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CHAPTER VII
TREED BY A LYNX
There was but one thing to do and Ralph did it. In the molecule of time granted to him, he got on his feet. At the same time he uttered a yell which had the intended effect of checking the second onslaught of the lynx for an instant.
Of that instant Ralph took good advantage. He bounded at full speed toward the nearest tree which looked as if it might sustain his weight. Luckily, there was one not far off – a dead cedar. He managed to reach it just ahead of the lynx and began scrambling into the low growing branches. The rifle that had failed him in that critical moment, he abandoned as useless; anyhow he could not have climbed, encumbered with the heavy weapon.
“If I ever get out of this I’ll stick to the old-fashioned repeater,” was his thought as he flung the weapon full at the head of the lynx, missing her, in his agitation, by a good foot.
Under the circumstances, Ralph had done what he thought best in making for the tree. In reality, though, had he had time for reflection, he would better have taken his chances in a race toward his companions, for of course a lynx can climb as well as any wild cat. In fact, Ralph had hardly gained a second’s security before the creature flung herself furiously against the foot of the tree and began climbing after the boy.
“She’s coming after me, sure as fate!” gasped Ralph desperately. “Gracious, look at those claws! I’ve got to stop her in some way; but I’d like to know how.”
By this time he had clambered some distance up the tree, an easy task, for the branches grew fairly thick, and as the tree was dead there were no leafy boughs to encumber his progress. But unfortunately, this made it equally easy for his assailant to pursue him. Ralph saw that unless he did something decisive pretty quickly, he would be driven to the upper part of the tree where it would be unsafe for his weight.
Just above him, at this juncture, he spied a fairly heavy branch which, it seemed, he might break off easily. Reaching above him, the boy gave it a stout tug, and found that he had at least a good, thick club in his possession.
The lynx was just below him. Ralph raised his luckily found weapon and brought it down with a resounding crack on her skull.
With a howl of rage the creature dropped; but caught on a lower branch and clinging there, glared up at him more menacingly than before. Far from injuring her as the boy had hoped, the blow had only served to infuriate the creature.
Suddenly, as if determined to bring the contest to a speedy termination, the lynx began climbing again. Once more Ralph raised his club and as the animal came within striking distance he brought it down again with all his force.
“I hope I crack your ugly head,” he muttered vindictively as he struck.
But by bad luck, Ralph’s hopes were doomed to be blasted. He had struck a good, hard blow and one that sent the lynx, snarling and spitting, scurrying down the tree. But with such good will had he delivered the blow that his club had broken in two. The best part of it went crashing to the ground, leaving him with only a stump in his hand.
“If she comes back at me now, I’m done for,” thought Ralph, as he looked downward.
But for the moment it appeared that the creature had no such intention. Perhaps the two blows had stunned and confused her. At any rate she lay on one of the lower boughs seemingly stupefied. As Ralph gingerly prepared to descend, however, hoping to pass by the brute, she gave a snarl and slipped with cat-like agility to the ground. There, at the foot of the tree she lay, gazing upward with malicious eyes. Evidently she had given up her first method of attack, but meant to lie there like a sentinel and let Ralph make the next move.
“Gracious!” thought the boy as he saw this, “I am in a fine pickle. I can’t fire any shots to attract the attention of the bunch and I guess shouting won’t do much good. They may come to look for me, but they won’t know in what direction to search.”
Nevertheless, Ralph inhaled a good, deep breath and shouted with all his lung power. But no result was manifest, except that the lynx growled and snarled and lashed its stumpy tail angrily. Once it set up a dreary howl and the unpleasant thought occurred to Ralph that the creature might be calling its mate.
“If two of them come at me – ” he thought; but he didn’t dwell on that thought.
Instead, he cut himself another club and then sitting back, thought the situation over with all his might. As if in search of an inspiration he began rummaging his pockets. How he wished he had brought his revolver along, or even the ammonia “squirt-gun” that he carried occasionally when traveling as a protection against ugly-natured dogs. All at once, in an inside pocket, his hand encountered a small bottle. Ralph almost uttered a cry of joy. A sudden flash of inspiration had come to him. In the bottle was some concentrated ammonia. He had filled his “squirt-gun” that morning before placing it in the pack, and in the hurry of leaving the train at Pine Pass had shoved the bottle into his pocket.
“It’s an awfully long chance,” he thought as he drew out the bottle, “but, by Jove, I’ll try it. Desperate situations call for desperate remedies, and this is sure a tough predicament that I’m in.”
His movements had attracted the attention of the lynx, and it reared up on its hind legs and began clambering toward him once more. With trembling fingers Ralph drew the cork of the bottle, and a pungent odor filled the air. The reek of the ardent drug made the boy’s eyes water; but he was glad the stuff was so strong. It suited his purpose all the better.
What he had to do now was nerve-racking in the extreme. He did not dare to try to put his plan into execution till the lynx got closer to him, and to sit still and watch the ugly brute clambering toward him was enough to upset the stoutest nature. Ralph waited till the animal was on a branch directly below him and was glaring up at him as if making up its mind for the final onslaught.
Then suddenly he cried out:
“Take that, you brute!”
With a swift, sure aim he doused the contents of the ammonia bottle full in the face of the lynx. The effect was immediate and startling. With a scream of rage and pain the blinded animal dropped, clawing and scratching through the dead limbs, to the ground. Landing on all fours she began clawing up the earth in a frenzy of pain. The sharp, pungent ammonia was eating into her eyes like a red-hot flame.
Suddenly, above the yelps and howls of the maddened creature, there came another sound, a hail off in the woods.
“Ralph! oh, Ralph!”
“Here I am, fellows! This way! Come on quick!” shouted Ralph at the top of his voice.
Then as they grew closer, still shouting, he added a word of caution:
“Have your guns ready! I’m treed by a lynx!”
Through the trees the two boys burst into view. At the same instant the lynx dashed madly off toward the trail. As she dashed along she pawed her tingling eyes, trying in vain to rid them of the smarting fluid that Ralph’s lucky throw had filled them with.
Ralph slid to the ground and picking up his faithless rifle joined his chums in a wild chase after the animal. Yelling like Comanches they dashed after, making the uproar that had alarmed and startled the professor and Mountain Jim and their young companion. But it was not till they reached the trail, beyond the now tethered horses, that they came within shooting distance of it. Then Persimmons raised his rifle and fired.
As the shot echoed across the muskeg the lynx bounded into the air, turned a somersault, and just as the rest of the party rode up, lay twitching in death with Persimmons bending proudly over it.
“Larruping lynxes,” he was shouting, “I guess we’ve got at least one skin to take home!”
CHAPTER VIII
A WALKING PINCUSHION
Ralph’s story was soon told, with the accompaniment of a running fire of sarcasms from Mountain Jim concerning automatic rifles and all connected with them. An examination of Ralph’s weapon showed that a cartridge from the magazine had become jammed just at the critical instant that he faced the lynx.
“There ain’t nuthin’ better than this old Winchester of mine,” declared Mountain Jim, taking his well-oiled and polished, albeit ancient model rifle from its holster and patting it lovingly. “I’ve carried it through the Rockies for fifteen years and it’s never failed me yet.”
Nevertheless, the boys did not condemn their automatics on that account. In fact, Ralph blamed his own ignorance of the action of his new weapon more for its failure to work than any fault lying with the rifle itself.
With a few quick strokes of his knife and a tug at the hide, Mountain Jim had the lynx skinned with almost incredible rapidity. Salt was sprinkled liberally on the skin, and it was rolled up and tied behind Persimmons’ saddle, to be carefully scraped of all fat and skin later on.
It was sunset when they left the well-traveled trail, along which, however, they had encountered no human being but a wandering packer on his way to an extension of the Canadian Pacific Railroad with provisions and blasting powder, borne by his sure-footed animals.
In the brief twilight they pushed on till they reached a spot that appeared favorable for a camp. A spring gushed from a wall of rock and formed one of an almost innumerable number of small streams that fed a creek, which, in turn, was later to pour its waters into the mighty Columbia. Ralph needed no instructions on how to turn the horses out, and while he and the rest, acting under his directions, attended to this, Mountain Jim got supper ready. By the time the boys had completed their “chores” and the tents were up, the guide had their evening meal of bannocks, beans and bacon, and boiling hot tea ready for them. For dessert they had stewed dried prunes and apples, and the boys voted the meal an excellent one. Indeed, they had been hungry enough to eat almost anything.
Supper despatched, it was not long before they were ready to turn into their blankets, which were of the heavy army type, for the nights in the Rockies are cool. To the music of a near-by waterfall, they sank into profound slumber, and before the moon was up the camp was wrapped in silence.
It was about midnight that they were aroused by a loud wail of distress from the tent which Persimmons shared with his two chums. Mountain Jim rolled out of his blankets – he disdained tents – and Jimmie, who likewise was content with a makeshift by the fire, started up as quickly. From the door of the professor’s tent appeared an odd-looking figure in striped pajamas.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland! What’s up?” roared Mountain Jim.
“Wow! Ouch! He’s sticking me! Ow-w-w-w!” came in a series of yells from Persimmons. “Ouch! Prancing pincushions, come quick!”
“Is that boy in trouble again?” demanded the professor, as he slipped on a pair of slippers and advanced with Mountain Jim toward the scene of the disturbance. The air was now filled with boyish shouts, echoing and re-echoing among the craggy hills that surrounded the small canyon in which the camp was pitched.
As they neared the tent, from under the sod-cloth a small dark form came shuffling forth. It grunted as it went, like a diminutive pig. Jim jerked his old Winchester to his shoulder and the death struggle of the small animal immediately followed the rifle’s report.
Simultaneously, the three boys clad in their underclothing, dashed out of the tent door.
“Is it Indians?” shouted Hardware.
“A bear?” yelled Ralph, who had his automatic in hand.
“More like a walking pincushion,” yelled Persimmons, dancing about and nursing one of his hands, “look here!”
He held out his hand and they saw several objects which, in the moonlight, looked like so many knitting needles projecting from it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mountain Jim, whose mirth aroused Persimmons’ secret indignation, “I reckon it was a walking pincushion, all right. Boy, don’t never put your hand on a porcupine again, they always leave souvenirs.”
“A porcupine!” cried the professor.
“Sure enough,” rejoined the guide, and he rolled to their feet with his rifle barrel the body of the small animal he had shot.
It was surely enough one of those spiny and familiar denizens of the north woods.
“Nodding needles! No wonder I felt as if I’d struck a pincushion,” cried poor Persimmons, who had, by this, drawn the last of the offending quills from his hand. “I heard something grunting and nosing about my blankets, and when I put my hand out I got it full of stickers.”
“I’ll put some peroxide on,” said the professor, hastening to his tent for the medicine chest.
“They aren’t poisonous, are they?” asked Ralph, referring to the quills.
“No; just sharp, that’s all,” responded Mountain Jim. “Porcupines are the greediest and stupidest cusses in the woods. I reckon this one smelled grub and was investigating when he ran into Master Simmons here.”
“You mean that Persimmons ran into him,” corrected Ralph.
“Guggling geese, no!” expostulated Persimmons, holding out his hand to be dressed, for the wounds made by the sharp quills were bleeding, “he ran into me, don’t ever mistake that.”
It was some time before the camp quieted down again, but finally peace was restored and a tranquil night, undisturbed by any more nocturnal adventures, was passed.
Bright and early the next day they set out once more, traveling now off the beaten track and making for their destination, the Big Bend of the Columbia River. The professor was on the lookout for what he called metamorphic specimens of rock, which, in plain English, means bits of stone and so forth that show traces of the new world in the making. For, as he had explained to the boys, the Canadian Rockies are, from a geologist’s standpoint, of recent formation. Unlike many chains of like character, they are not supposed to be volcanic in formation. The final cause of the uplifting of their giant crests is generally attributed to the shrinkage of the earth’s interior by loss of heat or some other action. It is also supposed that eons ago the Rockies were as lofty as the Himalayas or the Andes, but that the various destructive forces that worked and still work amidst their rugged bosoms, have diminished their stature by thousands of feet.
It was at the close of their second day’s travel that the first of a series of mysterious happenings, destined to puzzle them greatly in the future, occurred. Ralph, who had been disturbed by the noise of some nocturnal animal trampling about in the brush, rose from his blankets and emerged into the moonlight with his rifle, his thoughts centered on the notion that his long-cherished hope of shooting a grizzly had materialized.
Not far from the camp, and overlooking it, a lofty rock towered above the floor of the valley through which they were then traveling. In the moonlight its dark form was silhouetted blackly against the night sky. Ralph’s heart gave a leap as he saw, or thought he saw, something moving on the summit of the great boulder.
He raised his rifle to fire and stood with beating pulses awaiting the opportunity.
Suddenly a form moved into view on the summit of the rock. The boy’s finger was just about to press the trigger, when he gave a gasp of astonishment and the rifle almost fell from his hands.
It was the form of a man that had appeared, blackly outlined against the moonlight. For one instant the figure stood there and then, as Ralph hailed it in a quavering voice, it wheeled, and like an alarmed wild beast, slipped off into the forest.
CHAPTER IX
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY
Ralph said nothing of his adventure of the night till the next morning. As he had expected, his young chums put it down to a feverish imagination. Even the professor suggested a dose of quinine; but Mountain Jim walked over after the morning meal to where the boy had seen the apparition, which, Ralph was beginning to believe, the figure must have been.
The lad accompanied the mountaineer, who had expected to find some tracks or traces by which Ralph’s adventure might be verified. But the ground was rocky, and the soft bed of the forest beyond held no tracks, so that they were disappointed in their anticipation of finding some clew to the strange appearance of the night.
“You’re certain sure, dead certain sure that you did see something. Didn’t just dream it?” questioned Mountain Jim as they made their way back to camp where the others were busy packing the ponies, even Persimmons being by this time able to cast a “diamond hitch.”
“I’m positive,” declared Ralph firmly; “if I hadn’t been so certain that what I saw was a man, I would have fired. But who could it have been?” he added in a perplexed voice. Jim shook his blond head.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland, I dunno, boy,” he said, thoughtfully puffing at his pipe. “You ain’t the sort of lad to dream things, I can see that. But it’s got me. If we’d been in the gold country now it might have been a prospector, but nobody goes through here, not even hunters, for right where we are now is a bad place for game.”
So, for the time being, the mystery of the midnight visitor was unsolved and almost forgotten. It was destined to be recalled later in a startling manner, but for the present even Ralph began to believe that he might have been the victim of some sort of an hallucination, caused, possibly, by the fact that he was only half awake when he had beheld the figure on the rock.
As Mountain Jim had said, the country through which they were now traveling was indeed a bad section for hunters. Although the boys made several detours after game, not so much as a rabbit did they see. The day following the night on which Ralph had seen, or thought he had seen, the figure of the watching man, they encountered, for the first time, a tract of country common enough in the Canadian wilds but particularly unpleasant to travel through, namely, a brulee or vast tract of woods through which a forest fire has swept, leaving desolation in its path.
Nothing more depressing can be imagined than these burned forests. Naked, blackened trees, with rags of scorched bark peeling from their bare trunks, tower out of a desert expanse of gray-black ash. Horses or foot travelers passing through, churn up clouds of this ashen dust which chokes the nostrils, burns the eyes and blackens everything with which it comes in contact.
Our travelers found themselves on the outskirts of such a place some time before noon on the day mentioned. Mountain Jim had at first thought of making a detour up a mountain side, but after a consultation it was decided to press on through the desolate waste, where charred trunks stuck up like the blackened stumps of teeth in an old man’s jaws.
As they plunged into the brulee they found their ponies sinking over the fetlocks in the ashes. In places, huge piles of trunks, burned through at the base, lay like barriers across their path, and it was necessary to go around them to find a passable way. Long before they were out of the wretched place the water in their canteens was gone, and their throats were clogged and lips cracked from the dry, acrid dust that rose in clouds. From time to time the boys were compelled to rub their eyes to relieve the tingling smart in them, and speedily their faces were blackened like those of coal heavers. A more sorry-looking party it would be hard to imagine than that which, hour after hour, painfully wended its way through the burned forest. Not a sprig of green, not a rill of water refreshed their sight. No birds or animals could be seen or heard. On every side was nothing but black desolation.
Ralph and young Ware rode ahead, side by side, while behind straggled the rest of the party. Mountain Jim brought up the rear behind the pack animals, which needed urging with whip and voice through the desolation of the brulee. Now and then, far off, they could hear the crash of some forest giant as its burned-through trunk gave way and it came smashing to the ground with a roar like thunder, not infrequently bringing two or three of its mates with it.
Jim had warned the boys and the professor to be on the lookout for such things, and as Ralph and Harry Ware rode along they kept a bright and vigilant watch for any tree that looked as if its fall was imminent.
“Gee whiz! I feel like an ant that has lost its way in the ashes of a camper’s fire,” was the graphic way in which Hardware expressed his feelings, as for the twentieth time that morning he tried to clear his throat of ashes.
They ate a hasty lunch, of which, the boys declared, ashes formed the chief ingredient, for the dry, implacable gray dust appeared to sift into every mouthful they tasted. A long stop was out of the question. There was no knowing how far the brulee extended and they must push on and get to water, for already the ponies were beginning to show signs of distress. The poor animals’ sweaty sides were caked with gray dust till they all appeared of one uniform drab color. For the matter of that, the travelers themselves were no better off. Like a dull monochrome, they were cloaked in ashen gray from head to foot.
Hardly speaking, for their spirits were at the lowest ebb in this ghastly ruin of a majestic forest, they pushed on. The only life in the brulee appeared to be the black flies and mosquitoes which bit till they drew blood, further annoying them.
“I thought I’d rough it in the West,” muttered Ralph once as his pony tumbled over a blackened trunk that lay across the trail, “but this beats anything I’ve ever experienced, – pah!” and he spat out a mouthful of ashy dust.
The afternoon wore on, and still they stumbled along through the brulee without any signs of its coming to an end. As far as they could see the forest of blackened trunks extended, the same carpet of ashen dust was everywhere. The sun, growing lower, hung like a glowing ball of copper in a red sky, seen through the dust that they kicked up as they moved painfully along.
The horses were driven half mad by the biting flies, and their fetlocks were cruelly bruised and cut by the charred logs and rocks. It was heartbreaking traveling, but of a kind that must befall sooner or later everyone who ventures into the wilds of the Canadian Rockies.
Tired, choked and irritable, Harry Ware was lagging behind Ralph, who was now riding in advance alone. Behind him he could hear the voice of Mountain Jim unceasingly urging on the pack animals. Mountain Jim never swore, but his range of words which were forceful and expressive without being profane, was amazing. Evidently, too, his adjurations had their effect on the jaded ponies, for they stumbled bravely on leaping logs and dodging stones with renewed agility every time the guide’s voice boomed through that blackened, fire-swept wilderness.
Ralph had fallen into a semi-doze. The deadly monotony of the half-calcined columns on every hand, the close heat of the brulee made him drowsy. The voice of Mountain Jim fell more and more faintly on his ears. Harry Ware, kicking his pony viciously, passed him.
“I’m going to be the first out of this beastly place,” he remarked with emphasis as he rode by.
“Well, don’t kick any more dust in my face than you can help,” rejoined Ralph, only a shade less irritably.
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Harry, ordinarily the best and most even-tempered of boys.
Ralph flushed angrily for an instant and his hand clenched as a cloud of choking dust was spurned in his face by the heels of Harry Ware’s mount. But the next instant he gained control of himself.
“Pshaw! I guess we’re all losing our tempers,” he murmured to himself, “and it’s a fact that this place would make a saint cross – Hold up there, pony! Not much longer now.”
Content with his spurt ahead, Hardware slowed his pony down to a walk a few paces in front of Ralph. He did not apologize for his unthinking act of smothering Ralph with dust. Instead, he gazed sullenly straight ahead of him.
He was hot, thirsty, and bitten mercilessly by black flies. The lad was in no mood to go around obstacles. Rather was he in that savage humor that rushes recklessly on, although he had been warned of the dangers of the brulee. In fact, the frequent crashing of half burned-through trees, as a vagrant wind caught them and snapped them off, would have been sufficient indication that a sharp lookout was necessary to anyone in a less irritable mood. But Harry didn’t think of this. Instead, he urged his tired pony viciously over blackened logs with quirt and heel.
Suddenly Ralph, whose vigilance had not relaxed although he was fearfully drowsy, thought he saw a great blackened trunk directly ahead of them lean over a trifle. He was sure of it in another moment.
“Pull out!” he yelled to Harry, who was driving his pony straight in a path which would bring him under the swaying trunk.
“Oh, mind your own business!” flung back Hardware crossly, and drove his little mount right on.
Ralph did not hesitate a minute. He wore spurs, the same blunt-rowelled pair he had used on the border. He drove these into his pony’s side and brought down his quirt with a crack that made the little animal snort angrily and plunge forward.
In front of him he saw the mighty column sway and oscillate as though in a vain attempt to recover its equipoise. Directly under it was Harry Ware, sullenly riding on with his eyes on the ground. Once more Ralph yelled and his pony gave a wild leap forward.
Suddenly the mighty trunk rushed earthward. Simultaneously Ralph’s hand fell on Hardware’s bridle. He gave a tug that brought the latter’s pony up on its haunches. It reared wildly, almost toppling backward.
At the same instant a cold wind fanned both boys as the trunk swept down. There was a deafening crash almost under the feet of the plunging ponies, and both lads were shrouded in a cloud of black dust that rose up like a dark veil.
“Good heavens! They’re killed!” shouted the professor dashing forward.
About the two boys the dust whirled and eddied. The ponies plunged wildly, almost unseating them, but Ralph held on till he had dragged Hardware’s mount out of the black dust cloud.
As he did so, from ahead of them, came crash after crash with a startling suddenness. The brulee was filled with shocks of sound that rang in thunderous reverberations along the steep rocks. The echoes flung back and forth till the uproar was deafening. In the meantime the party, including the two lads who had been saved from what appeared certain death, stood fast.
They hardly breathed till the crashes grew less and less frequent and a brooding silence settled down over the brulee once more.
Then Hardware, shaking all over, gazed at the great trunk lying recumbent not two yards from them. His eyes filled with tears. He held out a blackened hand to Ralph, who smiled at him through his mask of gray ash.
“I – I – I don’t know how to thank you, Ralph, old man,” he choked out. “If it hadn’t been for you, in my silly temper I’d have gone right on without minding you, and – and – ”
He could not go further, but Ralph’s fingers closed on his out-stretched hand.
“That’s all right, old man,” was all he said; but between both boys a thrill ran as their fingers clasped. Hardware had learned a lesson there in the brulee that all the schools in Christendom couldn’t have taught him, and he knew it.
“A mighty near thing,” said Mountain Jim, as the others rode up, “I guess I’ll have a smoke.”
His voice was steady enough, but his hands shook as he filled his old brier. Death had swept by too closely for any of them to recover their nerve for half an hour or more. By that time, as they rode on, the charred trunks were fewer and fewer, and an hour before sundown they came out of that “Valley of Desolation” into a wide canon, carpeted with lush, green grass and watered by a crystal clear stream. On each side towered rocky scraps of cliff clothed with dark pines and balsams.
Boys and men broke into a cheer, and even the dispirited ponies fell into a brisk gait without urging. The travelers forgot their trials as they laved in the fresh, cold water of the mountain stream and watched Jim getting supper, assisted by Jimmie, while the ponies ravenously cropped the fresh, juicy grass. But it was days before the last trace of ashes was removed from their belongings, and one at least of the party was destined never to forget that brulee in the Rockies as long as he might live.
