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.
"You take Texas and let me ride your pony for a couple of rounds,"
suggested Tad. "I'll see if I can't trim him into shape."
Stacy willingly relinquished his horse, and Tad, mounting the stubborn
little animal, treated the party to as entertaining a bit of
horsemanship as they ever had witnessed. After Tad had finished with
the pony the animal, thoroughly subdued, made no further objections to
the discharge of weapons all about and over him.
"Now, go ahead, Chunky," advised Tad. "If he cuts up any more just
take a tight rein and give him the spur. But I think he'll be good
without it."
Stacy had no further trouble with the pony after that. In fact, all
the ponies soon accustomed themselves to the noise of the firing and
the attendant excitement.
At first none of the boys seemed able to hit even the
stump. Presently, though, little black patches began to appear on the
white paper as the marksmen dashed by, each successful shot being
greeted by a cheer of approval from the spectators.
"Those boys have the right stuff in them," said the guide to Professor
Zepplin. "They shoot and ride like old hands already, though they
don't hit the mark every time they shoot."
"They are young Americans," smiled the Professor. "No other country in
the world produces such types. As a foreigner I can appreciate that."
While they were talking, Tad was taking his turn at the target.
"Just look at that boy ride. That proves it," said the Professor.
Tad had dropped the bridle rein over the saddle bow as he neared the
shooting mark. Rising in his stirrups, riding there as if he were a
part of the animal itself, he was holding the bobbing rifle easily,
eyes fixed on the mark that hung gleaming in the sunlight.
Suddenly the butt of the rifle sprang to his right shoulder, a flash
of smoke and flame leaped from the muzzle of the gun, and a tiny black
patch appeared, like magic, fairly in the center of the target.
Dropping to his saddle, half-turning his body, Tad Butler sent back a
second shot hard on the report of the first one, once more planting a
leaden pellet in the now well-riddled paper.
The boys sent up a whoop of approval.
"I guess that will do for to-day," decided the guide. "Got any charges
left in your magazines?"
"I have," answered Chunky.
"Draw them, then."
"Yes," said Ned Rector. "Even though Chunky is beginning to get his
eyes open, I don't consider myself safe so long as he has a loaded gun
in his hands. What we shall do with him when we get after real game,
and can't watch him every second, I don't know."
"Don't you bother about me. You've got enough to do looking after
yourself," retorted Stacy sharply, much to the discomfiture of his
tormentor.
The boys now turned campward, well satisfied with the morning's
practice and with keen appetites for the noonday meal. Nothing had
been seen of Ben Tackers, so their hopes for going hunting that day
were shattered.
Yet they were given no opportunity to brood over their
disappointment. Professor Zepplin and Lige Thomas still had a few
surprises in store for them. Very cleverly, they had pieced these
surprises along instead of giving them all to the lads at the
beginning. Thus each day held its new interest, different from any
that had preceded it.
"We will call this our shooting day, eh, Thomas?" smiled the Professor
significantly.
"It has been."
"Then, perhaps you had best get out the other implements of warfare
for our young gentlemen. It will keep them busy until supper time,
furnishing something new as well."
With a knowing grin, Lige went to the cook tent, soon returning with
an armful. At first the boys glanced at the bundle curiously, then
with more interest as it began to assume shape and form to their eyes.
"What---what----" stammered Tad.
Stacy, whose eyes were wide open, was the first to recognize the
articles, and as he did so, Lige dumped them on the ground.
"Bows and arrows," cried the boys, performing a grotesque war dance
about the weapons.
"We'll be real Indians now, won't we?" chortled Chunky.
"They are only playthings," sniffed Ned. "What good are they when we
have real rifles?"
"You'll find these bows and arrows real enough," answered the
guide. "They were made by Indians, and some of them have been used by
Indians, not only for hunting, but against men as well. A shot from
one of those arrows might put an end to any one of you fully as
quickly as would a bullet from one of your thirty-eights."
"Shall we help ourselves?" asked Ned.
"Wait. I'll divide them according to your size and strength. These two
are war bows. I think I'll give them to Master Tad and Ned Rector. It
takes a strong arm to pull them, and you'll want to be careful which
way you shoot."
"I'll show you fellows how to shoot," averred
Stacy. "I can beat any boy in the bunch with the bow and arrow. I
learned the trick up in New England, where I come from. My ancestors
learned it from the Indians, who used to shoot them up, and the trick
has been handed down in my family. Somebody throw up his hat and see
me pink it," he directed, stringing his bow skilfully.
The boys could not repress a smile at Chunky's self-praise.
"Here you go," said Ned, sending his sombrero spinning high in the
air, hoping thereby to take Stacy so much by surprise that he would be
unable to draw a bead on it.
But Chunky demonstrated that, however slow he might be in some other
things, he could twang a bow with remarkable skill.
Even before the hat had spent its upward flight, Stacy Brown's
bowstring sang, a slender dark streak sped through the air, its course
laid directly for the hat of which its owner was so proud.
"Hi there! Look out! You're going to hit it!" warned Ned.
That was exactly what Stacy had intended to do, though none had had
the slightest idea that he could shoot well enough to accomplish the
feat.
To their astonishment, the keen-pointed arrow went fairly into the
center of the hat, coming out at the crown, its feathered butt tearing
a great rent in the peak of the sombrero as it passed through.
Ned groaned as he witnessed the disaster that had come upon his new
hat. But he got no sympathy from the rest of the boys.
"I'll trade with you. You can wear mine," consoled Chunky, observing
his companion's rueful countenance as he picked up the sombrero,
sorrowfully surveying the rent in its peak. "I'll do nothing of the
sort," snapped Ned. "I told you to shoot at it. It serves me right and
I'll take my medicine like a man. If it rains, I'll stuff the hole
full of leaves," he added humorously. "Then my umbrella will be just
as good as yours."
"That's the talk," approved the boys. "Anybody else want to offer his
hat to the sacrifice!" grinned Chunky.
"I think hereafter you had better use the blunt arrows unless you are
shooting at game," advised the guide. "Those flint arrow heads are
dangerous things for work such as yours. I'll pack them away, so there
will be no danger of an accident."
After having practiced in camp for a time, the boys strayed off,
hoping for a chance to try their skill on some live thing. To this the
Professor made no objection, for they were now becoming so used to the
mountains as to be quite well able to take care of themselves, unless
they got too far from camp, which they were not likely to do.
Tad soon strolled away by himself, taking a course due south by his
pocket compass. This led him directly over the range where they had
been shooting earlier in the day, and the boy smiled with pride as he
passed the target and counted up the bullet holes that his own rifle
had made. He then pressed on, intending to enter the cedar forest that
crowned a great ridge some distance beyoud him.
Before reaching there, however, Tad sat down in a rocky basin, to
enjoy to the fullest the sense of being alone in the mountain
fastness. His quiver was full of arrows, and the strong, business-like
looking bow lay across his knees.
"If I could see a bob-cat now, I'd have something real to interest
me," Tad confided to himself.
But not a sign of animal life did he observe anywhere about him.
Tad's right hand was resting on a small jagged stone beside him. It
felt cool under his touch, and, after a little, the boy carelessly
picked it up and looked at it. As he gazed, his eyes took on a
different expression. The stone, in spots, sparkled brilliantly in the
sunlight. He turned it over and over, examining it critically.
"I wonder if it is gold?" marveled the boy, his eyes growing large
with wonder. "I'll take it back to camp and ask Lige."
Tad scrambled to his feet, but ere he could carry out his purpose of
starting for camp, an unexpected and startling thing happened.
There was a whir, as of some object being hurled through the air. The
boy experienced a stinging sensation on his right cheek, as the
missile grazed it, and a stone the size of a man's hand clattered to
the rocks several feet ahead of him, rolling over and over, finally
toppling from a small cliff.
Some one had thrown the stone at him. Had it hit the boy's head fairly
it almost surely would have killed him. Tad Butler needed no other
evidence than that afforded by his own senses to tell him the missile
was intended for him.
He whirled sharply. But not a person was in sight. All at once,
however, the keen-eyed boy discovered a slight movement in the sage
brush, a few rods to the rear of where he had been sitting.
Like a flash he whipped a blunt arrow from the quiver.
The bow twanged viciously, and the arrow sped straight into the sage
brush. A yell of rage and a floundering about in the bush as if
someone were running, told the boy that his shot had reached a human
mark.
Pacing the sage, Tad had become conscious of the fact that before him
lay a large black hole in the rocks, and he dimly realized that he had
come upon a cave. But he gave the matter no further attention at that
moment, his first thought being that he must get back to camp as
quickly as possible.
Stringing his bow, Tad hurled another arrow into the brush, then
bounded away, wondering vaguely who his mysterious enemy might be.