A WALKING PINCUSHION.
Ralph’s story was soon told, with the accompaniment of a running fire
of sarcasms from Mountain Jim concerning automatic rifles and all
connected with them. An examination of Ralph’s weapon showed that a
cartridge from the magazine had become jammed just at the critical
instant that he faced the lynx.
“There ain’t nuthin’ better than this old Winchester of mine,” declared
Mountain Jim, taking his well-oiled and polished, albeit ancient model
rifle from its holster and patting it lovingly. “I’ve carried it
through the Rockies for fifteen years and it’s never failed me yet.”
Nevertheless, the boys did not condemn their automatics on that
account. In fact, Ralph blamed his own ignorance of the action of his
new weapon more for its failure to work than any fault lying with the
rifle itself.
With a few quick strokes of his knife and a tug at the hide, Mountain
Jim had the lynx skinned with almost incredible rapidity. Salt was
sprinkled liberally on the skin, and it was rolled up and tied behind
Persimmons’ saddle, to be carefully scraped of all fat and skin later
on.
It was sunset when they left the well-traveled trail, along which,
however, they had encountered no human being but a wandering packer
on his way to an extension of the Canadian Pacific Railroad with
provisions and blasting powder, borne by his sure-footed animals.
In the brief twilight they pushed on till they reached a spot that
appeared favorable for a camp. A spring gushed from a wall of rock and
formed one of an almost innumerable number of small streams that fed
a creek, which, in turn, was later to pour its waters into the mighty
Columbia. Ralph needed no instructions on how to turn the horses out,
and while he and the rest, acting under his directions, attended to
this, Mountain Jim got supper ready. By the time the boys had completed
their “chores” and the tents were up, the guide had their evening meal
of bannocks, beans and bacon, and boiling hot tea ready for them. For
dessert they had stewed dried prunes and apples, and the boys voted
the meal an excellent one. Indeed, they had been hungry enough to eat
almost anything.
Supper despatched, it was not long before they were ready to turn into
their blankets, which were of the heavy army type, for the nights in
the Rockies are cool. To the music of a near-by waterfall, they sank
into profound slumber, and before the moon was up the camp was wrapped
in silence.
It was about midnight that they were aroused by a loud wail of distress
from the tent which Persimmons shared with his two chums. Mountain
Jim rolled out of his blankets--he disdained tents--and Jimmie, who
likewise was content with a makeshift by the fire, started up as
quickly. From the door of the professor’s tent appeared an odd-looking
figure in striped pajamas.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland! What’s up?” roared Mountain Jim.
“Wow! Ouch! He’s sticking me! Ow-w-w-w!” came in a series of yells from
Persimmons. “Ouch! Prancing pincushions, come quick!”
“Is that boy in trouble again?” demanded the professor, as he slipped
on a pair of slippers and advanced with Mountain Jim toward the scene
of the disturbance. The air was now filled with boyish shouts, echoing
and re-echoing among the craggy hills that surrounded the small canyon
in which the camp was pitched.
As they neared the tent, from under the sod-cloth a small dark form
came shuffling forth. It grunted as it went, like a diminutive pig. Jim
jerked his old Winchester to his shoulder and the death struggle of
the small animal immediately followed the rifle’s report.
Simultaneously, the three boys clad in their underclothing, dashed out
of the tent door.
“Is it Indians?” shouted Hardware.
“A bear?” yelled Ralph, who had his automatic in hand.
“More like a walking pincushion,” yelled Persimmons, dancing about and
nursing one of his hands, “look here!”
He held out his hand and they saw several objects which, in the
moonlight, looked like so many knitting needles projecting from it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mountain Jim, whose mirth aroused Persimmons’
secret indignation, “I reckon it was a walking pincushion, all right.
Boy, don’t never put your hand on a porcupine again, they always leave
souvenirs.”
“A porcupine!” cried the professor.
“Sure enough,” rejoined the guide, and he rolled to their feet with
his rifle barrel the body of the small animal he had shot.
It was surely enough one of those spiny and familiar denizens of the
north woods.
“Nodding needles! No wonder I felt as if I’d struck a pincushion,”
cried poor Persimmons, who had, by this, drawn the last of the
offending quills from his hand. “I heard something grunting and
nosing about my blankets, and when I put my hand out I got it full of
stickers.”
“I’ll put some peroxide on,” said the professor, hastening to his tent
for the medicine chest.
“They aren’t poisonous, are they?” asked Ralph, referring to the quills.
“No; just sharp, that’s all,” responded Mountain Jim. “Porcupines are
the greediest and stupidest cusses in the woods. I reckon this one
smelled grub and was investigating when he ran into Master Simmons
here.”
“You mean that Persimmons ran into him,” corrected Ralph.
“Guggling geese, no!” expostulated Persimmons, holding out his hand to
be dressed, for the wounds made by the sharp quills were bleeding, “he
ran into me, don’t ever mistake that.”
It was some time before the camp quieted down again, but finally peace
was restored and a tranquil night, undisturbed by any more nocturnal
adventures, was passed.
Bright and early the next day they set out once more, traveling now off
the beaten track and making for their destination, the Big Bend of the
Columbia River. The professor was on the lookout for what he called
metamorphic specimens of rock, which, in plain English, means bits of
stone and so forth that show traces of the new world in the making.
For, as he had explained to the boys, the Canadian Rockies are, from a
geologist’s standpoint, of recent formation. Unlike many chains of like
character, they are not supposed to be volcanic in formation. The final
cause of the uplifting of their giant crests is generally attributed
to the shrinkage of the earth’s interior by loss of heat or some other
action. It is also supposed that eons ago the Rockies were as lofty as
the Himalayas or the Andes, but that the various destructive forces
that worked and still work amidst their rugged bosoms, have diminished
their stature by thousands of feet.
It was at the close of their second day’s travel that the first of a
series of mysterious happenings, destined to puzzle them greatly in the
future, occurred. Ralph, who had been disturbed by the noise of some
nocturnal animal trampling about in the brush, rose from his blankets
and emerged into the moonlight with his rifle, his thoughts centered
on the notion that his long-cherished hope of shooting a grizzly had
materialized.
Not far from the camp, and overlooking it, a lofty rock towered above
the floor of the valley through which they were then traveling. In
the moonlight its dark form was silhouetted blackly against the night
sky. Ralph’s heart gave a leap as he saw, or thought he saw, something
moving on the summit of the great boulder.
He raised his rifle to fire and stood with beating pulses awaiting the
opportunity.
Suddenly a form moved into view on the summit of the rock. The boy’s
finger was just about to press the trigger, when he gave a gasp of
astonishment and the rifle almost fell from his hands.
It was the form of a man that had appeared, blackly outlined against
the moonlight. For one instant the figure stood there and then, as
Ralph hailed it in a quavering voice, it wheeled, and like an alarmed
wild beast, slipped off into the forest.