our ears caught the sound of a dolorous howling going on somewhere farther down the river. Ulysses did not approve of it, for he stepped to the front, his bristles erect, growling to himself, and walking in that stiff-legged manner dogs assume when they see an enemy approaching.

“Wolves,” said Jack, cocking his rifle; “keep your eyes open.”

Picking our way carefully and silently, we soon came in view of a little clearing in the woods, and there in the midst of it—a most unexpected and most welcome sight—stood a log-cabin about the size of the one we had that morning deserted. The door was shut, and before it sat three grey wolves, howling in concert, as if they were serenading the inmate of the house. At the sight of them Ulysses could contain himself no longer. He exploded with one great bark which had been accumulating in his chest for the past ten minutes, and instantly the three serenaders vanished like grey shadows into the woods.

Advancing to the house, we knocked at the door.

“Who’s there?” came a shaky voice from inside.

“Three travellers,” replied Jack. “We’d like shelter for the night.”

We heard the inmate shuffle across the floor and fumble at the fastenings of the door, which fell open on its leathern hinges, disclosing to our view a miserable-looking specimen of humanity who stood leaning against the door-post for support, being, seemingly, too weak to stand upright. He was tall, hollow-cheeked, and red-eyed. His face, which to all appearances had not been washed for a week or two, was begrimed with dirt and “blacks” from his fire. A thin, dark beard covered his cheeks and chin, and his hair hung down below his collar. Added to all this, his clothes were so ragged it was a wonder he could keep them on at all.

I did not recognize who it was until Percy, stepping forward, tapped the spectre on the chest with his finger, and said, “Where’s your partner, Bates?”

It was Bates! The wretched, half-starved, unkempt vagabond who staggered back, throwing up his hands before him as if to ward off an attack, was our sometime neat and well-dressed schoolfellow.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Jack. “We don’t want to hurt you. Where’s your partner?”

“I don’t know,” Bates began, and then, remembering himself: “Partner! What do you mean?”

“Oh, come,” said Jack. “You might as well give up that farce. We know all about you and your partner. We knew who you were when you captured us the other day, though we pretended we didn’t. Where’s Morgan?”

“I don’t know,” replied Bates, as he sank down upon the ground in the corner. “I haven’t seen him for a week or more; not since the big storm.”

As he spoke he pressed his hand over his eyes as though he were giddy, and then for the first time we noticed how thin his hand was; it was like a bird’s foot.

“Why, Bates,” cried Percy, “you look half starved. Are you hungry?”

“Not very,” replied Bates. “I was yesterday and the day before, but I seem to have got over it.”

“Why, how long since you had anything to eat?”

“Three days, I think. I lived for some days on one of those grey wolves, but since that was finished up I’ve lived on snow, which I got from the roof through that hole up there.”

On hearing this Percy and I bustled about to get supper ready, while Jack, spreading our blankets upon the floor, ordered Bates to lie down upon them, and not to say another word until he had been fed; an order which Bates, not being able to help himself, obeyed.

The supper of bread and meat being ready, Bates was given a goodly portion, which, with a self-control I had not expected of him, he ate with great deliberation; and very much better he looked for it.

“Feel better, don’t you?” said Jack, seeing how the colour had come back to his face. “Now, if you feel strong enough, I’d like to hear how you came here, and what you have been doing since you escaped from us in the dust-storm near Bozeman a month ago. But first of all we’ll make a bargain with you:— If you’ll do what you can to help us get back our horses, we’ll say nothing about your part in the business.”

“Will you promise?” asked Bates, looking eagerly from one to the other of us.

“Yes; we’ll promise,” we all three replied; not knowing that by so doing we were compounding a felony—though I doubt if it would have made any difference if we had known.

“Well, then,” said he, brightening up wonderfully, “I’ll promise too, and I’ll tell you all about it. When we escaped from you in the dust-storm——”

“Hold up a bit,” Jack interrupted. “I just wanted to tell you that we had no intention of turning you over to the sheriff that time; we had agreed to let you escape.”

“Had you?” exclaimed Bates. “I wish I’d known it; I never would have run away, for I should have been only too glad to part company with Morgan. Well, when we escaped that day, we rode for twenty miles without stopping, and camped in a secluded place not far from a ranch. In the morning Morgan watched until the people went out to the fields, and then he slipped down to the house, and came back presently with a bridle for his horse, a rifle and cartridges, and a piece of beef, all of which, of course, he had stolen. Then we mounted again and rode off. We were afraid to go back to the thieves’ den for the stolen horses, so, at Morgan’s suggestion, we went straight up the Yellowstone River, in the hope of being able to run off the stock of the Survey-party. We came across a party, but whether of the Survey or not I don’t know, and made an attempt to steal their horses; but they were too sharp for us, and chased us up into the high mountains, where the country was so terribly rough that we had to abandon our own horses and go afoot. We did not know where we were, until we found ourselves one morning upon the top of the wall, looking down into the valley of the Mushroom Rock. Almost as soon as we recognised the place we saw two of you walk up the valley, climb a ladder, and disappear up the mountain. As Swayne did not appear we concluded that he—and the dog as well, perhaps—was on guard somewhere; so, by Morgan’s advice, we descended the ladder and took up a station among the trees whence we could watch your camp; our idea, or, rather, Morgan’s idea being that if the sentinel should leave his post for any reason we would slip across the valley and escape.”

“I see,” said Jack, “and you got your chance when Tom Swayne and the dog ran off down the valley to help Goodall.”

“Yes, that was our chance. We cut across the valley, and as your animals were feeding near your camp we drove them in front of us up the cañon, and there I held them against the bars while Morgan slipped back to get a couple of saddles and bridles; and as soon as we were ready I let down the bars, pulled aside the brush, and off we went.”

“Did Morgan upset that big rock into the gully?” asked Jack.

“Yes,” replied Bates. “His intention was to keep you down there until he should get money for your release from the people at home. But though I pretended to agree to this plan, my intention was to desert Morgan at the first opportunity, give information of where you were, and get you out. I was afraid you would starve to death if you had to spend the winter down in that hole.”

“That was good of you,” said Jack. “What did you do next?”

“We were afraid to go near Bozeman, so we turned to the left over the range, intending to keep clear of all towns and ride back to Utah, but as we rode along next day, the snow coming down like a blanket,—Morgan leading and I bringing up the rear,—my horse fell, throwing me off upon my head. How long I lay there I don’t know, but when I recovered I was buried completely in the snow, and Morgan and the horses were gone. I have never seen them since. I came very near to freezing to death, for the wind was blowing terribly, and after wandering about for some time I came upon this cabin, and here I spent the night. Next morning when the storm ceased I went out to collect fire-wood; for my teeth were rattling in my head from the prolonged exposure to the cold. I had gathered a good deal and was going out for more, when four grey wolves made a rush at me, and I had to retreat hastily and shut the door. They have been besieging me ever since—at least three of them have. I couldn’t open the door an inch but one of them would make a dash for it. That gave me an idea—after my wits had been sharpened by going a whole day without food. I drove a stake into the ground behind the door, so that the door would open only about eight inches. Then, with a stout club ready in my hand, I let the door fall back against the stake. One of the wolves jumped for the opening directly, but his shoulders stuck, and before he could get back again I hit him a tremendous crack upon the top of his head and killed him. He was mostly bones, but he lasted me four days. Since then I have had nothing. The other wolves have sat outside, waiting for me to come out, so all I could do was to sit in here and starve.”

“Well,” said Jack, “you certainly have had a hard time of it, but you are all right now. We’ll stay here to-morrow and give you a chance to pick up a bit, and then you shall come on with us to Bozeman, or wherever else we come out.”

“Thank you,” said Bates, “you are very kind.” Then, in an embarrassed, hesitating manner, he went on: “I sha’n’t forget your kindness. I’ll do anything I can to help you to recover your stock. And I beg your pardons, all of you, for my part in this horse-stealing business. The beginning of it all was my losing my money in a gambling-place. There’s another thing I should like to mention,” he went on, after a short pause, “though it is no concern of yours and may not interest you. While I have been sitting here starving and thinking, I have made a resolution. I will never bet or play cards for money again as long as I live.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed Jack, reaching out and shaking hands with him. “It is a pretty rough cure for gambling, but if you stick to that resolution you will look back at this experience of yours as the most fortunate thing that ever happened to you.”

“I’ll stick to it,” said Bates, with a very earnest countenance. “Never fear.”

I may add that Bates did stick to it; and as Jack had prophesied, he came to regard that hard experience as the most fortunate episode of his life.

Our patient was so much recovered next morning that we were able to make a short march of about ten miles, camping in a sheltered curve of the woods which the wind had swept bare of snow, and passing a tolerably comfortable night in spite of the cold. On the third day after this, climbing over a high ridge, we were rejoiced to see, far away in the distance, a wide-spreading plain, over one point of which hung a cloud of smoke. It was the smoke made by the housewives of Bozeman, getting dinner ready.

We were naturally much encouraged by the sight, and went into camp that evening with the expectation that one more march would bring us to the desired haven. As a matter of fact, it did so, but with a change in our mode of progression we could hardly have anticipated.

When, next morning, we crawled out of our blankets, we were surprised to find that the fire was blazing high, having been renewed, seemingly, a couple of hours before. But this surprise was small in comparison with the astonishment we felt when we discovered that Bates had gone; and not only had he gone, but he had taken Ulysses with him!

It was most unaccountable. Had he gone off to explore the road? Had he——? We hastily felt at our sides for our bags of gold-washings. No; that was an unjust suspicion; the bags were all right. What then was the meaning of it?

Having shouted and whistled without effect, we were proceeding to cook our breakfast, when Ulysses bounced into camp and starting up we saw Bates running down the hill towards us.

As soon as he could get breath enough to speak, he gasped out: “I’ve found them! I’ve found the horses!”

“Where? How?” we all exclaimed together.

“Over the hills in that direction,” replied Bates, pointing off to the south-west, “in a little valley about two miles away. Why Morgan has not gone farther I don’t know; but there he is, I’m sure.”

“How came you to go over there?” inquired Jack.

“The cold woke me up this morning while it was still dark,” replied Bates, speaking quickly and eagerly, “so I got up and put some more logs on the fire. Just as I was going to lie down again I thought I heard a mule bray, somewhere a long way off. Ulysses heard it, too, for he pricked up his ears, went over to that side of the fire, and began sniffing the breeze which blew from that direction. The sound came again. Ulysses appeared to be much interested—though why, I could not guess. He began to whine, and running a short distance towards the point from which the sound came, he looked back at me as if to invite me to go with him. As soon as I took a step forward he turned and trotted on, looking back over his shoulder now and then to see that I was following, and in that manner on we went, Ulysses leading, and I, wondering where he was going, hurrying after him. It never occurred to me that he might have recognised the mule’s voice, but I believe he must have done so.”

“He must,” replied Jack. “And it must have been Calliope who brayed; she is the only mule I know of whose voice will carry two miles. Go on.”

“Ulysses kept going on and I kept following, up hill and down, until we came to a point overlooking a little valley, and there in the middle of it were all the horses and mules, one picketed and the rest loose. There was a shed of brush down by the stream, and the remains of a fire smoking before it; and I have no doubt Morgan was lying asleep in the shed.”

“I’m going over there at once,” cried Jack, full of eagerness at the prospect of recovering his friend Toby. “I must have a try for the horses. Will you come back and show me the place, Bates? I don’t ask you two fellows to come—it’s dangerous.”

“Well, we’re coming, whether you ask us or not,” remarked Percy, calmly.

“All right,” assented Jack, laughing. “Come on, then. We must eat our breakfast as we go. Bring your rifles; we’ll leave everything else here.”

We set off at once, single file, Bates a hundred yards in the lead, and after a tramp of about half an hour’s duration our guide stopped and came stooping back towards us.

“He’s there all right,” said he softly, “cooking his breakfast. How are we going to get at him? He’s right out in the middle of the valley; no cover nearer than two hundred yards.”

“Let’s have a look,” said Jack.

Silently we crept forward, and lying flat upon the ground on the brow of the hill, looked down into the little valley. In the middle of it were a few scattered willows, and among them we could distinguish the figure of a man stooping over a fire. Near him were the horses and mules quietly feeding; one of them, which we recognised as Toby, being picketed.

That the man was Squeaky we had no doubt, but there being no cover, as Bates had said, we did not see how we were to come upon him unawares and make him surrender, which was what we had hoped to do. We might shoot him in the back, without doubt, but such a course was out of the question, nor did it, I believe, occur to any of us.

“I’ll tell you a way of doing it,” whispered Bates. “You three go round through the trees until you get behind him, and wait there. I’ll walk straight down to him from here. He won’t shoot at me. I’ll get into conversation with him, and if I can find the opportunity I’ll capture his rifle and run off with it in your direction. If I can’t get his rifle I’ll tackle him, and then you must run down as fast as you can to my assistance. It is rather a mean, under-hand way of doing it, and so, if you will, I should be glad if you would let him go again after we have got back the horses. What do you say?”

Jack thought a little, and then shook his head.

“No, no,” said he. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t trust a fellow like that. He thinks he has got these horses all to himself, and if you appear he’ll suppose you have come to claim your share, and he is just as likely as not to shoot you. It’s too risky. I won’t agree to that.”

“But, look here,” Bates argued. “I promised to do my best to help you get your horses back, and here’s my chance. Besides, I don’t believe he’ll shoot. At any rate I’m willing to try it.”

But Jack would not consent, and Percy and I backing up his opinion, Bates was obliged to give in.

“You are a good fellow, Bates,” said Jack, “to be willing to take the risk, but, you see, we are all against it. I’ll tell you another way that I think may work; a way by which, if there is any shooting to be done, we’ll do it—though I hope there’ll be no occasion. We will all go round through the trees until we get behind him, and then we’ll step out of cover and walk straight down upon him as quietly as possible. When we get pretty close we will call upon him to surrender. If he shows fight—why, then, I suppose we shall have to shoot. I’ll fire first, as I’m responsible for this whole business, but if I miss you must fire. What do you think? Would you rather keep out of the business altogether? I sha’n’t blame you if you would.”

Though Percy and I—and Jack, too, for that matter—had the strongest disinclination to shoot at a man, we could not leave our captain to “go it alone,” as he plainly intended to do, and after an instant’s hesitation we both agreed to his plan.

“All right, then,” whispered Jack. “Let us go ahead at once. Mind your footing. Don’t make a noise. Rifles loaded? Cock ’em, then, and come on.”

Keeping well within the trees, we started off, Jack in the lead this time, and walking round the valley until we thought we had reached the proper point, we halted again.

“Take your places ten feet apart,” Jack whispered. “Let me get a little ahead.”

Creeping to the edge of the wood, he peered out, and then, beckoning to us to follow, stepped softly into the open.

We had chosen our point well. Squeaky, sitting by the stream with his back toward us, was perfectly unconscious of our presence. Softly we advanced until we had covered half the intervening distance, when, just as we began to feel confident that the enemy had been delivered into our hands, that marplot, Toby, betrayed us. He lifted his head, recognised Jack instantly, and greeted him with a neigh of welcome.

Up sprang Squeaky, cast one glance behind him, and bolted in among the animals. With one jerk he pulled up the picket-pin, sprang upon Toby’s back, and clapping his heels into the horse’s sides rode off at full gallop.

“Stop!” shouted Jack. “I’ll fire!”

But before Jack could even take aim the matter was brought to a sudden climax in a most unexpected manner.

Squeaky had hardly got under way when the mule, Calliope, thinking she was about to be deserted by her beloved friend Toby, started off at full speed in chase. She was pretty quick on her feet for a short distance, and being unencumbered by a rider she quickly caught up with him. The fugitive was leaning forward beside the horse’s neck, gathering up the trailing rope with both hands, when Calliope, coming up behind, stepped upon the picket-pin. The sudden jerk flung Squeaky to the ground, head first,—and broke his neck!

It was with a feeling of awe that we gathered round the dead man, and stood looking down at him; thankful that it was not by our hands he had fallen. We were glad that we need fear him no longer, but we were far more glad that his death—to which he had been directly led by his own misdeeds—was due to an irresponsible mule, and not to any one of us. Though, doubtless, we should have been fully justified, both legally and morally, in shooting him if he had shown a disposition to shoot at us, it would have been a grievous burden to bear through life—the thought that we had had a hand in the killing of a human being.

“IT WAS WITH A FEELING OF AWE THAT WE GATHERED AROUND THE DEAD MAN.”

Rascal though he might have been, we felt that we could not leave him there to the mercy of the wolves and coyotes, and after a long pause, Jack, who had been kneeling beside the body, rose up, and said:

“We must cover him up. We can’t dig a grave, having no tools, so the best thing we can do is to build a cairn over him. Tom, you and Percy go up into the timber and bring down some dead poles, the biggest you can carry, while Bates and I collect rocks.”

In the course of an hour of hard work we built a frame of timber around and over our dead enemy, covering it with such a great pile of heavy stones that we felt satisfied no wild animal could get at him. Then, feeling that we had done all that lay in our power, we saddled the horses—for we found the saddles and bridles piled near the fire—and rode back to our own camp, whence we made all haste to Bozeman, arriving there safely after dark that evening.

Our wanderings were ended. At last our faces were fairly turned toward home!

It was four weeks after this that we two stood upon the deck of a great steamship in the harbour of New York, shaking hands with Jack who had come across the continent with us to see us safely out of the country, as he said.

The value of our gold-washings, which Jack had sold to the smelter at Golconda, had proved to be considerably in excess of the calculation he had made on the waggon-sheet with the burnt stick. The sum he received was enough not only to start up the mine again, but enough to pay all the expenses of the trip, to buy our tickets back to England, and even to refund the money spent by our parents for the services of Mr. Hiram Jenkins. In fact, there was sufficient left over to buy a handsome, brass-mounted collar for our most respected friend Ulysses; that being, in our opinion, a more suitable present for him than the gold medal Percy had once promised him.

“Good-bye, you fellows!” cried Jack, shaking hands with us for the last time, as the bell rang for strangers to leave the ship. “Good-bye! You won’t forget me, I know; and you may be very sure I’ll never forget you. Next time you run away from home mind you run straight to Golconda. I’ll take charge of you. Good-bye!”

With that he turned and ran across the gang-plank. The big boat moved slowly out into the river, one last “Good-bye!” was shouted to and fro, and Jack’s kind, brown face was lost to sight.

We had experienced many hardships since the night when Percy climbed out of the window at Moseley’s, but the greatest of them all was the parting with Jack.

The night was drawing in, when, some twelve days later, a dog-cart rattled out of Southampton toward Moseley’s, and the old church clock in the village was striking eight as the cart pulled up at the vicarage gate. Percy and I descended from it, and having paid the driver, walked up the pathway to the house and entered without knocking.

At the sitting-room door we paused to listen. We could distinguish several voices inside.

“My father is here,” whispered Percy, excitedly, at the same time digging me in the ribs with his elbow so violently that I could not have contradicted him had I wished to do so. “And so is Sir Anthony. Hark! He is talking now.”

He gently opened the door. As we walked in we heard Sir Anthony say, “You may depend upon it they will bounce in upon us suddenly.” Then, as his ear caught the click of the latch,—“And here they are!”

Dear, dear! To think that we foolish, foolish youngsters had ever run away from such kind people as these! We were fairly smothered with welcomes. If anything had been needed to convince us that Home was the finest place in the world—! But what is the use of talking about that? Every sensible boy knows that for himself; or else he is a very unfortunate boy.

It was half-past twelve ere Sir Anthony rose to go home.

“Well, you young scapegraces,” said he, with a kindly twinkle in his eye, as he shook hands with both of us at once, “I’m very glad to see you safely back again. I won’t prosecute you for poaching this time—on one condition, though. Next time you make up your minds to run away from home, go and ask advice of your parents first. Remember, boys,” he went on, abandoning his joking tone, and laying a hand upon the shoulder of each of us—“Remember: Whenever you get into trouble, go and ask advice in the right quarter. And remember, each of you, that you never will have, and never can have, such perfect friends as your own parents.”

“We have found that out for ourselves, sir,” said Percy.

“You have! I congratulate you. If your escapade had had no other result it would have been worth all the hardships you have suffered yourselves, and all the anxiety you have caused your elders to have made such a grand discovery. You are a very fortunate pair. So, good-night, my boys; and welcome home!”

Sir Anthony was a wise old man. I acknowledge readily and thankfully that he was perfectly right when he said I never could have such good friends as my own parents. At the same time, I must not omit to state that there is a certain American—one Percy Goodall—who will always come treading very close upon their heels.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- THE TREASURE OF MUSHROOM ROCK
- CONTENTS
- ILLUSTRATIONS
- CHAPTER I MOSELEY’S
- CHAPTER II THE FLIGHT
- CHAPTER III A FALSE START
- CHAPTER IV THE MAN WITH THE SQUEAKY VOICE
- CHAPTER V JACK; AND WHAT HE HAD TO SAY
- CHAPTER VI TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES
- CHAPTER VII INTO THE WILDERNESS
- CHAPTER VIII A QUEER COUNTRY
- CHAPTER IX SQUEAKY SCORES ONE
- CHAPTER X THE VALLEY OF THE MUSHROOM ROCK
- CHAPTER XI A COUNTER-STROKE
- CHAPTER XII A GOOD RIDDANCE
- CHAPTER XIII THE CLEANING OF THE POT-HOLES
- CHAPTER XIV HIGH TIME TO LEAVE
- CHAPTER XV A WAY OUT
- CHAPTER XVI ALL ACCOUNTS SQUARED
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE