The Rambler Club
in the Mountains
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP"
ETC.
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMX
COPYRIGHT
1910 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
Introduction
In pursuance of his intention to write stories full of lively,
wholesome adventure for boys, the author presents "The Rambler Club in
the Mountains," following "The Rambler Club Afloat," and "The Rambler
Club's Winter Camp."
The five boys leave their home in Wisconsin and journey to the
far-away state of Oregon. There, in the mountain wilderness, among the
haunts of big game, they meet with plenty of exciting adventures; and
Dick Travers, the "official photographer," succeeds in making some
remarkable snap-shots.
"Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin, who are harboring fancied
grievances, unintentionally bring the boys into great peril. Their
thrilling experience, however, enables them to solve the mystery in the
fate of Howard Fenton, who has been carried through the gorge of Canyon
River.
The Ramblers find all their courage and endurance called into play,
but prove again that they are made of the right stuff.
In spite of all they have gone through, the boys have not lost their
love for roughing it, and they look forward with pleasure to other
adventures with rifle and rod, some of which are recounted in "The
Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."
W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.
Contents
I. UP TO THE LAKE
II. HOWARD FENTON
III. ON THE "DAUNTLESS"
IV. THE ISLAND CAMP
V. OUT IN THE STORM
VI. THE NATIONAL GAME
VII. FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER
VIII. THE INTRUDER
IX. AN EXCURSION
X. HOWARD IN DANGER
XI. "LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"
XII. DOWN THE GORGE
XIII. HANK MERWIN'S CABIN
XIV. A BEACON LIGHT
XV. DICK'S MOOSE
XVI. TACKLING "OLD EPHRAIM"
XVII. ON THE MOUNTAIN
XVIII. THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE
XIX. ABOVE THE CLOUDS
XX. BOB'S WILDCAT
XXI. DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE
XXII. CHASING "LITTLE BILL"
XXIII. CANYON RIVER
XXIV. "YOU SAVED MY LIFE!"
XXV. "HELLO, BOB SOMERS!"
XXVI. ACROSS THE CURRENT
XXVII. UP THE CLIFFS
XXVIII. ALL TOGETHER
Illustrations
A BOY STEPPED FORWARD
THEY LOUNGED AROUND A CHEERFUL BLAZE
"THE 'DAUNTLESS' IS IN THE GORGE"
"HE'S DONE FOR"
DESPERATELY, HE CLUNG TO IT
The Rambler Club in the Mountains
CHAPTER I
UP TO THE LAKE
"Well, boys, here we are at last!"
Bob Somers, with a smile of satisfaction on his healthy, sunburned
face, uttered these words, as he stood, surrounded by his fellow
members of the Rambler Club, at a small railroad station in Oregon.
To their left, above a line of trees, columns of brownish smoke and
jets of dazzling white steam shot up, each moment changing position
and showing how fast the train from which they had just alighted was
speeding on its way over the iron rails.
About them was a rich and fertile valley overlooked by a range of
rugged mountains, several of whose summits, crowned with snow, gleamed
brightly against the sky. It was a wild and beautiful prospect that met
the Ramblers' gaze, and their eyes sparkled.
"Well, here we are at last!" repeated "Captain Bob," seating himself
upon a trunk. "What do you think of it, Chubby?"
Stout, good-natured Dave Brandon, fanning his face vigorously, paused
for an instant, turned slowly around until his eyes had taken in the
entire scene, and then replied, "Simply grand, Bob. My, but won't I
make some great sketches!"
"Chub--artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But
don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."
"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em,"
grinned little Tom Clifton--"real exciting sport, that."
"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully.
"It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle
said----"
"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom
Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and----"
"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.
"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.
"Cinnamon--that's it--knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom,
with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which
curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that
stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."
"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial
frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare
suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel
uncommonly tired--and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a
square meal."
A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the
door.
"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he
remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell,
jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.
Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.
"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master,
reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he
connected; "but he'll be here all right--don't worry yourselves--there!"
He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction
with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object
which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and
apparently moving at a snail's pace.
"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.
"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I
wish he would hurry."
"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the
station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some
party was a-going to have the place this summer."
"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us
there."
Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the
boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally
resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip
came over the still air.
In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple
grays, rattled briskly along.
"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave
Brandon, resuming a standing posture.
To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his
horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.
"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.
"Mornin', Jed--mornin', gents!"
The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group
critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.
In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose,
a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown
were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted
that he wore an extremely sour expression.
"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular
party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."
"I see 'em--my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of
truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay
here all your lives, ain't yer?"
"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.
"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give
you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."
But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself
on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.
"Them nags has to take a rest," he announced, calmly. "Beats me, Jed,
why any one should want to come out here. Only wish I had 'nuff coin to
git away."
The station-master laughed.
"'Tain't the first time you've said so, Bill," he observed, dryly.
"An' won't be the last, nuther. I ain't never had no chance. Jack
Bender went off to Portland, an' I hear tell he's makin' lots of money.
I'm smart as him, any day."
"Big Bill's" restless eyes fixed themselves on the other's face, and,
as if expecting that his statement might be challenged, he paused.
Then, as silence ensued, Bob Somers spoke up. "How long will it take us
to reach the village?" he asked.
"If the old rattleboard don't git throw'd down the precipice, about
five hours."
"What precipice?" asked Tom Clifton, with an uneasy look.
"Over at Blinker's Pass--a clean drop of three hundred feet, 'most
straight as the walls of this here shanty, eh, Jed?"
"Whew! Anything ever happen there?" asked Tom.
"Four year ago next June, a hoss slipped, took over his mate, an' as
neat a trap as you ever laid yer eyes on was busted into a thousand
pieces."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Tom, breathlessly, "wasn't that awful! Driver
go over, too?"
"Jest managed to jump an' save hisself."
"Are your horses liable to stumble?" Tom's voice was slightly
tremulous, and he glanced sharply at the four dapple grays.
"All hosses is," was the unsatisfactory reply, "but I cant be a-talkin'
here all day--give us a hand, Jed--no, we don't want no help." He
waved aside the boys, seized hold of a box, and, within a few minutes,
assisted by the station-master, had stowed away the baggage upon the
top of the vehicle.
"Lucky we ain't got no other passengers to-day," he grumbled, as he
passed an enormous red handkerchief across his perspiring forehead.
"Fetch out the mail-bag, Jed, an' we'll git. Somebody can ride up with
me, if he wants to."
"I will," said Bob Somers, quickly.
In a jiffy, he had climbed up to the seat.
"Awful selfish, I know, fellows," he said, smilingly, "and----"
But his further speech was cut short by "Big Bill," who dropped heavily
beside him and picked up the lines.
"Git up, there! Whoa--steady, boy, steady--so long, Jed." His long,
snake-like whip twisted and writhed through the air, cracking like a
volley of pistol-shots; the leaders plunged forward, and, in a moment,
a cloud of dust again arose, and the little station was veiled behind
the flying particles.
The dapple grays, at an even trot, pounded over the yellow road, past
white farmhouses, green fields and orchards loaded with fruit, toward
the tree-covered mountains which loomed up straight ahead.
"This is a dandy country," cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "Must
be all kinds of game out here. Say, are there many visitors at the
village?"
"Ever since people got the idea that it was a good health resort,
we've had 'em--that is now an' then," responded the driver, skilfully
flipping the off-horse on the ear, "but I only wish I could git away."
Bob smiled. "Any young fellows around?" he asked--"enough to make up a
baseball nine? It would be jolly good fun to have a game."
"I ain't got no time for such foolishness," growled "Big Bill,"
flipping the other horse with equal skill. "There's young fellers
around, of course. Did you ever see a place without 'em? An' I ain't
a-sayin' that they're all they should be, neither."
"Some people from New York here, aren't there?"
"How did you know?" queried Dugan, with a look of surprise.
"Oh, my uncle told me something about 'em. Said they were good sort,
and all that."
"Guess you're talkin' 'bout Fenton an' his son, Howard," responded
Dugan, frowning until the lines on either side of his nose had deepened
into ruts. "They're staying at the hotel. A good sort, you say? Well,
I haven't much use for 'em. Neither one never throw'd no coin in my
way. Whoa, you brute! If that little feller inside sees old 'Peggy'
a-stumblin' like that, he'll be scared enough to git out--an' walk."
Dugan's sour expression relaxed, and he laughed loudly.
The road led across a rolling valley, and Bob Somers drew an
involuntary breath of admiration as the ever-changing panorama opened
out before him. Rugged forms on the mountains gradually grew more
distinct, until the rocky sides of frowning precipices could be clearly
seen.
"Pretty heavily timbered," observed Bob, with a glance aloft. "Great
Scott, that mountain we're coming to is a whopper, all right."
"'Tain't nothin' to some," replied Dugan, "but I reckon when we git to
Blinkers Pass you'll want to climb inside--most of 'em does."
"Not I," laughed Bob. "Only wish we were there now. Hello, Dave!" he
sang out.
"Hello, Bob!" came a cheery response from within the coach.
"What do you think of this for scenery--isn't it great?"
"Oh, ho--best I ever saw. I'm getting inspirations every minute. Did
you ever see anything prettier than this?"
As he spoke, the vehicle lumbered heavily over a bridge. Below, a
turbulent stream foamed its way in and out among rocks and boulders,
sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. The trail led upward, and when
an hour had passed--an hour full of delight to the boys--they were in
the midst of a wild and unfrequented region. Here and there, leaves of
the maple and ash shone out against the darker pines and cedars, while
the dogwood in full bloom lightened the landscape with its cheerful
colors. Forest perfumes filled the air, and the notes of many woodland
songsters rose above the steady grind of the coach.
"Perfectly su-perb--magnificent!" floated out of the window, and Bob
Somers chuckled as he listened to the delighted comments of his friends.
It was a long, toilsome ascent. The road twisted and turned, now lost
in the dark, gloomy recesses of the mountain, then emerging into the
clear daylight, where views of the broad valley were obtained.
"Crickets, but we are getting up in the air," called out Tom Clifton.
"How much further is it to that pass?"
Dugan pulled up his panting horses. "A right smart ways, yet," he
answered, "but you'll know it when we get there, young 'un."
At the next halting place, a magnificent view caused the Ramblers to
almost exhaust their vocabulary of admiring expressions. A veil of
bluish mist hung over the opposite mountain, while its snow-capped
summit, rising clear, shone out brilliantly against the sky. Far down
in the valley a silver torrent threaded its way among the rich masses
of vegetation.
"Glorious!" cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "It certainly makes a
chap feel small. Know how high that mountain is, Mr. Dugan?"
The driver snorted.
"Bill--plain Bill's my name," he said, sourly. "Never had no tape
measure long enough to find out, but some says it's five thousand feet."
"And it looks it," was Bob's comment.
"In ten minutes we'll git to Blinker's Pass," went on "Big Bill,"
slowly. "Don't know but what we oughter blindfold that little feller
inside--say, what's the fat boy's name?"
"Dave Brandon."
"He don't look as if he ever done a lick of work in his life. Whoa, you
'Peggy.' Too clost to the pass for any of that game;" and Bill, with a
laugh, gazed into Bob Somers' face.
"Might as well give it up, Bill--you can't scare me," laughed Bob.
"Guess you won't find Tom Clifton showing the white feather, either."
"We hain't came to it yet," and Bill smiled grimly.
But the pass was soon reached. The road rose steeply, then stretched
ahead in a level course for a considerable distance.
Bob Somers, in spite of his assurance, felt a strange tremor run
through him, as they reached the dangerous point. Below, the jagged
rocks extended in a sheer descent of several hundred feet, and between
them and the bottom was but a narrow strip of turf and rocks. He
clutched hold of the seat in a firm grasp and gazed breathlessly at the
thrilling sight.
"Something of a drop, eh?" chuckled "Big Bill." "Toss over one of them
rocks an' you won't hear a sound when it strikes."
"Great Scott, it's like being in a balloon," gasped Bob.
"It's taken the nerve of many a fellow--it has. Hey, young 'un, are you
too scared to take a look?"
The driver leaned around and glanced toward the window. He saw Dave
Brandon's smiling face looking calmly down.
"It's deep, and no mistake," observed the stout boy; "but not quite as
bad as I hoped."
"Don't expect much, Chubby, do you?" laughed Bob.
As for little Tom Clifton, he smiled faintly, but made no reply to
Dugan's question, and the latter was quite sure that he breathed a sigh
of relief when the precipice was hidden from view behind a ridge.
Again the coach climbed laboriously upward. Many times the panting
animals were allowed to rest, and the Ramblers became impatient
to reach their destination. Hunger attacked them, and Dave sighed
dolefully as he thought of the long wait before their appetites could
be satisfied.
But at length the road began to descend, and about two o'clock they
caught a glimpse of a shining body of water with two dark spots at its
western end.
"What are they?" asked Bob, with interest.
"Promontory and Hemlock Islands," replied Dugan. "That's Mountain Lake.
We're gittin' there now--village is jist beyond the middle of the lake."
"And mighty glad I am to see it," said Bob. "I can make out some of the
buildings. Are those white spots farmhouses?"
The driver nodded.
"This must be a great place for boating and fishing."
"'Tain't bad--but jist let me give you a word of advice--keep away from
them islands."
"Why?"
"Why?" echoed Dugan, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, jist this
side of 'em is the entrance to Canyon River. It runs a-racin' an'
teamin' through an awful gorge, an' any feller that gits swept in is a
goner."
"Whew! No one ever go through in safety?"
"None that I ever hearn tell of. The sides of the gorge rise plumb out
of the water, an' even if you kin swim like a fish it wouldn't do you
no good."
"Well, I guess you won't catch me trying to swim through," laughed Bob.
"The end of the lake is all right for a feller that knows the
currents," went on Dugan. "That's what I told Howard Fenton."
As if glad that their journey was about over, the horses broke into a
brisk trot and the coach rattled noisily along, swerving from side to
side, while Bill Dugan cracked his long whip at frequent intervals.
He was a skilful but reckless driver, and the last stretch was taken at
a clip which made Bob Somers hold tightly to his seat.
As they approached the lake, Captain Bob became more and more pleased
with its surroundings. The forms of the two islands began to stand out
clearly, and he soon saw that the nearest was scarcely more than two
hundred yards from the end of the picturesque sheet of water. The lake
rounded sharply at this point, being shut in by granite cliffs. It was
here, immediately opposite Promontory Island, that Canyon River had its
source, the water flowing into a gorge whose towering walls rose in
places from five hundred to a thousand feet.
"Do people climb the mountain?" asked Bob.
"Anybody that don't mind riskin' their necks kin. But it's an awful
job, an' nobody with any sense would try it," growled Dugan. "Onct,
I was foolish enough ter go up with some fellers. We set out early,
an'"--Dugan paused; the recollections brought out the wrinkles on his
forehead again--"I'll never forgit it. After a-climbin' an' climbin',
we came to a wall of rock risin' most straight up in the air."
"Well, what happened?"
"The fust thing we did arter that was to run inter a hornet's nest,
an' in tryin' ter git away from the pesky bugs I fell down a bank,
every blessed cent I had rolled out of me pockets, an', for all I know,
they're a-rollin' yet."
Bob politely refrained from smiling at Bill Dugan's ludicrous
expression of disgust.
"Not only that," went on the driver, "but I ruined me best pair of
boots, an' was laid up for a week with a bad arm. An' all that jist to
hear the sound of a waterfall in the distance--always did run in mean
luck."
"Climb the wall of rock?" queried Bob.
"I did not," snorted Dugan. "T'other chaps wanted to, but I says, 'Not
fur me.'"
"Then you never saw the waterfall?"
"No! An' don't want to, nuther. Some fellers has, but the pesky birds
an' animals kin do all the lookin', as fur as I keer. As I tole you
afore, anybody what gits caught in that gorge is a goner. Where the
river comes out there's a current that would make you shiver to look
at. No boat could git up it."
"How is the mountain on the other side?"
"Like a twin brother to this one, an' hard to tell which is the
meanest. None of us around here ever keers to go up, but strangers,
like as not, will be crazy 'nuff ter try it."
"That's mighty interesting--I mean the waterfall," observed Bob Somers.
"I suspicioned you'd say so, an' wouldn't s'prise me if you turned out
to be one of them fellers what don't mind a-runnin' inter danger--the
wuss, the better. Only hopes you git cured soon," and with this
ill-natured remark the driver lapsed into silence, while Bob devoted
his attention to the scenery.
The lake now stretched straight ahead, its furthest shore almost lost
in a haze that enveloped the base of the mountains beyond. The road led
down to the water's edge, and once there, it seemed but a few minutes
before the stage-coach was rattling past the outlying farms. The
individual houses of the village were now clearly distinguishable, as
well as a wharf, at which several boats were moored.
At length, the vehicle drew up in front of the Resort House, a rather
pretentious building which combined hotel, post-office and general
store.
It seemed as if the entire male population had assembled to witness
the arrival of the coach. Men and boys lolled about, exhibiting the
liveliest interest in the proceedings, and gaping curiously at the five
boys, as they stepped to the ground.
"Act as if they'd never seen a human being before," whispered Sam
Randall. "My, but it's good to stretch one's legs again."
"Say, which of you fellows is Bob Somers?" exclaimed a cheery voice.
[Illustration: A BOY STEPPED FORWARD.]
From among the group, a boy stepped forward, looking inquiringly from
one to another.