Flathead!—Ra-a-a!”
Thirty lusty juvenile throats, strong with frequent exercise, caused Mummy Cañon to ring with this school-yell. It was almost evening, and the boys of Lakefarm School were on their return from a day’s outing in the mountains. Clad in Boy Scout uniforms and wearing Rough Rider hats, they presented a picturesque appearance in that wild, rocky, mountain country, while their school-yell echoed among the hills, bright in the setting sun.
It was midsummer, yet thirty of the forty-four regular students were in attendance during the summer term, evidence of the popularity of the school, for they were all boys of the age that welcomes vacation time with cheers.
In spring this cañon was a beautiful place; in summer it lost some of its freshness, but was still beautiful; in fall it lost more of life, but beauty still clung to it; in winter, it was a picture that called for deep admiration. It also might well have been named Echo Cañon; indeed many in that part of Colorado often called it that. But Mummy Cañon it had been christened, and this was the only name by which it was known on the maps and in the guide books.
Interesting stories were told about this great mountain gorge. They had to do with the ancient inhabitants of the country, the cliff-dwellers, ruins of whose homes were to be found here and there high up in steep places. The boys of Lakefarm knew these stories by heart. They had been told over and over and added to until enough new and interesting details had been gathered around the original stories to fill a book.
Dr. Regulus Byrd, head master, Chief Scout, and owner of Lakefarm, was as peculiar as his name. Some called him eccentric, but the boys of the school and the friends of the doctor did not agree. The boys loved him as few schoolmasters ever are loved; the older people of the district declared that when it came to a pinch, Dr. Byrd never lacked judgment.
The doctor and the two instructors of the school, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter, were with the boys on the outing from which they were now returning. Mr. Frankland was a short, brisk, wide-awake man, who smiled frequently and shrewdly. Mr. Porter was an odd personage, dignified and very positive in all things, but an excellent instructor in manual training. After the procession had advanced well toward the heart of the gully and given two or three school-yells that raised the echoes, Mr. Porter said:
“Dr. Byrd, we’re only three miles from home. Why not stop here, build a fire, and sit around and talk a while?”
“That’s the stuff,” came from several of the boys at the same time. Dr. Byrd had a boy’s heart, and as there was no good reason for opposing the suggestion, he gave his consent.
In a jiffy the boys scattered in all directions in search of firewood; up the side of the hill and along the near bank of a noisy mountain stream, and soon were returning with armfuls of dead wood. Most of them were experienced in building camp fires in true frontier style, and the work progressed rapidly.