"Quit jawing," interposed Bob. "I'm surprised at you fellows. Are we such weak dubs as to call ourselves beaten before we even begin to climb that mountain? I rather guess not!"
All caught his spirit of enthusiasm. Saddle-bags were hastily repacked, and within a few minutes the bronchos were in motion again.
The boys were glad enough that they did not have to make the passage of the canyon. Led by Bob, they strung out over a flat strip by the edge of the torrent, soon finding a place to ford.
Plunging in, the bronchos snorted, as icy water gripped their legs and bodies; a fiercely surging flood splashed over stirrup-leather and boots. The Ramblers could scarcely control their sturdy little animals, as they slowly fought their way across.
Two hours later, after a hard climb, the seven were sprawling in the midst of sage brush on the slopes of "Mount Wanatoma," with a stiff southeast wind howling around them. White clouds which scurried swiftly through the blue often hid the snow-clad summit.
"Some weather soon," predicted Dave.
"Squalls, I'm thinkin'," muttered Jack, savagely.
From their elevated position they saw a vast area of hills, gorges and forests, all finally lost in a gray, misty line which met the sky. The torrent swept its crooked course to the eastward; waving fields of bunch grass shone with a golden luster, and forests of pine were sharply edged with light. The sun was already creeping near the rim of the western hills.
The boys jumped into the saddle again, but before a couple of miles had been covered found themselves facing a disheartening fact—the poor jaded bronchos could go no further.
"Napoleon's crossing of the Alps was nothing like this," quoth Bob, as he swung himself to the ground.