"LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP"
Dick Travers dropped his gun and frantically seized a stout sapling
which grew close to the edge. A cry of horror escaped his lips, as
it began to bend beneath his weight, and his hands to glide over the
slippery surface.
"Dave--Bob!" he yelled, despairingly. "Help!"
Through the crevice, narrow as it was, came a patch of light. He turned
his head, to shut out the view of the awful chasm below, but in even
that quick glance the jutting crags and great boulders strewn about the
base were indelibly fixed upon his memory.
The sapling was still bending, but with the grip of despair he clung to
it, fearing each instant to hear the fatal snap.
"Help! Bob, Dave!" he gasped again. "Help!"
Then his dangling feet bumped against the face of the cliff and struck
a projection. Daring to look down again, he saw a ledge about a foot
wide, and hope sprang within him.
A crashing through the underbrush sounded from above and three pale
faces were gazing into his own.
"We'll save you," cried Dave Brandon. "Courage, old man!"
"Hurry," gasped Dick. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead,
but Dave's voice cheered him.
"Lucky we brought a rope along," panted Dave. "Quick--make a noose--put
it around me!"
Bob Somers had implicit confidence in Dave Brandon, and asked no
questions. In a moment the noose was slipped over his sturdy shoulders
and under his arms.
"Now pass the end around that tree," instructed Dave, hurriedly. "Hang
on to it, Bob. Here, Jim, grab hold of my legs, and don't let go."
"Hurry up, fellows," came a cry from below.
"Courage, old boy," sang out Bob. "We're coming."
Dave threw himself flat on the ground and worked his way to the edge of
the opening, then leaned far over.
Havens, with a firm grip on the stout boy's legs, twisted his arm
around a convenient sapling.
"I've got you, Brandon," he said grimly.
Farther and farther Dave stretched over. He paid no heed to the yawning
depths. All he saw was Dick Travers' fear-stricken face just below.
A few inches more, and the "poet's" strong hands closed with a
vise-like grip over his fellow Rambler's wrist.
"Keep a tight grip on the sapling, Dick," he commanded, in a tense
voice, and the other obeyed.
It was a thrilling moment for all. But Dave's strength was equal to the
emergency. With a mighty effort, he began to work his way back inch by
inch.
Bob Somers, after fastening the rope securely, sprang forward. No words
were spoken. Dave Brandon grunted and groaned, while the perspiration
rolled off his round face.
Presently Bob Somers leaned over and grabbed Dick Travers' left arm.
Up, up came the dangling form.
"Now, Havens, pull for all you are worth," panted Dave. "Pull like the
dickens," and Jim bent all his strength to the task.
Another instant, and Dick was seized by the waistband and dragged over
the edge to safety.
It would be hard to give an idea of the thankfulness that was in the
hearts of all. For several moments, Dick Travers lay without speaking.
The shock had been a severe one.
"Thanks, fellows," was all he said, finally. But his tone spoke volumes.
"Look before you leap next time, Dick," observed Jim Havens. "Lots of
dangerous places around these mountains."
"You bet I will. Crickets! It was awful to hang over that chasm. I felt
sure the sapling was going to snap," and Dick shuddered at the thought.
Still puffing and blowing, Dave Brandon was busy wiping his perspiring
face, while he lay at full length on the ground.
None of them felt quite in the mood for hunting, and the stout boy
finally proposed that they return to the dugout.
"I need a good, square meal," he said.
"And you deserve it, too," said Dick, heartily. "Let's vamoose."
Tired and hungry, they finally pushed through the last belt of timber,
and came in view of the dugout.
"Well, well, who in the world is that?" exclaimed Bob Somers in
surprise, as he observed a figure sitting on a log before the entrance,
calmly smoking a big pipe.
"By the flying partridge, a visitor out here," laughed Dave.
"Didn't know we had any neighbors in this block," said Dick.
"Think I know that feller," put in Havens. "Looks like Hank Merwin, the
trapper."
The visitor did not arise as the boys approached. He was evidently a
very tall, raw-boned man, and his face was bronzed to almost the color
of an Indian's. He rested a Winchester rifle across his knees, and
fastened to his belt was a holster containing a huge Colt revolver.
He looked impassively at the campers, then drawled, slowly, "Wal,
young uns, arternoon!"
"Hello, Hank!" greeted Jim, familiarly. "These are some friends of mine
out hunting and fishing. Speak your names, fellows."
Hank Merwin listened calmly. His face was as expressionless as a wooden
Indian's.
"Huntin' an' fishin', eh? Wal, I happened along this way, and I sees
that some one was a-usin' the dugout, so I stays."
"Glad you did, Hank," said Jim, cordially. "Grub with us to-night."
"Don't mind if I do."
When everything was under way, Dick Travers brought out his camera.
"As long as we have a real trapper here," he announced, "I'm going to
take a picture of the whole crowd."
"Knew a feller oncet who had one of them jiggers," observed Hank,
slowly. "I never had no picter of myself."
"Well, I'll give you one of these," said Dick. "Step this way,
gentlemen, and get your phizzes taken. Get up, Dave. Stay right where
you are, Hank."
He stepped back, while the others ranged themselves around. There was
a sharp click, and Dick announced that it was all over.
"I'm going to take some wild animals with this, Hank," he said.
"Wild critters, eh, lad?"
Hank's gray eyes rested on the youthful photographer. Then he gazed
reflectively at the rings of smoke again.
"Mebbe I kin help ye," he said, kindly. "Kin ye take one of them
picters at night--by jacklight?"
"By jacklight?" questioned Dick, in puzzled tones.
"Sartingly! But perhaps you never hearn tell of it?"
"Hank often goes out hunting by jacklight," interposed Havens. "He has
a lamp in front of his boat, and a reflector sends the light an awful
way ahead. Well--moose and deer are fond of feeding on lily-pads and
grasses near the shore, and every once in a while he runs across 'em."
"Should think they would scoot away like sixty," said Dick.
"They don't. The light sort of blinds them and they can't see the
hunter."
"Wal, lad," continued Hank Merwin, "kin ye take a picter by that 'ere
light?"
"You just bet I can," cried the official photographer,
enthusiastically. "I've got a lot of flashlight powder, and it will
be as easy as rolling off a log. Thanks awfully, Hank. Snap-shots by
jacklight sounds fine, eh, Bob?"
"Right you are."
"Wal, whenever you takes the notion, look me up," said Hank, "but you'd
best wait 'til thar ain't no moon."
Dick Travers was delighted at the prospect, and the others were no less
pleased.
After supper, sitting before a pleasant fire, Hank Merwin, who had
taken a great fancy to the boys, related many thrilling incidents
in his life as a trapper. The moon rose above the belt of timber,
enveloping the landscape in its pale greenish light; the whispering
breeze brought with it many strange sounds from the forest, and, as the
fire crackled and glowed, sending up showers of dancing sparks, the
boys were more and more charmed with life in the open.