Mile after mile they covered and still the snow-clad peaks of the Raton
Range seemed as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp.
The next morning, however, the outlines of the base became more
perceptible as they drew nearer. At first sight it had a dark, grim look
in the early morning light, a noticeable contrast to the green pastoral
beauty of the foothills.
They were going to take some pictures of the summit and Mr. Wilde looked
critically up at the crest that loomed before them now like a lighthouse
in the heavens. He mentioned that they were going to foot it after they
struck the base and they wouldn’t be riding again for at least a couple
of weeks.
That statement was very gratifying to the boys. They experienced a
thrill in the freedom they would have roaming about at will for the
first time since they started. In short, they sat up and took notice
immediately.
To Westy the mountains and the smell of pine and the camp-fire at night
were alluring. There never was bacon that tasted like the bacon fried
over hot coals and no kitchen range ever boiled or percolated coffee as
redolent as the coffee that was boiled in the Great Outdoors.
“Gee, it’s a pip of a day!” Westy was full of enthusiastic anticipation.
“Yeh, could be much worse!” Rip said gloomily.
“Aw, quit the crépe-hanging, Rip! We’ll get a kick out of something if
it’s only one of the mules.”
That afternoon they ascended the range and little by little the dark
stretch of the base beneath them disappeared and the light seemed
brighter with each forward step. Billy suggested that they look out for
a good camping spot as they were reaching just about the right location
to start out from each day and return to at night without having to move
their stuff on all the time.
They were going along the main trail all the time and Westy mentioned
that they would have to find a spot near a brook. Where else would they
get their water? There was a little narrow path that ran between the
thickly grown trees to their left. While Mr. Wilde and Billy were
arguing about the best place to stop, the true scout did a little
scouting on his own and followed the path for a while. He wasn’t walking
more than five minutes when he came out to a place that had once been a
clearing, but was now moss-grown and weedy. But joy of joys, there was
an old dilapidated cabin with most of the windows broken, but seemingly
a good substantial roof and a chimney that revealed the presence of an
open fireplace within.
As he opened the creaking door whose hinges were thick in the rust of
disuse, Westy realized that no human feet had crossed its threshold for
many years past. A table of home-made manufacture stood in the center of
the cabin and there were berths built on each side of the fireplace;
four in all. Just made to order, Westy thought as he glanced through the
broken window near the back. A brook was running merrily back of it
about the distance of a long city block away. He hurried back to tell
the news of his lucky find.
“I suppose you would never have come across that place if you weren’t a
scout,” Mr. Wilde kidded him.
“A scout is observant!” Westy reminded him.