LOST RIVER
Not knowing exactly how to reply to this sort of talk, and hardly
understanding what the man meant by it, Rick and Chot said nothing. Mr.
Campbell was silent for a moment, looking at the prospector on his mule
as he made off down the mountain trail.
“So you think Uncle Tod is crazy, eh?” finally asked Mr. Campbell.
“I don’t _think_ it—I _know_ it,” came the answer with a chuckle. “And
so’s Sam Rockford—he’s crazier than Tod if such a thing can be. Go on,
Salamander!” This last was called to the mule which ambled on with many
a clatter and clang of the prospector’s outfit.
“Well, boys, does this discourage you?” asked Mr. Campbell, when the old
man and his mule were out of sight around a turn in the trail.
“It does not!” cried Rick, cheerfully. “Once upon a time I thought Uncle
Tod was crazy, but it turned out all right.”
“And I have no doubt but what it will this time, Rick. We’ll go on to
your uncle’s camp. I’m glad we have found it with no further trouble,”
said Mr. Campbell.
“I’m afraid we’ve been quite a bother to you, Mr. Campbell,” remarked
Rick, as the auto was again sent climbing the mountain trail.
“Oh, not at all,” was the answer. “In fact you have been good company
for me. It would have been mighty lonesome coming all this distance
alone, and I didn’t have to get much off my trail to come here. It’s
been a pleasure.”
“Well, we had fun out of it, anyhow,” said Chot. “But say, what do you
s’pose he means, saying your Uncle Tod and that other man are crazy?”
asked Chot of Rick.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I never heard of this Sam Rockford,
though my folks may know him.”
“I suppose he is your uncle’s partner,” suggested Mr. Campbell. “As for
this prospector saying other people are crazy—well, I’ve had some
experience out here in the west. There is a class of man who, as soon as
some one differs from them, at once jump to the idea that the other
fellow is as crazy as a loon. Maybe the other man doesn’t do his mining
in the same way as do most of the miners—the result is he gets the name
of being crazy.
“And from what you tell me of your Uncle Tod, Rick, I’d say he wouldn’t
follow in the same old rut if he found a better way to do a job. He’d
take a new trail and that might result in his being called crazy.”
“I guess that’s it,” agreed Rick.
“So don’t pay too much attention to what this prospector said,” went on
Mr. Campbell with a laugh.
“I should say not!” agreed Chot. “We’re out here for a good time!”
“But I guess Uncle Tod wants us to help him do something,” said Rick,
“though I don’t know what it is.”
“We’ll soon find out,” remarked Mr. Campbell.
Following the directions given them by the prospector aboard the
mountain-climbing mule Salamander, the three in the auto kept on up the
trail, which wound over a fairly good road. They made quite an ascent,
and then dipped down into a valley—a pleasant valley which seemed as
though it ought to have a stream running through it. But there was no
sign of water, save, here and there, small pools, while in other places
there were indications of brooks that had dried up, leaving only a bed
of stones and gravel.
Emerging from a patch of woods, the road forked sharply and as the
prospector had said nothing about this, Mr. Campbell stopped, uncertain
which turning to take.
“Well, boys, what is it, left or right?” he asked. There was no
sign-post or other travelers’ signal to guide them.
Neither Rick nor Chot could tell as they had never been here before, nor
had their companion. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Mr.
Campbell was anxious to drive the boys to Uncle Tod’s camp by night, for
he was in somewhat of a hurry to get back on his own trail, that would
lead him to San Francisco.
“I think that prospector was crazy, if you ask me,” remarked Chot, as
they looked undecidedly at the forking road. “Why didn’t he tell us
which trail to take?”
“He might have, and not strained his intellect,” chuckled Mr. Campbell.
“Say!” suddenly cried Rick, “isn’t that a flag up there?”
He pointed off toward the hilly side of the valley at the left.
The others strained their eyes and Chot made out something fluttering
through the leafy branches of trees.
“It does look like a flag,” he said.
Mr. Campbell had field glasses in the car and, taking an observation
through them, he was able to declare:
“It is a flag flying. Some one must be there, and though it may not be
your Uncle Tod they perhaps can tell us where to find him. We’ll head
for the flag.”
This they did, taking the left trail, and a little later they came to a
sort of plateau jutting out from the sloping side of the mountain
valley. On this plateau, or shelf, which was several miles in extent,
was located a camp, consisting of a comfortable-looking log cabin, a
small tent and a slab shack, open on one side. In this shack stood a
mule that might have been a twin to Salamander, and a battered and rusty
flivver. Scattered about were various objects—picks, shovels and some
pieces of apparatus the use of which Rick and Chot could only guess at.
From a tall tree, stripped of all lower branches and growing in front of
the cabin, floated a United States flag, a most welcome sign in that
wilderness.
But what attracted the attention of the boys, no less than that of Mr.
Campbell, was not so much the camp, the flag (glorious as that emblem
was) or the mule, but the sight of two men sitting in dejected fashion
in front of what seemed a tunnel or cave leading into the side of the
mountain.
And as he caught a view of the face of one of these men Rick joyfully
cried:
“Uncle Tod!”
The owner of the name, for he it was, seemed startled from a deep train
of thought, his companion likewise rousing himself from a reverie that
the arrival of the touring auto had not broken for either. Then Uncle
Tod cried:
“Rick and Ruddy! Shiver my grub stake, it’s Rick and Ruddy!”
“How are you, Uncle Tod?” cried the lad as he leaped from the auto,
while Ruddy, who followed, frisked about his master’s relative and also
made quick friends with the other man. “How are you?”
“Oh, so-so to middling,” answered Mr. Belmont as he put his arm around
Rick’s shoulder. “And you brought Chot along, too! That’s fine.” He
looked questioningly toward Mr. Campbell, and Rick made the
introduction.
“This is my partner, Sam Rockford,” said Uncle Tod, indicating rather a
gloomy-appearing individual who shuffled from his seat in front of the
log cabin. “Well, Rick, you and Ruddy got here at last. Have any
trouble?”
“Oh, not much,” said Mr. Campbell.
“But why did you send for me in such a queer way?” asked Rick, “and why
did you go off in such a hurry? What’s it all about?”
“I’ll tell you when I get around to it,” was the answer. “It’s a queer
story, but maybe we can get to the bottom of it now. Just at present,
though, we’re up a stump, so to speak. Stuck—at the end of the
trail—badgered—up against it—anything you like to call it—eh, Sam?” and
he looked at his partner.
“You said it,” came in gloomy tones from the other. “Might as well call
it a day’s work and quit, I guess. I don’t want any more of scouting
around in that hole,” and he nodded toward the black opening that seemed
to lead into a mountain cavern.
“What’s it all about?” asked Rick in wonderment, while Ruddy nosed here
and there, trying to make himself at home.
“Lost River—that’s what it’s about,” answered Uncle Tod. “Lost River,
and until we find it we’re in bad shape.”
“What do you mean—a lost river?” asked Rick. “Who lost it and where was
it lost?”
“Ought to be easy to find a lost river,” remarked Chot.
“Not so easy as it seems,” said gloomy Sam Rockford, and the boys were
to learn that he was always this way—the least upsetting of his plans,
or those of his friends, made him utter the most dire predictions. And
he was always ready to quit at the least sign of opposition. Though when
matters went right he was the most jolly of companions. “We’ll never see
it again,” he added, desperately.
“But what’s it all about?” persisted Rick. “Where is the lost river?”
“It was _there_,” and Uncle Tod pointed to the mouth of the cavern.
“Where it is now nobody knows—I wish we did, for without it our mine
isn’t worth a pinch of snuff. I don’t know, Rick—maybe I’m crazy as some
say I am, but I had an idea if I sent for you and Ruddy we could find
Lost River. That’s why I telegraphed you to come—to help me find Lost
River. It’s in there—somewhere,” and again he pointed to the cavern,
“but where, Sam and I can’t discover. Maybe, with the help of Ruddy—”
“Hark!” suddenly interrupted Sam in less gloomy tones than before.
“Hark! I think I hear something!”