The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

by John Henry Goldfrap

Reaching forward—like a boy playing bob-cherry—he seized the knife with his teeth. Tom’s ivories were white and strong and even, and holding the keen blade in his mouth he had no difficulty in sawing Jack’s hands free, for the younger boy had instantly perceived, without Tom’s telling him, what the other was about to do.

Of course, the thing took longer to perform than it does to tell it here. A dozen times or more the boys interrupted themselves to look cautiously around. For all they knew there might be other guards than the sleeping Indian and his companion. But they could see none, and, as the moments went on without interruption, they grew bolder and worked more rapidly. Presently Jack was free, and, taking the knife from Tom, he at once accomplished his brother’s disentanglement.

“What are we going to do now?” whispered Jack, as they stood cramped and aching, but thrilling at the same time with the sense of glorious liberty. But they were by no means at the end of their troubles yet. They had still to get out of the cave and make their way to some place of security beyond Bully Banjo’s immediate grip.

Tom did not answer Jack’s question immediately. Instead, he paused and an expression of deep thought came over his countenance. One by one, he ran over the various features of the locality as he recalled them. The high-sided canyon, steep as the walls of a house, and with no apparent way of reaching the summit from below. No, there was no chance of getting away there. The river? Ah, that was better. Tom thought that by working along the edge of the stream they could reach the sea coast, or at least some point at which they could clamber back onto the trail,—possibly at the same place as that by which they had made their unfortunate excursion after water.

Rapidly and in a low whisper he conveyed his plan to Jack. The younger boy nodded, and then, as there was nothing to be gained by waiting, they started to put the daring plan into execution. But as they moved forward out of the cave Death, who, like most Indians slumbered as lightly as a cat, stirred and opened his eyes. In a flash, he saw what had happened and comprehended it.

Luckily, before he cried out to give the alarm, he reached for his rifle, which lay by his side. That instant of time was all that Tom needed. In one bound he was on the Chinook. The fellow reeled backward under his powerful blow, toppling head first into the still glowing fire. Before he could utter a cry, though, Tom was on him. The Bungalow Boy’s hand was clapped over the Indian’s mouth. But Tom speedily found that, though his swift attack had temporarily made him master of the situation, he was no more than a fair match for the Indian. The fellow was thin, but as tough as steel wire. He wriggled and squirmed like an acrobat under Tom’s powerful grip. Fortunately, all this rolling and thrashing about brought them out of the embers, or one or the other might have been badly burned.

It was Jack who turned the balance in favor of Tom. He saw as soon as Tom sprang on the Indian that the latter was likely to prove a pretty handy man in a rough and tumble encounter, and therefore he had lost no time in dashing back into the cave and securing some of the ropes with which they themselves had been secured but a few moments before.

He returned just as the Indian, by dint of arching his back, had succeeded in momentarily casting off Tom’s grip. The Bungalow Boy, taken by surprise by the sudden spring-like upbound of the Indian, was cast clear off him, in fact. But before the Indian could take any advantage of this turn of affairs, Jack was on him. The younger Dacre boy seized the leathery-faced old rascal by the head and clapped one hand over his mouth. He realized that the most important thing to do was to keep the man from calling out and alarming the camp. Tom speedily recovered himself, and, coming to Jack’s aid, it was not long before they had the Chinook as securely tied and bound as they themselves had been. Ripping off a portion of his blue-flannel shirt, Tom stuffed it in the fellow’s mouth to serve as a gag. They then bundled him into the cave and started for the river. There was no difficulty in locating it. The roar of its dashing waters as they rushed on to the sea betrayed its whereabouts.

But, unfortunately, during the battle something had occurred which they had not foreseen. The red-faced man had slumbered serenely through it all. But, unseen by either of the boys during the struggle in the embers, a glowing brand had been cast upon his clothes. This had burned steadily on, fanned by the wind which swept through the canyon. Just as the boys vanished in the black shadows toward the river, the smoldering flame reached his flesh. With a yell, he wakened, on the alert in an instant, his slumber having cleared his fuddled brain of the effects of his carouse.

It took him scarcely a longer time than it had the Indian to perceive what had occurred. His first yell of pain had aroused the camp. Before the befuddled, red-faced individual had regained his wits entirely, the place was humming like an angry beehive.