THE FIGHT ON THE TRAIL
The road to Orella was in the opposite direction to that taken by Dave
and Roger on the day they had encountered the heavy storm. As Mr. Obray
had said, the trail was well marked, so that the young civil engineer
had little trouble in following it.
“But you are going to have some rough riding, Dave,” remarked Roger,
when he came forward to see his chum depart. “They tell me there is one
spot on the trail where riding is as dangerous as it is on any trail in
Montana.”
“Well, Sport is a good horse, and I intend to be careful,” answered our
hero; and then, with a wave of his hand, he galloped away and was soon
out of sight of the construction camp.
Our hero felt in the best of humor, for the day promised to be a fine
one and a ride on horseback through the mountains was just to his
liking. He could not help but whistle gayly to himself as he sped
forward; and thus the first three miles of his journey were covered in a
comparatively short space of time.
Beyond these three miles the trail roughened for another mile or two,
and here the young civil engineer had to pick his way among the rocks
and loose stones with care. In some places where the trail was of dirt,
the brushwood grew thickly, so that it often brushed his legs and the
sides of his steed as they passed. This, of course, was merely the foot
trail to Orella, a sort of short cut. The main trail for teams wound
along farther down in the valley and was fully fifteen miles longer.
As Dave pursued his journey, many thoughts came to his mind, both about
his work and concerning those left at home in Crumville. The beautiful
face of Jessie, with her bewitching eyes, was continually before him;
and once or twice he took from his pocket the last letter he had
received from her, to read over some of the lines she had penned.
“She wants me to make good as a civil engineer, and I’m going to do it,”
he murmured to himself.
Shortly after leaving the construction camp he had passed several miners
who were prospecting in that vicinity, but now he seemed to be alone on
the trail, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the
occasional cry of a wild bird and the hoofbeats of his horse as the
sturdy animal moved ahead.
Having mounted to the top of an unusually hard rise, Dave brought Sport
to a halt to rest, and also to take a look at his surroundings. On one
side of him were the jagged rocks leading still further upward, while on
the other was the broad valley, clothed in green and with a shimmering
river flowing through its center. Far away he could see some animals
grazing, and took them to be mountain goats, although at such a distance
it was hard to make sure.
“A fellow certainly could have some great times out here hunting in the
proper season,” he told himself. “I’d like to go out myself for a few
days, especially if I could get some old hunter for a guide.”
Having rested for about five minutes, Dave moved forward again, and soon
found himself on the dangerous part of the trail mentioned by Roger. The
youth had heard this spoken of before, and he reined in his steed and
moved forward with caution.
“You be careful, old boy,” he said, patting his horse on the neck.
“Neither of us wants to take a tumble down yonder rocks. If we did, it
might be good-bye to both of us.”
Evidently Sport understood the situation quite as well as did the young
civil engineer, for he kept as close to the inner side of the path as
possible, and picked every step carefully, and thus they moved onward
until the very worst of the trail had been left behind. There was,
however, still some bad places, the trail widening out in some spots
only to narrow worse than ever in others.
“Hi there! Don’t you ride me down!” cried an unexpected voice, as Dave
came around one of the narrow bends of the trail. And the next instant
the youth found himself face to face with Nick Jasniff.
The fellow who had been in prison was on foot, and carried a bundle
strapped over one shoulder. He was so close that he had to leap to one
side for fear of being trampled under foot, and this filled him with
anger even before he recognized who was on horseback.
“Nick Jasniff!” exclaimed Dave, and for the instant knew not what more
to say.
“So it’s you, Porter, is it?” snarled the former bully of Oak Hall.
“What are you doing on this trail?”
“That is none of your business, Jasniff,” answered Dave coldly.
“See here! You needn’t put on any lordly airs with me!” growled the
fellow who in the past had caused our hero so much trouble. “Thought you
were playing a fine game on me, didn’t you—having that construction camp
manager make a fool of me?” And now Jasniff came closer and caught
Dave’s horse by the bridle.
“You keep your hands off my horse, Jasniff,” ordered Dave. “You let go
of him this instant!”
“I’ll let go when I please.”
“No, you won’t! You’ll let go now!” And so speaking, Dave leaned over in
the saddle to push the fellow away.
It was not a very wise thing to do, and Dave should have known better.
The instant he made the movement, Jasniff, who was tall and powerful,
caught him by the arm, and the next instant had hauled him from the
saddle. The scuffle which resulted from this alarmed the horse, and the
steed trotted away some distance up the trail.
“I guess I’ve got you now where I want you, Porter!” cried Jasniff, the
squinting eye squinting worse than ever as he scowled at our hero. “I’ve
got a big account to settle with you.”
Dave realized that he was in for it and that Nick Jasniff would hesitate
at nothing to accomplish his purpose. Our hero remembered well the
dastardly attack made on him by the rascal at the Oak Hall gymnasium
with an Indian club.
Jasniff struck out with his left fist, and at the same time put his
right hand back as if to draw some weapon. Dave dodged the blow intended
for his face, and then struck out swiftly, hitting Jasniff in the cheek.
Then several blows were exchanged in quick succession, Dave being hit in
the chest and shoulder and Jasniff receiving several in the chest and
one on the nose which sent him staggering several feet. Then the bully
rushed forward and clinched, and both circled around and around on the
narrow trail, each trying to get the advantage of the other.
“I’ll fix you! Just wait and see!” panted Jasniff, as he did his best to
get a strangle hold on our hero.
Dave did not answer, for he realized that in an encounter with such a
tall and powerful fellow as Jasniff he must make the best use of his
breath as well as his muscles.
He slipped from the clutch Jasniff was trying to get on him, and caught
the fellow by the waist. Then Jasniff went down with Dave on top of him,
and both rolled over and over among the rocks and into some bushes which
chanced to have sprung up in that vicinity.
“You le—le—let up!” gasped Jasniff presently, when he found Dave had him
by the throat.
“I’ll let up when I’m through with you—not before,” answered Dave
pantingly.
The struggle continued, and Jasniff arose partly to a sitting position
only to have his head banged backward on the rocks. Then, however, he
managed to get one leg doubled up and he sent his foot into Dave’s
stomach in such a way that our hero was for the moment deprived of his
breath. Both clinched again and rolled over until they were close to the
edge of the rocks.
“Now I’ve got you!” cried the bully; and just as Dave managed to hit him
another blow in the nose, one which made the blood spurt, Jasniff tore
himself free and an instant later pushed Dave down over the rocks.
Even then our hero might have saved himself, as he had his left foot
planted in what he thought a safe place, and he might have caught
Jasniff by the leg. But the foot gave way most unexpectedly, and in a
trice Dave found himself rolling over and over down a rocky slope. He
clutched out wildly, and managed to catch hold of several bushes. But
these came out by the roots, and then he slid downward once more, at
last reaching a little cliff over which he plunged sideways, to land
with a crash in some bushes and stunted trees some distance below.
The rolling and the drop over the cliff had all but stunned the young
civil engineer, and for fully five minutes he lay among the bushes
hardly realizing where he was or what had happened. Then, when he
finally arose to his feet, he found that his left shoulder hurt him not
a little, and that his left ankle felt equally painful and was quite
lame.
“That certainly was some tumble,” he groaned to himself. “I suppose I
can be thankful I wasn’t killed.”
[Illustration: DAVE FOUND HIMSELF ROLLING OVER AND OVER DOWN A ROCKY
SLOPE.—_Page 74._]
He had rolled a distance of fifty yards, and the top of the little cliff
was six or eight feet above his head. From where he stood he could not
see that portion of the trail where the encounter had occurred, and
consequently he knew not what had become of Nick Jasniff.
“I hope he rolled down, too,” murmured Dave to himself. But after he had
taken a good look around he concluded that Jasniff had remained up on
the trail.
The only thing to do was to climb up to the trail and try to find out
what had become of Jasniff and the horse.
“It would be just like Jasniff to take Sport and ride off with him,”
thought Dave dismally. “What a fool I was not to give him a knock-out
blow when I had him down on the rocks! If I had given him that I could
have made him a prisoner before he had a chance to regain his senses.
Now he’s got the best of it, and there is no telling what he’s up to.”
More anxious to know what had become of his horse than over Jasniff’s
welfare, Dave moved around to one end of the cliff and then began to
scramble up the rocks. This was by no means easy, and more than once he
had to stop to catch his breath and nurse his hurt shoulder and his lame
ankle. Up above him he could now see the trail, but neither Jasniff nor
the horse was in sight.
At last Dave had the satisfaction of drawing himself up over the rocks
bordering the edge of the trail, and here, feeling rather weak, he sat
down to regain his strength. He listened intently, but scarcely a sound
broke the silence of the mountains. Evidently Nick Jasniff had taken
time by the forelock and made good his departure.
“If he took that horse, what am I to do?” mused Dave bitterly. “To foot
it all the way to Orella, and especially with this lame ankle, is almost
out of the question.”
Thinking of Orella put Dave in mind of his mission, and he quickly
thrust his hand into his pocket to see if the envelope Mr. Obray had
given him to deliver was safe.
The next instant his heart almost stopped beating. The envelope was
gone!
Frantically he searched one pocket after another; and then he made
another discovery equally dismaying. Not only was the envelope the
construction camp manager had given him missing, but likewise the
letters he had received from Jessie and his Uncle Dunston, and also his
pocketbook which had contained upward of forty dollars.