FIGHTING MOUNTAIN LIONS.
“Steady, boy! Steady!” came Jim’s voice from above, vibrant with
agitation.
He knew only too well that to the tyro at big game shooting any large
animal appears about twice as large and ferocious as it really is. Many
lives have been lost and many painful and disfiguring wounds carried to
the grave because a man’s nerve has failed him at the critical moment
when hunting dangerous game.
“You’re only shootin’ at a mark, boy! That’s all! Hold on ’em now! Hold
on ’em!”
Jim’s voice steadied Ralph’s nerves wonderfully. He glanced down the
rifle barrel and then, as his finger pressed the trigger the report
roared and crashed through the valley.
“Give it to ‘em! Oh, give it to ‘em!” yelled Jim wildly.
Following the two sharp, quick reports and mingling with them came a
scream full of ferocious agony. Ralph saw a big, tawny body leap high
into the air and then, falling back, begin to claw the earth and stones
frantically.
“Look out for the other!” roared Jim, and none too soon, for the
female, seeing that her mate was stricken by the brave boy’s shot, now
prepared to spring.
Ralph’s attention had been distracted from her by the death agonies of
the male cougar. Jim’s warning shout recalled the boy to himself.
He fired once more, but this time he did not inflict a mortal wound.
Instead, his bullet pierced the lion’s shoulder. Apparently she did not
care for any more of that sort of punishment, for with a yelp and a
howl she turned and dashed off, leaving her mate stark in death on the
ground in front of the cave.
Ralph, white and shaking, now that it was all over, reeled for a minute
and then leaned against the rock to recover himself a little.
“Bravely done, lad!” came a voice from above.
It was Jim, but Ralph felt almost too weak from the ordeal he had just
passed through to answer.
“The rifle just seemed to go off by itself,” he stammered. “I was so
scared I couldn’t see anything plainly.”
“Never mind that. You did the trick, and that’s what counts. Wish you’d
got both of ’em, though. That lioness wasn’t badly hurt and she’ll be
back for her young ones before long.”
“Well, she can’t get into the cave,” said Ralph with a rather shaky
laugh, “any more than you can get out,” he added ruefully.
“That’s so. I declare for a minute I’d forgotten all about our fix.
Say, but those lions served us one good turn when they drove off those
Bloods. The fellows were ugly and meant trouble.”
“But won’t they be back?”
“Not they. They’ve had time to think it over by this time, and they’ll
have come to realize that these ain’t early days, and that horse
stealing would result in their whole reservation being turned inside
out till the culprits were found.”
“Hark!” cried Ralph suddenly, “somebody’s coming now. Maybe it _is_
those Indians coming back, after all.”
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland, it’s someone on a horse, sure enough.
I’ll duck down into the cave and get your rifle up.”
For it was Jim’s “Old Trusty,” as he called it, with which Ralph had
despatched one lion and wounded the other.
But to Ralph’s unspeakable relief it was no band of Bloods that rode
into the clearing, but a bearded man on a wild, shaggy pony leading a
pack mule by a hair rope. From the pack Ralph could see shovel and
pick handles sticking out and both rider and animals appeared to have
been roughing it for many months.
The man wore rough buckskin garments, and his stirrups were made of
rope. On his head was a battered old Stetson hat with a leather band
around it. Across his saddle bow he carried a long-barrelled rifle,
with the stock embossed with silver. He glanced at Ralph in a quick,
surprised sort of way.
“Wa’al, what in the ’tarnal’s bin goin’ on here?” he demanded in a
nasal tone, which Ralph recognized as belonging to a native of the
States.
“Why, I--that is, we’ve been mixed up in a sort of scrap with Indians
and lions,” replied Ralph hesitatingly.
The man looked so wild and uncouth that he did not know but he might
have to deal with a highwayman of some sort.
“Do tell,” exclaimed the rough-looking stranger, “and you’re only a
kid, too! Yankee?”
Ralph nodded. Just then Jim reappeared at the crack on the top of the
fallen rock, and as his eyes fell on the stranger he uttered a yell of
astonishment.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland,” he shouted, “it’s Bitter Creek Jones!”
“That’s me,” rejoined the stranger shifting in his saddle, “but who may
you be? Come out and show yourself.”
“I can’t. My door is locked on the outside, so to speak; but I’m
Mountain Jim Bothwell--remember me?”
The stranger broke into a great roar of delight.
“Wa’al, do tell. If this ain’t luck. Mountain Jim! I ain’t never forgot
that day on the Bow River that you saved me from that bunch of huskies
that was goin’ to hold me up and take my dust away frum me. But come on
out. Let’s shake your paw, old pal!”
“Sorry, but I’m not receiving to-day,” responded Mountain Jim. He
hastened on to explain what had happened within the last few hours,
interrupted constantly by Bitter Creek Jones’ astonished exclamations.
“I heard an almighty firin’ an’ blazin’ away frum over this neck of the
woods,” he said, “and I jes’ nacherally come over ter see what in Sam
Hill was goin’ forward. So ye’re all walled up, hey? Jes’ wait a jiffy
while I take a look at that rock. It’ll be tough luck if Bitter Creek
can’t get you out’n that mouse-trap without’n you havin’ ter ride fifty
miles fer help.”
“Do you think you can do anything, Mr. Jones?” asked Ralph, as the
odd-looking stranger slipped off his sorry-appearing steed.
“Say, Sonny, I’m plain Bitter Crik to my friends. I’m Mister Jones to
them that don’t like me, see? So far as gittin’ Mountain Jim out’n that
hole, it’ll be hard luck if I kain’t do it. Bitter Crik’s got gold
out’n tougher places nor that, you kin bet your last red. Lucky I came
along this way, too. You see I’ve bin prospectin’ all through here,
but it’s a rotten country. I’m going back to the States and ship to
Alasky, when I git out’n the Rockies.”
Talking thus, Bitter Creek, who looked so ferocious, but proved so
good-natured, examined the rock from all sides. As he carried on his
investigations he hummed to himself like a man in deep thought.
At length he straightened up and hailed Jim.
“I’ll get you out’n here, Jim,” he said.
“All right, old man, wish you would. These cubs smell like a shoe
factory on fire. I ain’t particular, but I know a heap of smells that’s
sweeter, including skunk.”
Bitter Creek turned to Ralph.
“Know what I’m goin’ ter do, Sonny?” he asked.
Ralph shook his head.
“Well, see here. That rock rests on this little terrace or ledge, don’t
it?”
“Yes.”
“And the ground all slopes away from it toward the creek?”
“It does,” rejoined Ralph, seeing that the odd man expected some sort
of a reply.
“Well, I’m going to put a slug of giant powder in under that terrace
and blow it out from under the rock. Onless I mistake my guess, that’s
all that’s holdin’ it. When we blow that to Kingdom Come that ol’ rock
is jes’ nacherally goin’ ter start rollin’ down ther hill, and out ’ull
walk Jim as large as life and twice as nacheral.”
“But won’t the explosion hurt him?” asked Ralph, to whom this appeared
to be a dangerous proceeding.
“May shake him up a bit, but yer see, the force of giant powder works
downward, and I’ll drive in under the rock for the shot.”
The scheme was explained to Mountain Jim, who entirely acquiesced in
it. Bitter Creek Jones wasted no more time, but hurried off to his
mule. From the pack he produced a small box carefully wrapped in
various soft cloths. This proved to be filled with excelsior, amidst
which nestled sticks of giant powder. From another box came caps and
fuse.
Then with a crowbar, the miner drove a deep hole under the terrace on
which the rock rested, and this done, capped and fused two sticks of
dynamite and “tamped” them into place. Then summoning Ralph they both
retreated to a distance, and Bitter Creek bent over and lit the fuse.
“Look out, Jim!” he yelled as it sputtered and sparked. “In about tew
minutes there’s goin’ ter be ‘Hail Columbia’ round these diggin’s.”