“Tally said it was not over a mile frontage, and that, he says, is a small one. If we saw a fire that stretched for miles along a forest ridge and kept on burning for days and days,—that, he claims, would be a big fire!”
All through that night blood-curdling cries came from the devastated district. The howls of panthers, growls of the bears, cries of coyotes, and yelps of timber-wolves, kept the campers awake. In the morning, Tally started early to seek the cause of such a clamor in the night.
“Dat ole dead coyote! Him mak all dat trubble,” laughed the guide, upon his return to camp. “Dem starvin’ an’mals all wand’da eat him, so dey fight and fight, but ole grizzle fight bes’ an’ git him.”
[CHAPTER FOURTEEN—LOST IN THE BAD LANDS]
The following day the guides led the way up and down the sides of mountains, sometimes the trail running beside steep cliffs that rose sheer above the tourists’ heads, and again past ravines where rushing, tumbling waters silenced all other sounds.
About noon of the third day after leaving Steamboat Springs, they reached the steepest climb of that trip. As they were nearing the top of the peak, Tally’s horse suddenly fell over on its side and kicked its heels wildly.
The guide managed to jump clear of the leather and wild kicks, but the other riders sat speechless with fear at what was going to be the result of this awful spectacle. Before any one had time to offer help, however, the horse Mr. Gilroy rode did the same. The scouts immediately started to dismount, for they feared what might happen if their animals rolled and plunged as the first two were doing.
“Are they having fits?” asked Julie, anxiously.
“No, the unusually steep climb and the altitude affects horses this way quite often,” explained Mr. Gilroy.
“I wish they’d let the rider know before they flop that way,” said Joan, “then we might jump clear of their hoofs.”