IN THE MOUNTAINS.
“Seek dead!” commanded Bob; whereupon the setters began beating the
bushes to find the two birds that had fallen to their master’s gun.
“Didn’t I tell you that there were wild animals in this valley? The
presence of those black-tails proves that there must be some way of
communication with the outer world, and if we are smart enough to find
it, we are all right.”
“They have found another flock,” said George, who was closely watching
the movements of the setters.
“They are pointing the dead birds now,” was the reply. “Fetch!”
In obedience to this command, each of the dogs seized a bird and
deposited it in Bob’s outstretched hand.
“Some folks call them Gambel’s partridges,” said the latter, as he
handed one of the birds to George for examination; “but those who are
better posted in natural history call them Arizona quails. Now, you
carry the guns, and I will look out for the dogs.”
So saying, Bob drew a couple of light chains from his game-bag, and,
after fastening them to the collars the setters wore around their necks,
he led them to the thicket in which the deer had been concealed, and put
them on the trail.
The intelligent animals, which seemed to know just what was expected of
them, took it up readily, and would have followed it at a keen run if
they had not been held in check by the chains. They did not give tongue,
but kept at their work in silence, and at the end of two hours brought
the boys to the mouth of a densely-wooded ravine which ran back into the
mountains.
During this time the geyser had been at work again, its approaching
period of activity being heralded by the quaking of the ground and the
same terrific explosion that had frightened them so badly three hours
before.
The boys could not see it as plainly as they did before, because they
were much further away from it, and there were too many bushes in the
way; but they had a better view of the column that shot up from the
basin, and they saw that, instead of being round like a hogshead, it was
very broad and flat. When it crumbled to pieces and fell back into the
basin, the sight was grand and awe-inspiring.
“What’s that?” asked George, suddenly facing about and looking toward
the ravine.
“That was the echo,” replied Bob, “and it is probably what we heard
while we were at home. Of course, I am not positive on that point, and I
don’t suppose it will be settled until some scientific men have been
here to look into the matter. That shaft in the middle of the basin must
be a frightful place to look at,” added Bob, at the same time telling
himself that he had half a mind to say that he would not leave the
valley until he had paddled over that same shaft and dropped a line into
it to see how deep it was.
Bob was an enthusiast, and if he had had a companion who was at all like
himself, he would have known more about that geyser before he left it.
He was formed of the same sort of material that those daring travelers
and explorers who have done so much to add to the knowledge of the world
are made of.
He would have been one of the first to climb the Matterhorn without a
guide; to enter a newly-discovered cave; to go up in a balloon or down
into a coal mine; to plunge into the depths of some unknown
wilderness—in short, he was ready to undertake almost anything that was
exciting or dangerous, but he wanted backing.
“Now I will mark this ravine so that we can find it again, and, bright
and early to-morrow morning, we will begin our homeward journey,” said
Bob, adding, when he saw the look of delight on George’s face, “Don’t
shout until you are out of the woods, old fellow. We have a long and
tedious journey before us; but you can’t realize the difficulties of it,
because you have never lived among the mountains. This ravine looks as
though it might take us somewhere, but it may lead us slap into a
pocket.”
“What’s a pocket?” asked George.
“It’s a place in the mountains that you can’t get out of except by the
way you came in. If this valley was walled in as solidly as we thought
it was, it would be a pocket, and a bad one, too; for we could not
possibly get out of it.”
Bob then went on to explain that a mountain stream is like a tree
pressed flat, the only difference being that the branches do not cross
one another. The tributaries are the branches, each one being a perfect
tree in itself and leading to the parent stem.
It was perfectly safe, he said, for a tenderfoot to leave his camp alone
and hunt _up_ stream, so long as he did not cross any of the “divides”
he found in his way; but if he went _down_ the stream, the chances were
that he would get lost when he tried to find his way back, for he would
be almost sure to turn up one of the tributaries instead of following
the main current. If he crossed a “divide,” and got into another system
of ravine, he might wander about for weeks, and starve to death at last.
While Bob was speaking, he took the chains off the dogs, and marked the
ravine by breaking a branch off an evergreen and leaving it hanging by
the bark.
Then he and George went back to camp shooting three quails on the way,
which, added to the two Bob had in his game-bag, made an excellent
supper for them.
They sought their blankets at dark and enjoyed a good night’s rest, in
spite of the fact that the geyser awoke them regularly every three hours
by the discharges of its subterranean artillery.
After they had eaten breakfast, which was served up at daylight, Bob,
who had bestowed no little thought upon the matter, proceeded to select
the articles they were to take with them on their journey.
He filled his double cartridge-belt with ball and shot cases; saw that
George’s powderhorn and bullet-pouch were well supplied, and put into
his game-bag all their lines and hooks.
As much of their provisions as they could conveniently wrap up in their
blankets were next laid aside; but these bundles were made very light,
for Bob knew that before they had spent two days among the ravines, the
weight of their packs would begin to tell upon their progress.
The next thing was to take care of the numerous articles they were
compelled to leave behind them. They might not succeed in working their
way out the first time trying, and if they were obliged to return to the
valley to take a rest and make a new start, they wanted some supplies to
fall back on.
The rest of the provisions were wrapped up in a blanket and hoisted into
the branches of a sapling; the tent was taken down and concealed in a
thicket where it would be somewhat protected from the elements; the
skiff which had carried them safely through the canyon was hauled out on
the bank and turned bottom up, and the little fowling-piece and the
ammunition-box which contained the rest of their cartridges were wrapped
in a rubber poncho with their fishing-rod, and hidden under a log.
When all this work had been done, Bob fastened the coffee-pot to his
belt, tied the stump of his oar to his pack, and led the way toward the
ravine, the geyser favoring them with one of its grandest eruptions by
way of a “send off.”
It would take a story longer than this to describe all the incidents of
the journey that was begun that morning, and which continued for three
long, weary weeks.
Such trials and privations, such severe tests of their endurance and
fortitude, they had never known before.
Bob was experienced in mountain travel, and he knew as much, in a
general way, regarding ravines and “divides” as the men with whom he had
hunted could tell him; but he often found himself at fault.
After stumbling over rocks and logs all day long, it was certainly
discouraging to find themselves in a “pocket” at night—to ascertain that
the stream they had been following had its source in a little glen which
was hemmed in on all sides by rocks so precipitous that a big-horn could
not have scaled them.
Bob traveled entirely by the sun, and tried hard to keep the points of
the compass in his mind; but when George began to affirm with vehemence
that was not natural to him that the sun had fallen into a habit of
rising in the north, he lost faith in himself, and his courage all left
him.
For a while, George bore up manfully. He was cheerful and confident, and
ready to follow as long as Bob was willing to lead; but when the last
morsel of their provisions was gone, and they saw their supply of
ammunition growing smaller, and they were obliged to go supperless to
bed, in spite of all their efforts to secure some of the mountain sheep
that occasionally showed themselves on the cliffs far above their heads,
and their boots and clothing began to show unmistakable signs of the
rough treatment they were receiving, and the ravines all the while grew
darker and gloomier, and the “pockets” became more numerous—then things
began to look serious indeed, and George to show the first symptoms of
what frontiersmen call “plains insanity”—that is, an uncontrollable
desire to “keep moving.”
While Bob insisted on deliberation and the exercise of extreme caution,
and used his best endeavors to keep his own thoughts and his companion’s
from dwelling upon their almost hopeless condition, George wanted to
rush ahead; he didn’t care where he went, so long as he was in motion.
He could not bear to sit down for a moment.
These alarming symptoms increased every day, and finally things came to
such a pass that Bob could not induce his companion to stop for the
night, until he had threatened to tie him hand and foot. It was a
necessary precaution, but he neglected it too long. One morning he awoke
from a troubled slumber, and started up in his blanket to find that
George was missing.