Now and then the demoniacal gale would root up a mighty pine, and with a s-s-split and a cr-r-r-rash it would thud down, breaking through all the younger timber. At such sounds, the girls would murmur sleepily, “Did you see any old trees near camp?”
Invariably the reply would be, “No—only little ones.”
Then all would sleep again, relieved at such an assurance.
The camp presented a sorry appearance in the gray dawn. Everything was soaked, and the horses looked washed out. Even Jolt looked moister than when he rose out of the stream at the base of the mountain.
Later the sun glanced through dripping foliage and sent its warming beams into the stiffened joints of the campers. And when Tally had called them all to a good hot breakfast, life took on a more cheerful hue.
The tourists seldom followed the beaten trail that ran to Flat Top Mountain or to the Glaciers, because Mr. Gilroy secured better results in finding rock formations and glacial débris in going by the old Indian trails. And Tally knew these trails as well as the surveyor knows his line-maps.
Not long after the scouts had resumed their ride along one of the unfrequented trails, the party reached a mountaintop. The Leader turned her head and craned her neck in order to see what the object was that stood clearly outlined from a crag that hung over a dangerous gulch.
“A Rocky Mountain goat! I verily believe,” said Mr. Gilroy.
“Oh, oh! That’s what we want to see!” cried the girls.
“And I want to get a good picture of it,” added the Captain.