It was a long, toilsome ascent. The road twisted and turned, now lost in the dark, gloomy recesses of the mountain, then emerging into the clear daylight, where views of the broad valley were obtained.
"Crickets, but we are getting up in the air," called out Tom Clifton. "How much further is it to that pass?"
Dugan pulled up his panting horses. "A right smart ways, yet," he answered, "but you'll know it when we get there, young 'un."
At the next halting place, a magnificent view caused the Ramblers to almost exhaust their vocabulary of admiring expressions. A veil of bluish mist hung over the opposite mountain, while its snow-capped summit, rising clear, shone out brilliantly against the sky. Far down in the valley a silver torrent threaded its way among the rich masses of vegetation.
"Glorious!" cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "It certainly makes a chap feel small. Know how high that mountain is, Mr. Dugan?"
The driver snorted.
"Bill—plain Bill's my name," he said, sourly. "Never had no tape measure long enough to find out, but some says it's five thousand feet."
"And it looks it," was Bob's comment.
"In ten minutes we'll git to Blinker's Pass," went on "Big Bill," slowly. "Don't know but what we oughter blindfold that little feller inside—say, what's the fat boy's name?"
"Dave Brandon."