FINDING THE TRAIL.
The rapid strides of the old guide carried him half-way across the
little valley between the cliffs: then he paused suddenly, and resting
the butt of his long rifle upon the ground, and leaning his hands upon
its muzzle, took a critical survey of the cliff, where the apparitions
had appeared upon the previous night.
“There isn’t any way to get up there on this side,” he said; “but there
may be on the other.”
“There’s something up there that looks like a hole—a kind of crack in
the rock,” rejoined Cute. “There may be a cave up there.”
“It is a fissure in the cliff, and may extend through to the other
side,” remarked Percy Vere.
“More’n likely,” answered the old hunter. “There’s a heap of snow lies
on these hills in the winter-time, and the spring thaw sends torrents
down to the river, and the water bores its way through the rocks just
like a gimlet. These cliffs are a spur of the Cascade Range, and when we
get upon the brow of one of them, I think we can see the white peak of
Mount Rainier, looking like a big icicle turned the wrong way upwards.”
“Is it very high?”
“Thirteen thousand feet, they say. It’s the highest peak of the Cascade
Mountains.”
“Why do they call them _Cascade_?”
“On account of the torrents I was telling you of. I’ll show you some
grand sights when we get among the mountains, for the road is to run
between Mount Adams and Mount Hood, Blaikie told me; that is if
Smoholler lets us get any further. We can never get out of this valley
with our present force, if he tries to stop us. Let’s push on and take
the timber there to the right. It’s pretty thick at the skirt of the
cliff.”
The trees fringed the cliff half-way to its summit, a thick growth of
spruce, fir, and cedar, and through this the hunter and the boys made
their way with some difficulty, as the ground was rocky and uneven, and
the dwarf cedars and firs sprung from every crevice of rock and patch of
earth.
After a toilsome tramp of an hour they turned the base of the cliff, and
emerged upon the other side of it. During their progress they started
quite a quantity of game. A huge elk galloped away within easy range,
and deer crossed their path several times, while numerous wild-fowl
arose from their perches and went whining away.
The temptation to shoot was very great, and it was as much as Glyndon
could do to restrain the boys.
“’Tain’t safe,” he told them. “Wait until we go back. I have an idea
that there’s Injuns round here, and a rifle-shot would bring ’em on us
quicker’n a wink.”
“But oh, what a lovely shot that elk was!” cried Percy Vere. “And such
splendid horns. I would like to have them for a trophy.”
“Wait—there’s more of ’em. We must look for Injuns first.”
“That’s my idea!” cried Cute. “I’d rather have a scalp for a trophy than
a pair of horns.”
Glyndon smiled, grimly.
“I opine that there’s as many scalps around here as horns,” he said;
“but we must take care we don’t lose our own in looking for ’em.”
“Have you seen any sign?” asked Percy Vere.
“Not yet; but I think we’re coming to it.”
They pressed forward, and as they skirted the cliff they bore upward
toward its crest. Its aspect was entirely different upon this side, its
slope being gradual, and the trees and bushes growing very near to the
top.
The way was still difficult. Huge bowlders, some covered with moss and
making little openings in the woods, and others thickly studded with fir
trees, protruding like green spikes, continually obstructed their way.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Glyndon, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his
brow. “This is tough work. I don’t see any signs of a trail yet—and
there must be one to the top of the cliff, if I could only find it.”
Percy Cute, who was the last in the line of march, for he had a natural
tendency for loitering, had diverged a little to one side when this halt
was made and, though the hunter and Percy Vere were further up the cliff
than he was, he had gone more to the right, in a forward direction, and
suddenly came upon a kind of open way in the wood.
“Look here!” he called out. “Here’s better traveling; come this way.”
Glyndon and Percy Vere joined him.
“Why, it looks like a path—a path leading to the summit of the cliff!”
cried Percy.
“It is the trail!” said Glyndon, with satisfaction.
He bent over it, and began to examine it attentively, and as he did so
his features assumed a grave expression, and he shook his head in a
dissatisfied manner.
“Boys!” he said—“I’m an old fool!”
This announcement rather surprised them.
“What’s up?” demanded Percy Cute.
“Mischief! We’ve walked into a trap, and I’ve led you into it like a
consumed idiot as I am.”
“How so?” inquired both boys, eagerly.
“Why, don’t you see? When we was a looking up at the cliff there must
have been one of the red-skins up there watching us. They know we are
here in the wood, and they are just waiting for our return to the camp
to surprise us. And there’s fifty of ’em at least.”
The boys were thrown from one surprise into another.
“How can you tell how many there are of them?” asked Percy Vere,
curiously.
Glyndon pointed to the trail.
“Here’s what tells me,” he answered. “These Injuns always go single
file, and tread in each other’s footsteps to blind their trail, but it
would take fifty of ’em, at least, to make so plain a trail. And see
there, just at one side, where her foot slipped on the stone, and she
stepped out of the trail, heavily, and come near falling—see that broken
branch to which she clung to save herself—that tells me there’s a squaw
along.”
The boys were filled with wonder.
“And the trail is scarcely cold either,” continued Glyndon, still
pursuing his examination. “They passed here less than a half an hour
ago, and they’re after us.”