And the late prisoner did. One bound carried him almost out of camp. The boys shouted derisively as they heard him floundering through the bushes as he hastily made his escape.

"Where is Walt? Did he go hack to bed?" asked Tad, after the excitement had subsided.

"To bed? No; he followed you," replied Stacy Brown.

"Followed us? You are mistaken. Did you see anything of Walter Perkins, Mr. Thomas?"

The guide shook his head.

"Did not go with you? I think you must be in error," spoke up the Professor, with quick concern.

"He certainly was not with us," insisted Ned. "I did not even see him leave his tent."

"Why, he must have gone. With my own eyes I saw him running after you," urged Professor Zepplin in a tone of great anxiety.

"Guide, get torches at once. The boy surely is lost."

Alarmed, the boys needed no further incentive to spur them to instant action. Grasping fagots from the fire, they lined up, standing with anxious faces, awaiting the direction of Lige Thomas, to whom they instinctively looked to command the searching party.

"Wait a minute," commanded Lige in a calm voice. "Which way did you see him go, Professor?"

"Let me reflect. I am not sure—yes, I am. I distinctly remember having seen him run obliquely to the left there. It was just after I had lost my tent——"

"Over that way?" asked Lige, pointing.

"Yes, that was the direction. I am positive of it now. But, if he went that way, he didn't follow you?" added the Professor hesitatingly.

"Do you know what lies there, less than ten rods away?" asked the guide, gravely.

"I don't understand you."

"There's a cliff there that drops down a clear hundred feet," answered Lige, impressively.

A heavy silence fell over the little group.



CHAPTER VII

OVER THE CLIFF

Professor Zepplin's face worked convulsively as he sought to control his emotions.

"You—you can't mean it, sir. You cannot mean that Walter has come to any real harm? I——"

"I don't know. I'm only telling you what to expect."

"Then do something! Do something! For the love of manhood, do—" exploded the Professor, striding to the guide.

But Lige, having turned his back on the German tutor, was giving some brief directions to the boys, who were now fully dressed. They assented by vigorous nods, then promptly fell in behind him and held their torches close to the ground as if in search of something.

Reaching the bushes at the point where the Professor thought he had seen Walter Perkins disappear, they halted, the guide making a careful examination while the boys waited in silent expectancy.

Lige nodded reflectively.

"Yes; he went this way. You boys spread out, and if any of you observe even a broken twig that I have missed, let me know. The trail seems plain enough here."

And, the further he proceeded, the more convinced was Lige Thomas that his fears were soon to be fully realized.

Suddenly he paused, dropping onto his knees, in which position he cautiously crawled forward a few paces.

"Huh!" grunted the guide.

The boys, realizing that he had made some sort of a discovery, started forward with one accord.

"Stop!" commanded their guide sternly. "Don't you know you are standing on the very edge of the jumping-off place? Get down and crawl up by me here, Master Ned. But, be very careful. Leave your torch."

Ned quickly obeyed the instructions of the guide, lying down flat on his stomach, and wriggling along in that way as best he could.

Lige took a firm hold of his belt.

"I can't see anything," breathed the boy.

At first his eyes were unable to pierce the blackness. But after a little, as they became more accustomed to it, he began to comprehend. Below him yawned a black, forbidding chasm.

Ned shivered.

"Walt didn't—didn't——"

Lige inclined his head.

"Are you going to keep me in this suspense all night?" demanded the Professor irritably. "What have you discovered?"

The guide, before replying, assisted Ned back to his feet, leading him to a safe distance beyoud the dangerous precipice.

"There's no doubt of it at all, Professor. He has left a trail as plain as a cougar's in winter. He must have stepped off the edge at the exact point where you saw me lying."

"Then—then you think—you believe——"

"That he has been dashed to his death on the rocks a hundred feet below," added Lige solemnly. "Nothing short of a miracle could have saved him, and miracles ain't common in the Rockies."

The boys gazed into each other's eyes, then turned away. None dared trust his voice to speak. It was some moments before the Professor had succeeded in exercising enough self-control to use his own.

"Wh—what can we do?" he asked hoarsely.

"Nothing, except go down and pick him up——"

"But how?"

"By going back a mile we shall hit a trail that will lead us down into the gulch. But we'll have to leave the ponies and go down on foot. Not being experienced, I'm afraid to trust them. Only the most sure-footed ponies could pick their way where one misstep would send them to the bottom."

Returning to camp, and piling the fire high with fresh wood, the boys secured the ponies, and, led by Lige, struck off over the hack trail. It was a silent group of sad-faced boys that followed the mountain guide, and not a syllable was spoken, save now and then a word of direction from Lige, uttered in a low voice.

After somewhat more than half an hour's rough groping over rocks, through tangled underbrush and miniature gorges, Lige called a halt while he took careful account of their surroundings. His eye for a trail was unerring, and he was able to read at a glance the lesson it taught.

"Here is where we turn off," he announced. "Follow me in single file. But everybody keep close to the rocks at your right hand, and don't try to look down. I'm going to light a torch now."

The guide had had the forethought to bring a bundle of dry sticks, some of which he now proceeded to light, and, holding the torch high above his head, that the light might not flare directly in their eyes, he began the descent, followed cautiously by the others of the party. Yet, so filled were the minds of the boys with their new sorrow that they gave little heed to the perils that lay about them.

At last they came to the end of the long, dangerous descent, and, turning sharply to the right, picked their way through the cottonwood forest to the northwest.

Not a word had the Professor spoken since they left the camp, until observing a faint light in the sky some distance beyoud them, he asked the guide what it was.

"That's the light from our camp fire. "We are getting near the place," he answered shortly.

Professor Zepplin groaned.

Now, realizing the necessity for more light, Lige procured an armful of dry, dead limbs, all of which he bound into torches, and, lighting them, passed them to the others. With the aid of these the rocks all about them were thrown up into hold relief.

The boys were spread out in open order and directed to keep their eyes on the ground, remaining fully a dozen paces behind their leader, who of course, was the guide himself.

Peering here and there, starting at every flickering shadow, their nerves keyed to a high pitch, they began the sad task of searching for the body of their young companion.

Finally they reached the point which Lige knew to be almost directly beneath the spot where Walter was supposed to have stepped off into space.

"Remain where you are, please," ordered the guide.

Continuing in the direction which he had been following for several rods, Lige turned and made a sweeping detour, fanning the ground with his torch, as he picked his way carefully along.

"Wh—wha—what do you find?" breathed the Professor as Lige turned and came back to them.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? What does that mean?"

"That the boy's not here. That's all."

"Not—here!" marveled the three lads, and even that was a distinct relief to them. If Walter had not been dashed to death on the rocks at the bottom of the gulch, then there still was hope that he might be alive. However, this faint hope was shattered by Lige Thomas's next remark.

"The body may have caught on a root somewhere up the mountain side, "he added." I am afraid we shall have to go back and wait for daylight. But we'll see what can be done. I don't want to give it up until I am sure."

"Sure of what?" asked the Professor.

"That the boy is dead. Look!" exclaimed the guide, fairly diving to the ground, and rising with a round stone in his hand. He held it up almost triumphantly for their inspection.

But his find failed to make any noticeable impression upon either the boys or Professor Zepplin. They knew that in some mysterious way it must be connected with the loss of their companion, though just how they were at a loss to understand.

"I don't catch your idea, Lige," stammered the Professor. "I understand that you have picked up a stone. What has that to do with Walter?"

"Why, don't you see? He must have dislodged it when he fell off the mountain."

"No; I do not see why you say that."

"And up there, if you will look sharply, you will observe the path it followed coming down," continued Lige, elevating the torch that they might judge for themselves of the correctness of his assertion.

But, keen-eyed as were most of the party, they were unable to find the tell-tale marks which were so plain to the mountaineer.

"What do you think we had better do, sir?" asked Tad Butler anxiously.

"Go back to camp. I should like to leave someone here—but——"

"I'll stay, if you wish," offered Tad promptly.

"No, I couldn't think of it. It's too risky, There is no need of our getting into more trouble. If you knew the mountains better it might be different. If I left you here you might get into more difficulties, even, than your friend has. No; we'll go back together. It is doubtful if we could do anything for poor Master Walter now. No human being could go over that cliff and still be alive. A bob-cat might do it, but not a man or a boy," announced the guide, with a note of finality in his tone.

Sorrowfully the party turned and began to retrace their steps. But the necessity for caution not being so great on the return, most of the way being up a steep declivity, they moved along much faster than had been the case on their previous journey over the trail.

The return to camp was accomplished without incident, and the boys slipped away to their tents that they might be alone with their thoughts.

Professor Zepplin and the guide, however, sat down by the camp fire, where they talked in low tones.

Tad, upon reaching his tent, threw himself on his cot, burying his head in his arms.

"I can't stand it! I simply can't!" he exclaimed after a little. "It's too awful!"

The boy sprang up, and going outside, paced restlessly back and forth in front of the tent, with hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, manfully struggling to keep hack the tears that persistently came into his eyes.

A sudden thought occurred to him.

With a quick, inquiring glance at the two figures by the fire, Tad slipped quietly to the left, and nearing the scene of the accident, crept cautiously along on all fours. He flattened himself on the ground, face down, his head at the very spot where his companion had, supposedly, taken the fatal plunge.

For several minutes the boy lay there, now and then his slight figure shaken by a sob that he was powerless to keep back.

"I cannot have it—I don't believe it is true. I wish it had been I instead of Walt," he muttered in the excess of his grief. "I——"

Tad cheeked himself sharply and raised his head.

"I thought I heard something," he breathed. "I know I heard something."

He listened intently and shivered.

Yet the only sounds that broke the stillness of the mountain night were the faint calls of the night birds and the distant cry of a roaming cougar.

"H-e-l-p!"

Faint though the call was, it smote Tad Butler's ears like a blow. Never had the sound of a human voice thrilled him as did that plaintive appeal from the black depths below.

He hesitated, to make sure that it was not a delusion of his excited imagination.

Once more the call came.

"Help!"

This time, however, it was uttered in the shrill, piercing voice of Tad Butler himself, and the men back there by the camp fire started to their feet in sudden alarm while Ned Rector and Stacy Brown came tumbling from their tents in terrified haste.

"What is it! What is it?" they shouted.

Instead of answering them, Lige Thomas, with a mighty leap, cleared the circle of light and sprang for the bushes from which the sound had seemed to come. He was followed quickly by the others. Both the guide and Professor Zepplin had recognized the voice, and each believed that Tad Butler had gone to share the fate of Walter Perkins.

Yet, when Lige heard Tad tearing through the underbrush toward him, he knew that this was not the case.

"What is it?" bellowed the guide in a strident voice.

"It's Walt! He's down there! Quick! Help!"



CHAPTER VIII

A DARING RESCUE

Lige thrust the excited boy to one side. Running to the edge of the cliff, he leaned over and listened intently.

A moment more and he too caught the plaintive cry for help from below.

It was the first time thus far on the journey that Lige Thomas had manifested the slightest sign of excitement. Just now, however, there could be no doubt at all that he was intensely agitated.

"Keep back! Keep back!" he shouted, as the boys and Professor Zepplin began crowding near the masked edge of the cliff. "You'll all be over if you don't have a care. We've got trouble enough on our hands without having the rest of you jump into it."

"What is it?" demanded the Professor breathlessly.

"It's Master Walt," snapped the guide. "Stand still. Don't move an inch. I'm going back for a torch," he commanded, leaping by them on his way to the camp fire.

"Where—is—he?" stammered the Professor, not observing that the guide had left them.

"Down there, sir," explained Tad, pointing to the ledge of rock over which Walter had fallen.

"I know—I know—but——"

"I heard him call. Walt's alive! Walt's alive! But I don't know how we are going to get him."

The shout of joy that had framed itself on the lips of Ned Rector and Stacy Brown died out in an indistinct murmur.

"Is it possible! What are we going to do, Thomas—how are we to rescue the boy?"

Lige Thomas made no reply to the question as he ran past them, and, dropping down, leaned over the cliff, holding the torch he had brought far out ahead of him.

"See anything?" asked Tad tremulously, creeping to his side.

"Looks like a clump of bushes down there. But I ain't sure. Can you make it out?"

"No. All I can see is rocks and shadows. Where is it that you think you see bushes?"

"Over there to the right, just near the edge of the light space made by the torch light," answered the guide.

"Yes," agreed Tad, "that does look like bushes. I'll call to Walter and tell him we are coming. Hey, Walter! Where are you?" "H—e—r—e," was the faint response. "All right, old man. Stick tight and don't get scared. We'll have you out of that in no time."

"Don't move around. Lie perfectly still," warned the guide. "Are you hurt?"

To this question Walter made some reply that was unintelligible to them.

"Now, what are we going to do, I'd like to know?" asked Ned.

"I don't know," answered Lige, frowning thoughtfully. "It's a tough job. If I had a couple of mountaineers who knew their business, we'd stand a better chance of pulling him up."

"Why not get a rope and let it down to him," suggested Tad.

"Yes, that's the only way we can do it. Run over to the cook tent and tell Jose to give you those rawhide lariats that he will find behind his bunk. Hurry!"

Tad was off almost before the words were out of the mouth of the guide, and in the briefest possible time came racing back with the leather coils, which he tossed to Lige before reaching him, that there might not be even a second's delay.

The mountaineer quickly formed a loop in one end of the rope, making it large enough to permit of its slipping over the shoulders of a man. This he dropped over the brink, after splicing two lariats together, and directing Ned Rector to make the other end fast about the trunk of a tree by giving it a couple of hitches.

"Hello, down there! Let me know when the rope reaches you. Can you slip it over your shoulders and under your arms?" called the guide.

There was no response.

"I say, down there!" shouted Lige.

"That's funny," wondered Tad. "H-e-l-l-o-o-o-o, Walt!"

But not a sound came up from the black depths in answer to the boy's hail. They gazed at each other in perplexity.

"Has—he—-gone?" asked the Professor weakly.

"No. We should have heard him if he had," answered Lige. "If I could see him I'd lasso him and haul him up. But I don't dare try it. Then again, these roots on a wall of rock ain't any too strong usually. I don't dare try any experiments."

"What do you think has happened to him?" asked Tad in a troubled voice.

"Fainted, probably. He ain't very strong, you know. And that tumble's enough to knock the sense out of a full grown man. Ain't no use to expect him to hook himself onto the line, even if he does wake up," decided the guide with emphasis, beginning to haul up the lariat, which he coiled neatly on the rock in front of him.

"Then what are we going to do? We've got to get Walt up here, even if I have to jump over after him," said Tad firmly.

"Right you are, young man. But talking won't do it. Something else besides saying you're going to will be necessary."

"What would you suggest!"

"One of us must go down there," was the guide's startling announcement. "That's the only way we can reach him," explained Lige, dangling the loop of the lariat in his hands as he looked from one to the other.

"D—do—down in that dark place? Oh!" exclaimed Chunky.

"In that case, you will have to go yourself, Thomas," decided the Professor sharply. "I could not think of allowing any of my charges to take so terrible a risk, and——"

"Let me go, Mr. Thomas," interrupted Ned Rector, stepping forward, with almost a challenge in his eyes.

"No; I am the lighter of the two," urged Tad. "I am the one to go after Walt, if anyone has to. I'll go down, Mr. Thomas."

"Master Tad is right," decided the guide, gazing at the two boys approvingly. "It will be better for him to go, if he will——"

"And he most certainly will," interrupted Tad, advancing a step.

"I protest!" shouted the Professor. "You yourself should go, Lige. You are——"

"I am needed right here, sir," replied the guide, shortly. "You'd have both of us at the bottom if I left it to you to take care of this end."

"I'm ready, sir when you are," reminded Tad.

The guide, without further delay, and giving no heed to Professor Zepplin's nervous protests, slipped the noose over Tad's shoulders, and, drawing it down and up under his arms, secured the knot so that the loop might not tighten under the weight of the boy's body.

"Now, be very careful. Make no sudden moves. And, if you meet with anything unlooked for, let me know at once. You know, you will have to stay down there while we are drawing the boy up. But, before removing the rope from your own body, make sure that you are safe. If you find the support too weak to bear your weight, let me know. I'll send down another rope to which you can tie yourself until we get Master Walter to the top. Be sure to fasten him securely to the loop before you give the signal to haul up," warned the guide. "Here, put my gun in your pocket."

"I understand." "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Tad tossed away his sombrero and sat down on a shelf of rock at the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling over.

The lad's face was pale, the lines on it standing out in sharp ridges; but not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray the slightest nervousness. Yet Tad Butler realized fully the perilous nature of his undertaking, and that the least mistake on his part or on the part of those above him might mean a sudden end to his earthly ambitions.

Lige shortened the hitch about the tree, until the line drew taut. After winding the end tightly about his own arm, he handed a lighted torch to Tad.

It was a trying moment for all of them, and naturally more so for the boy who was about to descend into the unknown depths of the mountain canyou.

"Right!" announced the guide in a reassuring voice.

Tad made no reply, but, turning so that he faced them, let himself carefully over the ledge, his right hand holding the torch, his left firmly gripping the ledge so that there might be no jolt on the line by a too sudden stepping-off.

"Good!" approved Lige encouragingly, beginning to let the rawhide slip slowly around the trunk of the tree. As he did so, Tad felt himself gradually sinking into the sombre depths.

He tilted his head to look up. The movement sent his body swaying giddily from side to side.

Cautiously placing a hand against the rocks to steady himself, Tad wisely concluded that hereafter it would not pay to be too curious.

"Hold a torch over the edge of the cliff, Master Ned," directed the guide. "Better lie down so you, too, don't take a notion to fall off. Keep your eyes shut till I tell you to open them."

Slowly, but steadily, the slender line was paid out, amid a tense silence on the part of the little group at the top of the canyou. After what seemed to them hours, a sharp call from the depths reached their ears.

Lige quickly made fast the line to a tree.

"Yes? Got him?" he answered, leaning over the cliff.

"I see him," called Tad, his voice sounding hollow and unnatural to those above. "He's so far to the right of me that I can't reach him. Will it be all right for me to swing myself?"

"Where is he?"

"Lodged in the branches of a pinyon tree, I think it is. But he doesn't answer me."

"Wait a minute," cautioned the mountaineer.

Lige searched until he found a limb some three inches in diameter, and this he placed under the rope so as to relieve the strain of the rock upon it, that there might be no danger of the leather being sawed in two by contact with the ledge.

"All right. Now try it."

The creaking of the rawhide told them that Tad Butler was swaying from side to side, fifty feet below them, at the end of a slender line. Lige, leaning over the brink, was able to follow the boy's movements by the aid of the thin arc of light made by the torch in Tad's hand.

At last, the thread of light contracted into a point, and the watching guide knew that the courageous boy had finally reached the pinyon tree.

Then followed a long period of suspense. But from the cautious movements of the light far below them, the guide understood that the lad was at work carrying out his part of the task of rescue to the best of his ability.

"Why doesn't he say something?" cried the Professor, unable to restrain his impatience longer, bis overwrought nerves almost at the breaking point.

"Keep still! Don't bother him. The boy's doing the best he can. Mebby you think he's having some sort of a picnic down there, eh?" glared Lige.

"A—l—l right!"

Tad's voice, now strong and clear, rose from the depths of the canyou.

"Shall we haul up?" asked Lige, making a megaphone of his hands.

"Yes; haul away. Tell them Walt's all right. He can talk now," was the answer that carried with it such a note of gladness that Ned and Stacy were unable to resist a shout of joy.

"Lend a hand here," commanded Lige, taking firm hold of the line, and stepping to the edge that he might command both ends of the operation. "Are you all safe down there, Tad?"

"Sure thing!" answered the boy.

Very slowly, restraining their inclination to haul the rope in with all speed only because the warning eyes of the guide were upon them, the two boys, assisted by Professor Zepplin, began hoisting Walter Perkins toward the top.

In a few moments the sinewy hands of the guide gripped Walter by an arm and dragged him safely to the table rock.

Walter had fully regained consciousness by this time, and a brief examination showed that he had sustained no serious injury, he having struck on the yielding branches of the pinyon, which broke his fall and saved his life. Beyond sundry bruises, a black eye and a thin crimson line on the right cheek where a branch had raked it, Walter Perkins was practically unharmed after his perilous experience.

But it was a trying moment for Tad Butler, down there alone in the branches of the pinyon tree, with fifty feet of nothingness beneath him and a sheer wall that extended an equal distance above him.

Nor was his sense of security increased when, in shifting his position, the torch fell from his grasp, the fagots scattering as they slipped down between the limbs of the tree and whirling in ever-diminishing circles until finally he heard them clatter on the rocks below.

The boy could not repress a shudder. Closing his eyes, he clung to the slender support with grim courage until a hail from above told him that the rawhide loop was rapidly squirming down toward him.

This time Lige had allowed for his mistaken reckoning when Tad had first descended, and the boy grasped eagerly at the leather as he felt it gently slap against his cheek.

A few moments more, and he, too, had been hauled safely to the top, amid the wild cheers of his companions and the congratulations of the guide and Professor Zepplin.



CHAPTER IX

RIFLES AND PONIES

After having been well rubbed down by the guide, and given a steaming cup of tea, Walter was put to bed, protesting stubbornly that he was all right and that their attentions were unnecessary.

But Lige Thomas was firm.

"You'll be that lame, to-morrow, you can't reach a stirrup. I want you to be fit, for we have a long journey ahead of us."

Walter soon fell into a deep sleep, while Tad and Ned, too full of the events of the night to go to sleep at once, sat by the camp fire discussing the stirring scenes through which they had so recently passed, until the deep, rhythmic snores of Stacy Brown reminded them that they, too, should seek their pine bough cots if they intended to get any more rest that night.

Next morning the camp slept late in spite of itself—that is, all save Lige Thomas. He was up with the sun, busying himself with getting the outfit ready for a prompt start.

At nine o'clock the guide routed them out, and the boys, after washing themselves in the cool, refreshing waters of a little mountain stream, announced themselves as ready to eat anything that might be placed before them.

Walter, still pale from his recent experience, but smiling happily, took his place with the rest and ate as heartily as they did of the crisp bacon that Jose had prepared.

"Now that you young gentleman are all together, it's a good time to give you some advice," said Lige.

"Guess I'm the one who needs it most," laughed Walter.

"He's had his already," chuckled Chunky Brown.

"But yours is still coming to you," added Ned maliciously.

"You must keep in mind that these mountains are full of danger," continued the guide. "Even an experienced mountaineer sometimes goes wrong, losing his life as the result. So, before any one of you takes a step, be sure that your foot is going to land on something solid. As we get up into the Park Range you will find the country rougher, and still more caution will be necessary. But you're going to be all right. You boys have the right sort of stuff in you. Not many fellows of Master Tad's age would have had the courage to do what he did last night."

Tad Butler flushed a rosy red, and devoted his attention to his bacon.

"Yes, he saved my life," breathed Walter. "You all did your share too."

"There's one thing I should like to do more than anything else," interrupted Ned, changing the subject.

"And that?" inquired the Professor.

"To shoot a bear."

"Wow!" exclaimed Chunky.

"And so should I," agreed Tad, his blue eyes opening wide. "The biggest thing I ever shot was a woodchuck."

"You will have a chance to do some hunting soon," replied the guide. "We shall be on the hunting grounds in a day or so, if we have good luck, and none of you falls off a mountain. Then I am going to show you some real sport."

"Oh, that will be fine," chorused the boys.

"I believe I should like to try my hand at it, too," added the Professor. "Do you know, young gentlemen, I have not been on a hunting trip since I hunted wild boar in the Black Forest with General von Moltke! You may talk about the savagery of your native bear. But, for real brutality, I recommend the wild boar."

"Yes, but wait a minute," objected Ned Rector, his face sobering. "How are we going to hunt? We have no guns to hunt with. Mr. Thomas has the only rifle in the party."

"That's so," agreed Tad. "I hadn't thought of that. I should have brought my old rifle with me."

The guide smiled good-naturedly and motioned to Jose.

"Do you know where that long package marked 'hard tack' is, Jose?" he asked.

The cook said he did.

"Bring it to me," directed Lige so low that the others did not catch his words.

The package was placed on the ground at Lige's side a moment later.

"What is it?" asked Chunky, stretching his neck so he could look over the table.

"Your curiosity will be the death of you some day if you don't correct the habit," warned Ned. "If you'll use your eyes you will observe that the package contains hard tack, and——"

However, something in the shape of the four wrapped objects taken from the bundle, and laid on the ground, did not exactly correspond with their idea of what hard tack looked like.

The boys rose full of curiosity.

"Wha—what——" gasped Ned.

"It's—guns!" fairly shouted Tad Butler.

Sure enough, it was.

Undoing the other three packages, the guide laid before their astonished eyes four handsome thirty-eight calibre repeating rifles.

The boys looked at each other questioningly.

At first they could scarcely believe it to be true.

"Are—are they for us—for us to use?" stammered Tad.

"That's what they're for, young gentlemen," smiled the guide. "You surely didn't expect to go hunting without guns, did you? At the Professor's suggestion I have been keeping them as a sort of surprise for you."

"Three cheers for Lige Thomas and Professor Zepplin," cried Ned Rector, in which the boys joined with a will, their shouts echoing back to them from the rocky peaks on the other side of the gulch.

"Rifles and ponies! We surely ought to be happy!" laughed Tad, with flashing eyes. "Any boy with those two things wouldn't change places with a king, would he, fellows?"

"No!" answered the Pony Riders at the top of their voices. "Not even for a whole monarchy!"

Lige was beset by a perfect clamor of questions as to when they were to have a chance to try the guns on real game.

"One at a time—one at a time," begged the guide. "First I must find out how well you boys can shoot. Has any of you ever handled a gun before?"

"I have," spoke up Tad promptly.

"And I," added Ned Rector.

"I've done a little shooting with my thirty-two calibre," said Walter. "But I don't call myself much of a shot."

"And how about you, Master Stacy?" smiled the guide.

"I? Why, I can shoot a bull's eye with a how and arrow. But somehow, when I try to fire a real gun, I can't help shutting my eyes before the thing goes off."

"That's bad."

"Then I don't hit anything—that is, not the thing I want to hit," he added humorously, at which there was a loud laugh from the other boys.

"Won't do at all," decided the guide with a shake of the head. "You will have to learn to do better than that before we take you out."

"Yes, he'll have to before I go gunning with him," growled Ned Rector. "Any man who shuts his eyes when he's getting ready to shoot, is no friend of mine, especially if I happen to be in the neighborhood."

"Yes," agreed Lige. "We'll have to go out for a little practice—this morning if you wish. I guess we can spare the time. But we must not waste too much of it, as we have an eighteen mile journey ahead of us over a rough trail, and I want to reach Bald Mountain before night.

To-morrow will be Sunday, and we must have a nice camping place, as you will want to rest and get ready for the busy week ahead of us. At any rate, you boys can try out the guns this morning and get the sights regulated. Jose bring me a box of those thirty-eights, will you?"

Wistful glances were cast at the pasteboard box, as the boys fondled the guns, worked the cartridge ejectors, examined the magazines and looked over the sights at imaginary game.

"Better fall to, now, and strike camp, so the pack train can go on ahead," advised the guide. "When we finish shooting you can strap your guns to the saddles, or carry them over your backs, as you prefer. You see they have a leather on them for the purpose."

There were no doubts in the minds of the Pony Riders as to how they would carry the weapons. As they set about obeying the instructions of the guide, they pictured themselves riding over the mountains like a troop of cavalry, rifles hanging across their backs, following the trail of a band of real Indians.

The camp was struck in record time that morning, and the tents, neatly rolled, soon were strapped to the backs of the sleepy burros. Jose attended to the packing of the commissary.

"I think we are ready, Mr. Thomas," announced Tad, their task having been completed.

The boys shouldered their guns proudly.

"Oh, yes; there is something else that goes with it," advised Lige, after glancing critically over the boys and their outfits." I had almost forgotten it. Fine general I'd make in war time!"

The guide ran to the cook tent which Jose was packing, returning in a moment with another of those mysterious packages.

By now the Pony Riders were worked up to a high pitch of excitement and anticipation.

"What have you got?" asked Chunky, with his usual curiosity.

"I'll show you if you'll wait a minute," whereupon the guide opened the package, holding the contents toward them.

"What is it!" marveled Chunky, eyeing the things gingerly.

"I know! Cartridge belts!" shouted Ned Rector.

And cartridge belts they were—regulation canvas belts, each with a shining brass buckle, bearing a spread eagle on its face, the belts each having compartments for forty-five rounds of ammunition.

Once more the Pony Riders made the mountains ring with their shouts of joy in which not even the dignified German Professor could resist joining.

Stacy Brown in the meantime, had been greedily filling his belt with the cartridges, until finally there was room for no more.

The other three boys, who had quickly strapped on their belts, were parading about with guns on their shoulders, Walter Perkins giving them their orders.

"Wow! But this thing is heavy," exclaimed Chunky, the weight of his loaded belt tugging at his waist line.

"Here, here, Master Brown! You don't need all those shells. Put all but ten of them back in the box," laughed the guide,

"They're not good to eat, Chunky," advised Walter.

"Huh!" grunted Ned Rector. "Anybody would think he was going into battle. Why, a soldier doesn't carry any more bullets than that. And what's more, Mr. Chunky Brown, if you intend to shoot off a belt full of those shells, it's me for a rocky cave where the bullets can't reach. Eh, Tad?"

Tad nodded and grinned.

"I'm with you in that."

"We all have precious lives to save," added Ned.

"We are all ready," announced the guide. "Jose, you bear to the right after you leave camp and follow the blazed trail. We shall take the lower trail. Push right along so as to have a meal ready for us when we get in. We'll be hungry by that time."

"Have we any lunch with us?" asked the Professor.

"Yes, in the saddle bags."

A few moments later the boys were waking the echoes with the crashing explosions of their weapons as they banged away at the targets.



CHAPTER X

THE LOSS OF THE PACK TRAIN

"Feels good to be in the saddle again, doesn't it, Walt?"

"Yes, Ned. At least it's better than falling over a cliff. How do you feel, Chunky?"

"Shoulder aches where the gun kicked me. I didn't think a gun could hit so hard from both ends at the same time."

Stacy Brown worked his right arm up and down like a pump-handle, making a wry face as he did so.

The boys had completed their first target practice, in which Tad and Ned had carried off even honors, with Walter Perkins a close second, while Stacy Brown had hit pretty much everything within range except the target itself.

About the best they had been able to do with him was to induce him to keep his eyes open, at least, until the first finger of his right hand had begun to exert a gentle pressure on the trigger. Then, he would pinch his eyelids so tightly together as to compress his forehead into a series of small ridges.

Their practice had lasted some two hours, and now they were once more picking their way over the rough mountain trail, headed for Bald Mountain, and discussing the happenings of the night and morning.

Considerable amusement was afforded them when, on the journey, old Bobtail, as they had named the Professor's cob, stumbled and threw its rider over its head.

Fortunately, Professor Zepplin was not injured. He explained that he had had too many similar disasters while an officer in the German army, and that he did not mind a slight mishap like that at all. He declared that it reminded him so much of his younger days that he really enjoyed the sensation of falling off.

This caused the Pony Riders to shout with laughter, and Ned confided to Tad, by whose side he was riding, that he never knew the Professor was such a real sport.

>From then on the afternoon passed quickly. Although the sun was shining brightly, the air was cool and invigorating, and a gentle breeze fanned their cheeks when the riders reached the higher places.

At such times the boys would break into exclamations of wonder at the gorgeous panorama which unfolded itself before them.

"Makes a fellow feel as if he were walking on air, doesn't it?" bubbled Stacy Brown.

"You will be in a minute, if you don't watch out where you are going," warned Ned, observing that the boy had unconsciously pulled his horse too near the outer edge of the trail." Walt tried that last night, and you know what happened to him."

"Yes, but Chunky would not come out of it quite so well," spoke up Tad.

"I reckon he'd break a rock or two on the way down," grinned Ned Rector, clucking to his pony.

About four o'clock that afternoon Lige announced that they had arrived at their destination. Yet not a sign of Jose and the pack train could they find. He had not arrived.

The faces of the Pony Riders grew long at this, for the ride had given them an appetite that would not bear trifling with.

"What do you suppose has happened to the pack train, Mr. Thomas?" asked Tad.

"Probably been delayed by a pack slipping off. But don't you worry. Jose will be along in good time," smiled Lige.

However, in his own mind the guide believed that, while this might be possible, it was more likely that the cook had missed his way, and was now wandering about the mountains. It was too late to go in search of the missing outfit that day, so there was nothing to do but to wait until morning, then to start out after it, in case the straggler had not come in by then.

Lige told the boys to stake down their live stock and make themselves at home while he went out for an observation. In the meantime the boys also took the opportunity to look about them.

Their new location they found to be a sightly one. The wild and rugged reaches of the Rockies stretched away at their feet as far as the eye could see, the hills and low mountains rising in sheer slopes, broken by cliffs and riven by deeply cut and gloomy gorges.

The Pony Riders gazed upon the scene in awe —at least three of them did.

"Splendid, is it not?" breathed Tad, his eyes growing large with wonder.

"Oh, I don't know. It isn't so much," replied Chunky lightly. "I've seen better. We've got bigger mountains in Massachusetts."

"Humph!" grunted Ned Rector, resuming his study of the scene, its beauties intensified by the colors in which the low-lying sun had bathed them.

A shot sounded off somewhere in front of and below them.

"What's that?" exclaimed Chunky, now aroused to sudden interest.

No one was able to answer him.

Soon two more shots followed, and Chunky; was sure that he heard a bullet sing by his head.

Professor Zepplin laughed, saying it was no doubt some one hunting, and that what the boy had imagined was a bullet was merely an echo.

"You no doubt will hear many shots while you are in the mountains. This is a place where people make a business of shooting, and even yourselves will be doing some of it within a few days, if all goes well. Perhaps the shot you heard was from Lige, trying his skill on some bird or animal."

When Lige returned, some little time after, the boys did not observe that he left his rifle in the bushes at the edge of the camp.

"Was that you shooting just now?" asked Tad.

Instead of answering the question, however, the guide called the boys to him.

"I'm going to teach you how to make beds in the mountains," he said. "We have not tried to make any like them yet ——"

"Beds? I don't see any beds to make," objected Chunky. "Where are they?"

"Get your hatchets and I'll show you," grinned Lige. "We have to discover a good many things when we are roughing it, you know."

Fetching their hatchets from the saddle bags, the boys cut great armfuls of pine boughs, all hands making two trips to camp and back in order to carry enough for the purpose. But, even then, they were mystified as to exactly what Thomas intended to do or how he would go about it to make a bed out of the stuff they had gathered.

Professor Zepplin watched the preparations with interest, finding much that was new to him in the resourceful operations of the mountain guide.

Having heaped up a great pile of fragrant green stuff, Lige looked about him to fix upon the best locations for the beds he was about to make.

"Oh, I know," exclaimed Ned. "You are going to lay the stuff into piles so we can sleep on them."

"Not quite," grinned Lige." Watch me."

Carefully selecting the branches that he wanted, he stuck one after another of them into the ground, stem down, until he had outlined a fairly good bed. This done, he continued setting more of the green limbs, pushing each firmly into the ground until the mass became so thick and matted that it resembled a green hedge.

"There," he announced. "One bed is ready for you."

"Call that a bed?" sniffed Stacy. "Why, that wouldn't hold a baby. He'd fall through the slats."

"Try it. Lie down on it," smiled Lige.

Chunky did so, gingerly, then little by little a sheepish smile crept over his countenance.

"Why, it does hold me up."

"Of course it does."

"Say, fellows, this is great. It's softer than any feather bed I ever slept in. But it wouldn't be half so funny if a fellow made a mistake and got a branch off a thorn bush; would it, now?"

One after the other, the boys took turns in trying the new bed, and each was enthusiastic over it.

"I'll never sleep on any other kind as long as I live," decided Ned. "I'll have a tent in the back yard and a pine bed under it. What do you say, fellows?"

"I have an idea," smiled the Professor, "that you will get all you want of the experience this summer. Some other trips have been planned for you, and you no doubt will spend many nights in the open air before you return to your homes this fall. I'll say no more on the subject at present."

And Professor Zepplin steadfastly stuck to his word, leaving to their youthful imaginations the solution of the problem that he had presented.

"Get busy for firewood," called Lige.

"Why, it's almost dark," exclaimed Ned. "Where is that pack train? What are we going to do, Professor?"

"Ask the guide. He knows everything. He's the original wizard," laughed the German. "What do you think about it, Lige?"

"I might as well tell you all now—the pack train undoubtedly is lost in the mountains. We probably shall see nothing of Jose nor the pack train until some time to-morrow."

"Yes; but what are we going to do?" demanded Walter. "Here we are, without a thing to eat, or a place to sleep."

"We have the pine beds," answered Tad. "That's a place to sleep, anyway."

"But we can't eat the beds," jeered Chunky.

"If you young gentlemen will build a fire, I'll see what I can do about getting you some supper," advised Lige." You know, we have to get used to difficulties in the mountains. In a short time you should be well able to take care of yourselves without any of my help."

Lige disappeared in the bushes, returning a few moments later, carrying a brace of some sort of animal by the hind legs.

"What's that?" demanded Stacy Brown, his eyes growing large.

"Jack-rabbits," answered the guide. "There are two of them. I shot them, and now we'll eat them. I was providing a supper for you when you heard those shots."

The boys set up a cheer. Now that the wholesome air of the mountains had in reality taken possession of their beings, they found themselves able to arouse enthusiasm over almost any subject.

Lige skilfully skinned the rabbits and dressed them. By the time he had accomplished this the fire was burning high, and out of it he scraped a bed of red hot coals, about which he built an oven of stones.

"Get two sharp sticks," he directed.

On these he spit the rabbits, thrusting them over the coals to cook, while the boys looked on wonderingly.

"You see," said the Professor, "it is possible for a man to find sustenance in almost any place—that is, if he knows how."

"I'd starve to death if I were turned loose up here," said Chunky.

"Of course you would; and I probably should share the same fate. The only mountain subject with which I am familiar is geology," said the Professor.

"And you can't eat rocks," grinned Ned.

"Just so."

"Now, boys, if you will go to my saddle bags you will find salt and pepper and some hard tack. Bring it all over here, fill your folding cups with water, and then I think we'll be ready for supper," announced the guide, after the rabbits had been done to a rich brown.

"Pardon me, sir, but I'm curious to know what we're going to do for plates, knives and forks," asked Tad.

"Do?

"Why, my young friend, we shall do without them. If you'll watch me carefully you will learn how."

By Lige's direction, the boys squatted down about a flat rock, after which the guide proceeded to carve the rabbits with his hunting-knife, seasoning the pieces with salt and pepper, yet doing all with tantalizing deliberation.

The boys looked on expectantly.

"Much as I need money, I wouldn't take four dollars and a half for my appetite at this very moment," declared Ned Rector, earnestly.

"It can't beat mine, fellows," laughed Walter. "I tell you, there's nothing like falling off a mountain to give a chap a full-grown hankering for real food."

"I should imagine it would shake one down a bit," agreed Tad. "What do you think about it, Chunky?"

But Chunky's reply was not clear to them, for the greater part of his face was buried in a flank of jack-rabbit, and he was able to talk with his eyes alone, which at that moment were large and expressive.

Never had a meal seemed to taste so good to these boys as did this crude repast, served on a rock several thousand feet in the air and with only such conveniences for eating it as nature had provided. But good humor prevailed and everybody was happy.

Chunky at last paused from his labor long enough to go to the spring for a cup of water.

"While you are up you might fetch some for the rest of us," suggested Ned.

So Chunky gathered up the cups and plodded to the spring, chewing vigorously as he went. However, finding it inconvenient to carry all the cups at one time, he left his own at the spring, returning with those of the others, filled with cool, sparkling water.

The boys were profuse in their thanks, to which Stacy bowed with great ceremony and returned to the spring for more water.

For the moment, in the conversation that followed, they forgot Clunky entirely. But he was recalled sharply to their minds a few minutes later.

"Pussy, pussy, pussy!"

Ned and Tad turned inquiringly at the sound. Lige and the Professor, being engaged in earnest conversation at the time, had not heard Stacy Brown's plaintive call off behind the rocks youder.

The Pony Riders looked at each other and roared.

"Well, what do you think of that?" laughed Ned. "That kid has gone and picked up a cat. Who would ever think of finding a cat up here?"

"What's that?" demanded Lige sharply, turning to them.

"Why, Chunky's found a——"

"Pussy, pussy, pussy! Nice pussy. Come here, pussy. That's a good kittie. Puss, puss, puss," continued the soothing voice of the boy.

Had Lige Thomas been projected from a huge bow-gun he probably would not have leaped forward with much greater quickness than he did in this instance, bowling over the Professor as he sprang by him, and making for the spring m mighty strides.

"Leave him alone!" he roared.

The guide had heard and understood. He was hurrying to the rescue.

Those by the camp fire heard two sharp, quick explosions from the guide's revolver, followed by a squall of rage and pain and a great floundering about in the bushes. Then the guide appeared around the corner of a large rock, leading Chunky by one ear, the latter taking as long strides as his short legs would permit, to relieve the strain on the aforesaid ear.

"Wha—what——" stammered the Professor.

The boys had sprung to their feet in alarm at the crack of the pistol, and stood, amazement written on their faces, as Lige and Chunky came toward them.

"What's the row?" asked Ned Rector in as firm a voice as he could muster.

"I got a pussy and he tried to shoot it," wailed Chunky.

"Pussy! Huh! He got a bob-cat and he was trying to catch the brute, " growled the guide. "Lucky I got there when I did."

Stacy's eyes opened wide and his face blanched.

"A—a bob-cat?" they gasped.

"Yes; I put a shot into him, but it did not kill kill him! Hear him squall?" the guide made answer.

"Well of all the idiotic things I ever heard of!" exclaimed Ned, gazing at Chunky in bewilderment.

"Yes; it was all of that," grinned Lige.



CHAPTER XI

CHUNKY GETS THE CAT

Wake up, fellows! The sun is up!" shouted Tad Butler, as Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, the birds now making the mountains ring with their joyous songs.

The Pony Riders rose up, rubbing their eyes sleepily.

"What time is it?" asked Ned Rector.

"Half-past six."

"Too early to sing. I refuse to sit on a bough and sing at any such unearthly hour."

"Huh! I should say so," agreed Stacy Brown, turning over and burying his face in the fragrant green boughs of his cot.

Still, the boys had no patience with Chunky's dislike to early rising, even though they themselves were not averse to a morning cat-nap. With a yell, they tumbled from their cots, descending upon Chunky in a bunch, pulling him from his bed without regard to the way in which they did so. His ill-natured protests went for nothing.

"I wonder where the guide is?" asked Walter, after they had thoroughly awakened their companion.

"Probably gone gunning for our breakfast," answered Tad.

"I think he has gone after the pack train," said the Professor. "He told me last night that he should start at daybreak, and that you would find some rabbit and hard tack for your breakfast under a flat stone back of his cot. I am afraid you will have to be satisfied with a cold meal this morning, unless you think you want to build a fire and warm up the food."

"Of course we will. Lige Thomas needn't think he's the only one in the party who can get a meal out of nothing," answered Ned proudly, starting off to gather sticks for the fire.

But when they went to get the rabbit there was no rabbit. The stone under which it had been placed was there right enough, as were several chunks of hard tack. The stone, however, had been turned over and the meat was nowhere to be found.

"That settles it," said Ned ruefully. "I never had an appetite yet that it didn't meet with the disappointment of it's young life. Now, who do you suppose took that food!"

"Perhaps it was another of Chunky's pussy cats," laughed Walter.

"Don't we get anything to eat!" asked Stacy in a plaintive voice, glancing from one to the other of his companions.

"Yes, of course. You can go out in the bushes and browse, if you are hungry enough," suggested Ned. "As for myself I'm going to the spring and wash, and after that fill myself up on cold water. That may make my stomach forget, for a while, that it has a grievance."

"I'm going to bed," growled Stacy.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," shouted the boys, grabbing their roly-poly president and rushing him back and forth to wake him up again. "No Pony Rider is allowed to sleep after sun-up."

"Professor, I have a suggestion to make," said Tad, approaching Professor Zepplin, who was sitting on the edge of his cot, making a meal of a cup of water, seemingly well pleased that that much had been left to him.

"I'll hear it, sir."

"Will you let me go out with my rifle to look for some game for breakfast? Ned has three shells left in his belt. I think I shall be able to shoot something. There's no telling when Mr. Thomas will return with the pack."

"I couldn't think of it, my boy."

"I'll take care of myself, Professor."

"No. The responsibility is too great. We have had enough trouble already. I have not the least doubt that a resourceful young man like yourself could take care of himself under almost any conditions. But I do not dare take the risk. And, besides, a day's fast will do you all good. I remember when I was an officer in the German army——"

"Professor, may we go out and follow the trail of Chunky's pussy cat?" interrupted Walter. "Ned has found the trail, and says he can follow it by the blood spots. Perhaps we'll find the animal dead near by, and the skin would be a fine trophy of our hunt in the Rockies."

"Certainly not. This is Sunday, young gentlemen, and even in the mountains we must preserve some sort of decorum on that day."

"Oh, very well," answered Walter politely, covering his disappointment with a smile.

"All days look alike to me up here," grunted Ned. "If it wasn't that one had a calendar he wouldn't even know when Sunday did come. Now, would he——"

"I've got him! I've got him!" came the sudden and startling yell from the bushes, accompanied by a series of resounding whacks and a great threshing about in the thick undergrowth.

The boys paused, not realizing, at first, to whom the excited voice belonged.

"Come help me! I've got him!"

"Chunky!" they groaned. "He's at it again!"

Professor Zepplin leaped from his cot, striding off in the direction from which Stacy Brown's triumphant voice had come, and followed by the rest of the party on the run. All four of them crashed into the bushes at the same instant, shouting words of warning to Stacy.

They did not know what it all meant, but the boys were sure that he had gotten himself into some new danger.

Chunky had slipped away some moments before, after Ned Rector had discovered the trail of the bob-cat. His companions, however, had not missed him, so Stacy was free to follow his own inclinations.

"Where are you?" cried the Professor.

"Here! here!"

Whack! whack! came the sound from a rapidly wielded club again, accompanied by a vicious spitting and snarling that caused the boys to hesitate, for a brief second, in their mad dash for the underbrush.

As they emerged into a little open space, made so largely by the battle that was being waged there, their eyes fairly bulged with surprise.

There was Stacy Brown, hatless, his face red and perspiring, and in front of him a snarling bob-cat at bay.

They saw at once that the animal had been wounded, two of its legs apparently having been broken, while blood flowed freely from a wound in its side.

Chunky was prancing about in what appeared to be an imitation of an Indian war dance, now and again darting in and delivering a telling blow with the club held firmly in both hands, landing it on whatever part of the animal's anatomy he could most easily reach. The beast was snapping blindly at the weapon which Chunky was using with telling effect.

The boys in their surprise were unable to do more than stand and stare for the moment. That Chunky Brown had had the courage to attack a bob-cat, even though it already had been seriously wounded, passed all comprehension.

"Stop!" commanded the Professor, finding his voice at last.

Whack!

Stacy landed a blow fairly on the top of the brute's skull, causing the animal to sway dizzily.

Paying not the slightest heed to the Professor's stern command, the excited boy followed up his last successful blow by planting another in the same place.

But the savage little beast, though probably unable to see its enemies, was showing its yellow teeth and squalling in its deadly anger, the jaws coming together with a snap like that from the sudden springing of a steel trap.

"Stand back!" ordered the Professor. "Don't touch him! Get away, boys!"

They were obliged to grab Chunky by the arms, fairly dragging him from his victim, so filled was he with the fever of the chase and a resolve to conquer his savage little enemy.

Professor Zepplin, once they had gotten Chunky out of the way, stepped as near to the bob-cat as he deemed prudent. Drawing his heavy army revolver, he took careful aim, shooting the beast through the head.

The Pony Riders uttered a triumphant shout.

The Professor waved them back as they pressed forward, and planted another bullet in the animal's head to make sure that it was thoroughly finished.

"Hooray for the president of the Pony Riders!" shouted Ned Rector.

"Hip-hip hooray! T-i-g-e-r!" roared the boys, grabbing Chunky and tossing him back and forth, making of him a veritable medicine ball.

"What's the matter with Chunky?" cried Walter.

"Chunky's all right," chorused the band.

"Who's no tenderfoot?"

"Chunky's Brown's no tenderfoot."

Puffing out his cheeks, and squaring his shoulders, Stacy swaggered over to the dead bob-cat, violently pulling its ear.

"He tried to bite me," explained the boy. "See—he tore a lacer in my leggin. I didn't see him till I almost stepped on him. I knew right off that it was the pussy that Lige shot at last night."

"What happened then?" asked Tad, with an admiring grin on his face.

"I fetched him one on the side of the head with a club. He jumped at me and I hit him again. About that time I called, and you fellows came up. But I got him, didn't I, Professor?"

"You did, my lad. But you took a great risk in attempting to do so," smiled the Professor, picking the dead animal up and hefting it. "I think he'll weigh about twenty pounds," he decided. "Yes; undoubtedly it's the fellow Thomas shot last night. The brute was so badly wounded that he was unable to drag himself far away."

"What shall we do with him now?" asked the boys.

"Take him to camp and leave him till Lige returns," advised the Professor." And I think we had better tie up our young friend Stacy, or he will be getting into more mischief than we are able to get him out of."

"Why can't we skin the cat?" inquired Ned.

"I should think you would prefer to wait till the guide sees it. And, besides, he knows better how to do that than any of the rest of us."

"Are—are bob-cats good to eat?" asked Chunky sheepishly.

The boys shouted.

"Not satisfied with trying to kill the poor beast, now you want to eat him," jeered Ned Rector. "Why, Stacy Brown, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. No, I never heard of any one with an appetite so difficult to satisfy that he was willing to eat cats——"

"Yes; but this isn't a real cat," protested Stacy.

"You would have found him real enough if he had fastened one of those ugly claws in your flesh," laughed Tad.

"Eat him, by all means, then," advised Ned. "Eat him raw. I wouldn't even stop to cook the beast if I were in your place."

Walter and Stacy picked up the dead animal, carrying it along through the bushes, all talking loudly, the boys—though they would have been slow to admit the fact—casting envious glances at the fat boy and his trophy. Chunky told himself he would have something to write to the folks back East that would make them open their eyes.

The boys, after having reached the camp, stretched the cat out on a flat rock. And now that the animal lay in the full light of day, the sight of its ugly, beetling brow, thin, cruel lips and powerful teeth made each of the three boys feel rather thankful that he had not had the luck to come face to face with it over in the bushes.

As for Chunky, he sat down beside the cat to enjoy the proud sense of victory, gazing down at the trophy with fascinated eyes. Deep down in his heart, he wondered how he ever had had the courage to attack it. But, of course, Chunky confided nothing of this to his companions.

"Congratulating yourself, eh!" laughed Ned Rector.

Chunky glanced up at him solemnly.

"At this minute I was wishing I had a piece of apple pie," he answered, hitching his belt a little tighter.



CHAPTER XII

ROUGH RIDERS IN THE SADDLE

The afternoon had grown old when a distant "C-oo-ee-e," told them that Lige Thomas was on his way back to camp.

They answered his call with a wild whoop, and were for rushing off to meet him. But Professor Zepplin advised them to remain where they were and get the fire going in case Lige had failed to find the pack train. He no doubt would bring food of some kind with him. The fire would be ready and thus no time would be lost in preparing the first meal of the day, which, in this case, would be breakfast, dinner and supper all in one.

The boys awaited the guide's approach with impatience, some pacing back and forth, while others coaxed the fire into a roaring blaze, at the same time confiding to each other how hungry they were.

After what had seemed an interminable time they heard Jose urging along the lazy burros.

It was a gladsome sound to this band of hungry boys, whose ordinarily healthy appetites, under the bracing mountain air and the long fast, had taken on what the Professor described as a "razor edge."

"Now you may go," he nodded.

With a shout, the boys dashed pell-mell to meet the pack train, and, falling in behind the slow-moving burros, urged them on with derisive shouts and sundry resounding slaps on the animals' flanks.

"Had anything to eat!" asked the guide.

"Not enough to give us indigestion," answered Ned. "Cold water is the most nourishing thing we've touched since last night."

"But I left you a rabbit. Didn 't you find it?"

"We did not. It must have come to life some time during the night and dug its way out," laughed Tad.

"And we've got a surprise for you," announced Stacy, swelling with pride.

"What's it all about?" laughed the guide.

"You'll see when you get to camp," answered Chunky. "I don't need guns to hunt with. A stout club for mine."

After having shown the cat to Lige and getting his promise to teach them how to skin it, the boys set to with a will to assist in the unpacking. While they were pitching the tents over the pine cots Jose got out his Buzzacot range, which he started up in the open, and in a few moments the savory odors of the cooking reached the nostrils of the Pony Riders, drawing from them a shout of approval.

By the time the meal was ready the tents had been pitched and the boys had returned from the spring, rubbing their faces with their coarse towels, their cheeks glowing and their eyes sparkling in anticipation of the feast.

Chunky reached the table first, greedily surveying what had been placed on it.

"Hooray, fellows!" he shouted. "Hot biscuit and—and honey. What do you think of that?"

"Honey? Why, Mr. Thomas, where did you get honey?" asked Walter.

"Found a bee tree on my way back, and cut it down. I think you will find there is enough of it to double you all up," grinned Lige.

"We'll take all chances," advised Ned. "But what's this! It looks like jam."

"Jam?" exclaimed Chunky, stretching his neck and eyeing the dish longingly.

"Yes; wild plum jam," answered the guide.

"Wow!" chuckled Stacy under his breath.

"Now, fall to, young gentlemen," directed the Professor. "I am free to admit that I am hungry, too. I think I shall help myself to some of that wild plum jam and biscuit, first It reminds me of old times. We sometimes had jam when I was with the German——"

"Army," added Ned.

"Yes."

But the Professor was lost in his enjoyment of the biscuit, which he had liberally smeared with the delicious jam.

Chunky did even better than that. He buried his biscuit under a layer of jam, over which he spread a thick coating of honey.

Ned fixed him with a stern eye.

"Remember, sir, that a certain amount of dignity befits the office of president of the Pony Riders Club, "he said.

Chunky colored.

"It's good, anyway."

"Then, I think I'll try some myself," announced Ned, helping himself liberally to the honey and jam. "I'd lose my dignity for a mouthful of that, any day," he decided after having sampled the combination. "President Brown, I withdraw my criticism. I offer you my humble apologies. You are not only the champion hunter of the Pony Riders, but you also are the champion food selector and eater. Next thing we know you'll be providing us with bear steak."

"Bears, did you say?" demanded Stacy in a voice not unmixed with awe. "Are there bears up here?"

"I reckon there are," smiled the guide. "We are in the bear country now. I had a tough battle with one in a cave not far from here, several years ago. I came near losing my life too, and——"

"A cave?" interrupted Tad.

"Yes, the country is full of caves. Some of them are so big that you would lose yourself in them almost at once; while others are merely dens where bears and other animals live. Besides this, there are many abandoned mines up the range further. All are more or less interesting, and some, for various reasons, are dangerous to enter."

"Shall we see any of them?" asked Tad eagerly.

"All you want. Perhaps we may even explore some if we come across any," said the guide.

This announcement filled the boys with excitement.

"What I want to know, is, when do we go hunting?" asked Ned.

"That depends. Perhaps Tuesday. We shall need a dog. But I know an old settler who will lend us his dog, if it is not out. Of course, dogs can't follow the trail of an animal as well, now, as they could with snow on the ground. But this dog, you will find, is a wonder. He can ride a pony, or do almost anything that you might set him at."

"I think I'll ride my own pony and let the dog walk," announced Ned.

Supper having been finished, the party gathered about the camp fire for their evening chat, after which, admonishing Stacy to keep within his tent and not to go borrowing trouble, the boys turned in for a sound sleep.

As yet, they had been unable to attempt any fancy riding with their ponies, owing to the rugged nature of the country through which they had been journeying. So in the morning they asked Lige if he knew of a place where they could do some "stunts," as Ned Rector phrased it.

The guide said that, by making a detour in their journey that day, they would cross table lands several acres in extent and covered with grass.

"And come to think of it, that will be an ideal place for us to drop off for our noon meal," he added. "We'll let Jose go on again, and I don't think he can lose himself so easily this time. The trail is so plainly marked that he can't miss it."

The boys were now all anxiety to start, while the ponies, after their Sunday rest, were almost as full of life as were their owners. The little animals were becoming more sure-footed every day, and Ned said that, before the trip was finished, "Jimmie" would be able to walk a slack rope.

An early start was made, so that the party reached the promised table lands shortly before ten o'clock in the forenoon. A temporary camp was quickly pitched.

At their urgent request, Professor Zepplin told the boys to go ahead and enjoy themselves.

"But be careful that you don't break your necks," he added, with a laugh. "I guess I had better go along to see that you do not."

They assured him that nothing was further from their intention, and quickly casting aside guns and cartridge belts, they threw themselves into their saddles again for a jolly romp.

The great, green field, surrounded on all sides by tall trees, made the place an ideal one for their purpose.

"Tell you what let's do," suggested Tad. "Suppose we start with a race? We'll race the length of the field and back. We'll do it three times, and the one who wins two times out of three will be it."

To this all agreed. Appointing Professor Zepplin as starter, the Pony Riders lined up for the word.

The first heat was run easily, none of the ponies being put to its utmost speed. Walter Perkins won the heat.

The next two heats were different. This time the battle lay between Tad Butler and Ned Rector. It was a beautiful race, the little Indian ponies seeming to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the contest, stretching themselves out to their full lengths, and, with heads on a level with their backs, fairly flew across the great plot of green.

Up to within a moment of the finish of the second heat the two ponies were racing neck and neck.

Tad hitched in his saddle a little, throwing the greater part of his weight on the stirrups. He slapped Texas sharply on the flank with the flat of his hand.

Texas seemed to leap clear of the ground, planting himself on all fours just over the line, the winner by a neck.

The third heat was merely a repetition of the second. All agreed that Tad's superior horsemanship, alone, had won the race for him. Ned took his defeat good-naturedly.

By this time, the boys had come to feel fully as much at home in the saddle as they formerly had been out of it. Even Stacy Brown, though he did not sit his saddle with the same grace that marked the riding of Tad Butler and Ned Rector, more practiced horsemen, was nevertheless no mean rider.

"We will now try some cowboy riding," announced Tad, who, as master of horse, was supposed to direct the riding of the club. "Who of you can pick up a hat on the run?"

"Don't all speak at once," said Ned, after a moment's silence on the part of the band.

"I'll show you," promised Tad.

Galloping into camp the boy fetched his sombrero, which he carried well out into the field and tossed away. Then, bidding the boys ride up near the spot to watch him, he drew off some ten rods, and, wheeling, spurred his pony to a run.

Tad rose in the stirrups as he neared the spot where the hat lay, keeping his eyes fixed intently upon it.

All at once he dropped to the saddle and slipped the left foot from the stirrup. Grasping the pommel with the left hand, he appeared to dive head first toward the ground.

They saw his long hair almost brush the grass; one of his hands swept down and up, and once more Tad Butler rose standing, in his stirrups, uttering a cowboy yell as he waved the sombrero on high.

The boys howled with delight—that is, all did save Stacy Brown.

"Huh! That's nothing. I can do that myself," he grunted. "I've seen them do that in the wild west shows too many times not to know how myself."

Walter smiled, with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Why not show us, then?" he said.

"I will," replied Chunky, confidently.

"Got your life insured?" asked Ned. "If you haven't I would advise you to go easy. Tad is an experienced rider."

"Don't you worry about me, Ned Rector. Guess I know how to ride. Let me have that hat, Tad," he demanded as the latter came trotting up to the group.

Stacy, his face flushed, determination plainly showing in his eyes, stretched forth his hand for the sombrero. Riding bravely out into the field, he tossed it to the ground. The first time he rode swiftly by it, leaning over to look at the hat as he passed, holding to the pommel firmly with his left hand.

Stacy dismounted and removed the hat carefully to one side.

"What's that for?" demanded Ned, wonderingly.

"Hat too close to me. I couldn't get it," explained Chunky.

The boys roared.

"Why don't you move the pony? You don't have to move the hat, you ninny."

Once more Stacy approached the sombrero, his pony running well, and as he drew near it, they saw him rise in his saddle just as Tad Butler had done a few minutes before.

"By George, he's going to try it," exclaimed Ned.

"Be careful, Chunky," warned Walter.

"He's got to learn," declared Tad.

Then Chunky essayed the feat.

At the moment when he freed his left foot from the stirrup, he threw his body sharply to the right, reaching for the hat without taking the precaution to grasp the pommel.

As a result, instead of stopping when he reached the hat, the boy kept on going. Fortunately, his right foot freed itself from the stirrup at the same time, or there might have been a different ending. Chunky turned a double somersault, lay still for a moment, then struggled up, rubbing his body gingerly, as the rest of the party came hurrying up to him.

"Are you hurt?" asked Tad apprehensively.

"No; that's the way I always get off," grinned Chunky.



CHAPTER

VISIONS OF GOLD

After satisfying themselves that Stacy was not injured, the others of the party each made an effort to pick up the hat, though with much more caution than Stacy had used.

Ned accomplished the trick the first time he tried. Walter, however, made several attempts, instructed by Tad, before he finally caught the knack of it.

"That will do for one day," decided the instructor, finally. "We must not tire out our ponies, for we still have a long jaunt ahead of us, according to the guide."

When they reached the camp, Stacy was still rubbing his head, much to the amusement of his companions. The noonday lunch was a light one; while they were eating it the ponies were tethered out on the plain to browse on the fresh, green grass.

Shortly after noon the party was on its way again, Lige being anxious to reach their destination before dark. Yet the trail was so rugged and precipitous that rapid progress was impossible. To add to this, late in the afternoon they overtook the pack train, which they found halted in the trail. One of the burros had gone lame, nor did Jose know what the trouble was. He was sitting by the side of the trail helplessly, waiting for someone to come along.

Tad hastily slipped from his saddle, running over to the burro.

"Which foot is he lame in?" asked the boy.

"Donno," answered the Mexican.

The boy led the little animal back and forth several times.

"It's the off hind foot," he announced.

"Off?" queried Chunky. "He doesn't seem to have a foot off."

"No, I didn't mean that. Horsemen call the right the off side, and the left the near one," explained Tad, picking up the beast's foot and examining it critically.

"He has stepped on a sharp piece of rock and driven it into the hoof," announced the boy. "I am afraid we shall have to unload the pack and strap him down before I can get it out."

Tying their horses, all hands drew near to witness the proceeding, which bade fair to be unusually interesting. However, Tad skilfully rigged a harness out of a long piece of quarter-inch rope. This he put on the burro, and soon had the animal on its knees, then on its side. The rope was drawn taut so that the burro could not kick, after which the boy cautiously cut around the sharp stone with his pocket knife, and, after considerable effort, extracted it.

"I'm sorry we have nothing to put in the wound. But I guess he will go along all right. He'll be lame for the rest of the day; but we cannot help that."

Once more they loaded up the beast of burden and the procession continued on its way, Lige having decided to keep the train in sight in case it was thought advisable to stop and make camp. They had been so delayed that it was now close to sunset.

At dusk they were still some distance from their destination.

"I think we bad better pull up here," suggested the guide.

"There's a moon up there," answered Tad. "Why not go on by moonlight? That is, of course, if you can follow the trail."

"I could follow the trail with my eyes shut, young man," grinned the guide. "What do you say, Professor?"

"As you think best, Lige. I do not mind a moonlight ride."

"Yes; let's go on," urged the boys, looking forward with keen anticipation to traveling over the mountains by night, for this they had not yet had an opportunity to do.

"Very well, if your appetites will keep for another hour or so. We should make it in an hour and a half," Lige decided, glancing about him keenly for landmarks. "We'll try, at any rate."

The shadows now began to close in, the gulches standing out in bold relief, black, forbidding seas at the foot of the ridges that lay a white wonderland in the moonlight.

"This is great!" declared Ned enthusiastically.

"Glorious," breathed Tad, drinking in the scene with wide open eyes, while inhaling in long, slow breaths, the soft mountain air. "I never saw anything more beautiful."

Now that night had settled over the trail, the riders had to move along more cautiously, and with tight reins, that their ponies might not stumble and hurl the riders over their heads. Tad, with an eye to caution, had advised them to do this. In this way the train moved on until nearly nine o'clock, when Lige announced that they had reached their halting place.

The mountain top where they stopped was thickly studded with cedars and pinyon trees, while off in the ravines slender spruces reared their sharp points above the shadows, projecting up through the black sea like the spars of a whole fleet of sunken schooners.

"Old Ben Tackers lives nigh here," the guide told them. "I'll go over and get him after supper. We can then talk with him about his dog. He can tell us all about the game. Ben is a character. However, you mustn't mind his blunt way of speaking. The old fellow is all right at heart."

Ben came over later in the evening, and the boys were much interested in him. A thick shock of shaggy hair covered his head and face, while through the mass of gray and brown twinkled a pair of bright, beady eyes. Ned said they reminded him of a couple of burnt holes in a horse blanket,

"Any game about here, Mr. Tackers?" asked Ned after the old mountaineer had been introduced to them.

"For them as can see, there's things to be seen," answered Ben enigmatically. "What do you reckon on shooting?"

"Anything we can find to shoot at," answered Ned.

"Beckon I'll go home and lock up my pigs, then," declared the old man firmly.

"Oh, it's not as bad as that, sir," hastily added Tad. "My friend, Ned, means anything in the game line. Surely we can be trusted to tell the difference between a bob-cat and a litter of pigs. Stacy Brown, here, knocked out a bobcat with nothing but a club at Beaver Mountain yesterday."

Ben turned to look at Chunky, who, huddled on the ground, appeared not unlike a large, round ball.

"Huh! He ain't much to look at," grunted the old man. "I got a tame cub over to my cabin that would be a good mate for him."

Stacy flushed painfully.

"Mr. Thomas was saying that you might be willing to make some arrangement with us so we could use your dog for a few days," hinted Professor Zepplin.

"Eh! Dogs! Lige Thomas kin have my dogs—I've got two of them now. No arrangement ain't necessary," growled Ben.

"We prefer to pay for them, sir," spoke up Walter. "And perhaps you may be able to tell us, also, where we may hope to find game?"

"Mebby so and mebby not. I'll see Lige about that. Got that cat skin ye was talking about?" he demanded suddenly, looking from one to the other.

Chunky brought it out, the old man examining it critically, nodding his head over some thought of his own.

"Bigger cats on Tacker's mountain," he grunted. "Want to sell it?" Chunky shook his head.

"Huh!" exclaimed the old man, rising and starting away.

"What's your hurry, sir?" asked the Professor politely.

"Must shut up the pigs. The little red-faced bear over there by the fire might get loose with his club again," and the mountaineer strode from the camp without another word.

Stacy Brown hung his head in chagrin, while the boys laughed heartily at what they considered a most excellent joke on Stacy.

"Chatty old person, isn't he, Mr. Thomas?" grinned Ned.

"Well, not exactly. But he's one of the best hunters on the Park Range. Besides, he is credited with knowing more about what's hidden under these mountains than any other man on them. But Ben doesn't care much for money. He'll set us right about the game when the time comes. If the game is not running he'll stay away and say nothing. However, at the right moment, you'll see old Ben Tackers and his dogs suddenly appearing in camp. It will do you no good to ask him questions. He'll tell me in a word what he has to say, and I shall have to guess the rest."

"And you will know what he means?" asked Tad.

"I reckon," grinned Lige.

"In about the same way he told me to-night that there were some bad men in these parts— prospectors they called themselves—who were trying to locate some sort of a claim——"

"Claim? What kind?" asked Walter.

"Gold."

"Gold? Here?" spoke up the Professor sharply.

"Mountains are full of it, if you can find it," answered Lige in an impressive tone.

And the boys, thrilled by the thought that perhaps fortunes in the bright yellow metal lay beneath their feet, went to bed to dream of buried treasures and limitless wealth.



CHAPTER XIV

A NARROW ESCAPE

The Pony Riders awoke full of enthusiasm for the work of the day. Thus far, each day had held a new and wonderful experience for them, while those to come were destined to be even more full of stirring incidents.

Most of all, the boys looked forward to the hunting trips that had been promised. Next to that came the exploration of mountain caves. It was enough to gladden the heart of any boy.

Immediately they had arisen, they descended upon the guide in a body, demanding to know if they were to hunt that day.

"Depends upon Ben Tackers," answered Lige. "You remember what I told you last night. He'll let us know when it's time for our little excursion. I think we had best have another hour of target practice this morning."

This plan suited the boys so exactly that, after breakfast, they set to work cleaning their rifles. A dozen rounds of ammunition were placed in their cartridge belts, after which, the boys announced their readiness for practice.

"Get the ponies," directed the guide.

"Ponies? What for? We're not going to shoot the ponies, are we?" asked Ned Rector.

"I wouldn't advise it," grinned the guide. "I'll show you what I want after we have reached the range. I suppose you know that hunting in this country is quite generally done on horseback, so you will have to get used to that way of shooting. Also your ponies must become accustomed to the firing from their backs. Snap shooting on horseback is a trick you will have to learn. It may be the means of saving your lives some time when you are after wild game."

The boys made a rush to the spot where the ponies were staked. The little animals looked up in mild protest as their owners hastily threw on saddles, cinched the girths and slipped the bits into unwilling mouths.

Leading their ponies into camp, each boy, with gun slung over his shoulder, stood at the left of his mount, awaiting the command of his leader.

"Ready," announced Tad.

Four right hands grasped the saddle pommels, the left hands the manes.

"Mount!"

Four enthusiastic lads swung lightly into their saddles, gathering up the reins, and on the alert for the next command.

"Forward!" ordered Tad.

The Pony Riders clucked to the little animals and in single column filed slowly up the mountain pass.

The place that Lige Thomas had chosen for the target work was not an ideal one, being rough and uneven. Yet, as he explained to them, it represented general hunting conditions in the Rockies.

However, the boys did not care. Their ponies were sure-footed enough now, they thought, to warrant being trusted under ordinary conditions, while the boys themselves had no fear of their own ability to stick to their saddles.

Lige picked out a stump for the first target, on which he pinned a torn piece of newspaper.

This the boys were to shoot at with their ponies at the gallop. They were first to ride to the upper end of the range, after which, they were to gallop down the field, keeping to the right of the target, firing at will at any time before reaching a certain point designated by a handkerchief tied to a bush.

It was a proud and happy band that thundered down the field on the fleet-footed ponies, one at a time, discharging their weapons as they came bravely on.

At first the little animals objected, in no uncertain manner, to the crashing of the heavy guns over their heads. Chunky's horse reared and plunged until the boy was forced to drop his rifle and hang on desperately, while the pony tore about the field. The young man undoubtedly would have come to grief had not Tad Butler, observing that his companion had lost control of the animal, put spurs to Texas, and reining alongside of Stacy, grasped the pony by the bit, subduing it only after a lively struggle. During this contest Chunky had let go of the reins entirely, and was clinging to the pommel of the saddle with both hands.