Topsy, thus hemmed in, allowed herself to be captured without making much resistance, and a much chastened pony was led back into camp, where the professor was awaiting the return of the party.
“Lucky thing that she turned,” was Ralph’s comment, “for I don’t think that ledge went much further up the mountain side.”
“Reckon it didn’t,” was Jim’s reply, “and if you had found a spot where it was much narrower, you’d have been in an ugly fix.”
“Not a doubt of it,” commented Ralph as he thought of his feelings when he was uncertain whether Topsy would be able to pass him or not.
As to what had turned the runaway pony in such a fortunate manner, opinions were divided. Mountain Jim inclined to the belief that the trail had come to an end and that the pony had had sense enough to turn. Ralph, with the recollection of the animal’s terror fresh in his mind, was positive that some wild beast had scared the recreant Topsy and caused her to dash back.
The discussion over the exciting incident had hardly ceased, when hoof beats were heard coming along the trail by which they had arrived at their camping place. All looked up with interest, for travelers were few in that wild part of the Rockies. Their curiosity was not long in being gratified.
Through the trees came riding a stalwart figure on a big bay horse. The newcomer was clean shaven, bronzed and capable looking. He wore a big sombrero, riding boots, and trousers with a stripe down the sides. His appearance, for he carried a carbine in a holster and pistols in his belt, was somewhat alarming to the boys, who exchanged hurried whispers. But Mountain Jim soon quieted their fears.
“It’s a trooper of the Northwest Mounted Police,” he exclaimed, and then, as the rider drew nearer, he cried out in a glad voice:
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland, if it ain’t Harry Carthew!”