THE END OF THE RAILROAD
Frank found Mr. Mackworth and Sam Skinner at the dimly lit depot in
consultation with the night telegraph operator. Rexford being a town of
a thousand or more inhabitants and a railroad junction point with many
switch tracks, freight cars and railway buildings, the escape of the
thief was not difficult. As the sloping sides of the mountains reached
down to the town on two sides, there were avenues for successful
flight over the rough and dark trails. Therefore, further pursuit was
abandoned.
“Anyway,” remarked Mr. Mackworth, “we haven’t lost anything. And if we
could catch the man we wouldn’t care to stay to prosecute him.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Frank?” he exclaimed as he caught sight of the
boy’s pale face and saw him tremble.
“I guess it’s where he kicked me,” explained Frank trying to make light
of his injury.
Instantly Mr. Mackworth had Frank’s coat and shirt off. On his chest
near the left shoulder was a dull red mark, something like a shoe heel
in shape and rapidly turning black.
“Why didn’t you tell me of this?” exclaimed Frank’s uncle with concern.
“Does it hurt you?”
“Not much,” answered the boy, “except when I touch it.”
Sam Skinner pushed Mr. Mackworth aside and began an examination of the
bruise with all the practical skill of an outdoor surgeon. As he ran
his hands over the boy’s chest Frank winced and turned paler.
“No bones broken,” reported Sam confidently, as he pressed on Frank’s
collar bone and shoulder joint while the boy gritted his teeth.
“Cough!” ordered Sam.
Frank did so, Sam holding his ear to the boy’s chest.
“Spit!” ordered Sam.
Frank laughed and complied as well as he could. Sam nodded his head.
“Only a bruise,” he explained. “Nothin’ hurt inside. A little liniment
and he’ll be all right in a day or two.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Mr. Mackworth as he helped Frank to get
into his shirt again. “I wouldn’t have you hurt, my boy, for all that’s
in the Teton. You certainly saved our shooting outfits and, like as
not, our lives as well. We’ve got both to thank you for.”
“There wasn’t anything else to do,” replied Frank. “And say,” he added,
“I reckon there ain’t any need to say anything about this is there? I
don’t want any hero business.”
“You’ll have to leave that to me,” responded his uncle as they made
their way back to the car. Frank got out the medicine kit his mother
had given him and Sam rubbed him with liniment. At three o’clock, Frank
crawled into his berth again. Lying still his bruise did not pain him,
but when Phil awoke him about seven o’clock the boy’s shoulder was
black and blue, and his arm was stiff.
The town by daylight was far from being as interesting as the boys had
hoped. The altitude was not great――not more than 4,000 feet――but the
distant view both east and west revealed mountain ranges, snow crowned
in places. North of the town and in a lower valley the Kootenai River
wound a bending course. Along this the party was now to make its way
into Canada.
Frank had not figured on the need of an explanation to account for Mr.
Mackworth’s ruined trunk and, therefore, the adventure of the boy and
Sam Skinner was fully known before breakfast. Then the excitement began
all over again. The Englishmen made the lad a hero in spite of himself.
It was doubtful if one man could have carried away any considerable
amount of the plunder that had been heaped up near the door of the car.
But each of Mr. Mackworth’s guests had a most elaborate and expensive
shooting outfit, and each seemed convinced that Frank had saved his own
particular property.
As Frank was a member of the party, the tactful Captain Ludington and
Lord Pelton recognized that they could not express their gratitude in
money. For that reason their verbal thanks were genuinely profuse.
“I don’t know why you select me for all this fine talk,” Frank said at
last. “Mr. Skinner heard the man. He did more than I did――”
“All right,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth. “We’ll have a special luncheon
to-day in honor of both.”
When this event came off it turned out to be a tribute to a third
person――Jake Green. Instead of a luncheon it was a banquet and a jolly
one. As Frank approached his chair he found by its side――leaning
against the table――a Lefever, sixteen gauge, hammerless shotgun,
automatic ejector, Damascus steel barrels, English walnut stock and
pistol grip.
At his plate was a card inscribed: “For value received,” and signed by
all the members of the party, including Phil, whose shotgun had not
been overlooked by the intruder.
“I won’t take it,” began Frank, red of face and embarrassed. “Give it
to Mr. Skinner.”
“O, I’ve got mine,” exclaimed Sam pointing to several folded bills on
his plate. “Better keep it. You’ll need it for grouse up on the Elk.”
Not knowing what else to do Frank sat down in confusion and thus
came into possession of the gun, which is yet one of his most prized
belongings. As soon as the attention of their friends had been
withdrawn Phil leaned over to his chum and whispered:
“I never did have any use for a sleepyhead. This is an awful warning to
me.”
From Rexford to Michel――the mountain town in Canada at the southern end
of Elk Valley where the Teton was to stop, and from which place Mr.
Mackworth and his friends were to enter the goat and sheep country by
wagon, horse and airship――was about eighty-five miles. The branch road
was a mining line and when, just after four o’clock in the afternoon,
the special car was attached to the daily “mixed train,” it was with no
great assurance that the hunting party heard the creaking and felt the
swaying of the big car on the lighter tracks.
The ride northward gradually lifted the train higher and higher. The
road followed the Kootenai’s east bank and, having left the less abrupt
region of Rexford behind them, the travelers soon had a panorama
rivaling that of the evening before. Immediately east lay the Mission
Mountains――the western boundary of the new National Glacier Park――and
slowly the laboring engine drew the train on to its higher pine
covered flanks. The Kootenai dropped below.
Undimmed by the shadows of night; clear and distinct beneath the
sapphire sky the whole world stood out until there seemed no distance.
There was not the speed of the transcontinental limited and the train
was a half hour in covering ten miles. This brought it to Gateway――the
boundary between the United States and Canada.
“The white mark over there on the station platform,” explained Mr.
Mackworth as the train came to a stop, “marks the boundary between the
two countries.”
Of course the boys had to alight and straddle the line.
“This is an event to me,” exclaimed Frank, “for it’s the first time
I’ve ever been out of the United States.”
“Me, too,” said Phil, who was yet standing in his own country. “And
that being true I think I’ll go abroad.” With a laugh he jumped across
the line. “But,” he added, “the United States is good enough for me. I
don’t see much difference. I think I’ll come home,” and he sprang back
again.
At seven o’clock the train reached Fernie, a soft coal town and a
fitting-out post for hunters in this part of Canada. But there was no
time for shopping――much to Phil’s regret――for the $20 he had not given
“Old Bill” was looked upon as that much saved. A few minutes before
eight o’clock the Teton finished its outward journey at the end of the
railway in the little village of Michel.
So long as the train was in motion, revealing new vistas of grand and
picturesque scenery, the passengers in the Teton would not leave the
observation platform for supper. But, as it came to a stop in a narrow
and deep valley through which a cool wind was already drifting and
where, cast by the sunlit painted ranges, deep shadows were already on
the little hamlet, Jake’s dinner at last received its merited attention.
At Fernie the station agent had handed Mr. Mackworth a packet. As the
party had now reached the end of the long journey this first meal in
the cool, dark snowbound mountain valley was the liveliest of the
trip. Formality was put aside and, with the knowledge that the next
morning would see the first of their plans under way, all talked at
once. In the midst of this Mr. Mackworth produced his packet, opened
it and handed each one at the table――except Sam Skinner――a small but
formidable looking bit of paper.
“Now be happy, all of you,” he exclaimed. “Here’s a hunting license for
each. With it in your possession you may legally kill and take out of
the country five mountain goats. Let one of ’em be Neena and may they
all be Billies and big ones. You may also slay three mountain sheep
one of which, of course, will be Husha the Black Ram. Incidentally you
may capture all the grizzlies you see――if you can. Let us hope for one
twelve-foot skin at least. Of deer, shoot no more than six each. The
law don’t specify it, but we’ll take none but bucks. And remember,
don’t shoot a moose till you land a whopper, for one is all you are
allowed. As for elk,” concluded Mr. Mackworth, raising his hand in
warning, “none at all.”
“Sam,” whispered Frank aside to the hunter, “what are these licenses
worth?”
“They ain’t worth much to most hunters,” answered Sam soberly, “but
they cost $50 each.”
“That’s $250,” exclaimed Frank taking a new glance at his license, “and
you haven’t one. What’ll you do?”
“O, I ain’t lookin’ for hides nor horns,” answered Sam. “If I shoot
anything it’ll be food.”
Michel, although a town of but a few hundred inhabitants, was a mile
and a quarter long. It stretched along the winding bottom of the valley
as a single street, the mountain slopes on each side rising so quickly
as to make a second street impossible. And as all the houses were small
and nearly all painted dark red, the new arrivals had not seen much of
the village in the fast gathering night. But the single street pointed
toward the jack-pine valley to the north through which lies the road
to the unsettled wilderness beyond――one of the great game preserves of
America――the Elk River Valley where as yet the pot hunter is unknown.
“We’ll take things easy this evening,” said Mr. Mackworth when the
excitement over the hunting licenses had subsided, “and to-morrow
we’ll leisurely perfect our plans. I suppose the first thing will be to
find a suitable ground for assembling the airship.”
“And that don’t look any too easy,” broke in Frank. “This is the
narrowest town I’ve ever seen.”
“Then,” continued Mr. Mackworth, “we’ve got to inventory our stuff. You
can never be sure you have what you’re going to need. What we’ve missed
we’ll have to go back to Fernie and buy.”
“First job for the _Loon_,” exclaimed Phil. “That’ll be pie. It’s only
twenty-three miles away.”
“Not improbable,” went on their host, “since we have only one train
a day. We’ll be in Michel all day to-morrow. Early the next morning
all our provisions and camping paraphernalia will go by wagons to
the only ranch in the valley――Charley Smith’s place up near Sulphur
Springs――twenty-five miles distant. We’ll follow on horses.”
“On horses?” cried out Frank. “Here’s two of us who won’t be on horses.
Phil and I’ll be in the _Loon_ and two more may as well be with us. We
can take Captain Ludington and Lord Pelton. Why not?”
“But we’ve got to have horses. We can’t count on your airship for
everything.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” added Frank. “You can count on it
everywhere and at all times. We’ll take you all anywhere you want to
go. And when there are too many we’ll make double trips.”
“We’ll take horses for all,” insisted Mr. Mackworth. “They’re cheap.
Then if your aëroplane slips a cog we won’t have to walk home. We’ll
reach Smith’s ranch in the late afternoon. I suggest you wait here
until four or five o’clock with your flyin’ machine, and then I suppose
you can overtake us in an hour.”
“In thirty minutes,” said Phil proudly.
“So be it,” said Mr. Mackworth. “When we are all in camp near Smith’s
place we are going to stop two or three days to get acclimated. We’ll
also cross the ridge there and have a day’s sport at Josephine Falls on
the Fording, where I hope we’ll get enough trout to give Jake a chance
to give us a ‘balsam bake.’”
“It’ll be my first trout,” interrupted Lord Pelton.
“But not your last, I’ll bet,” went on Mr. Mackworth. “While we are
enjoying ourselves our guides will be sorting over our outfit for the
pack horses. The wagons will stop here. When we leave Smith’s we’ll
leave trails and civilization behind. We’ll make our way into the real
mountains by way of Goat Creek, and then in the Herchmer Range, Bird
Mountain and Goat Pass we ought to find our sport. We’ll always camp in
the timber and where the horses can climb. But we’ll hunt on foot.”
Captain Ludington smacked his lips and lit a fresh cigar.
“That sounds awfully good to me,” he chuckled.
At that moment Jake announced that Mr. Hosmer was outside.
“It’s one of our guides and teamsters,” explained Mr. Mackworth, “Cal
Hosmer, who was to report to me this evening. If the history of the
Elk River Valley is ever written Cal’s experiences will have to appear
on every page. If any of you want grizzlies, stick to Hosmer; he’s the
greatest bear hunter in Western Canada.”