HE SNATCHED UP A BURNING BRAND AND SENT IT WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR
Frank Allen at Gold Fork Frontispiece (Page 121)

FRANK ALLEN AT
GOLD FORK

OR

Locating the Lost Claim

BY

GRAHAM B. FORBES

Author of "Frank Allen and his Motor Boat,"
"Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch," etc.

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.

1926

THE FAMOUS FRANK ALLEN SERIES

BY GRAHAM B. FORBES

See back of book for list of titles

COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
Frank Allen at Gold Fork
MADE IN THE U.S.A.

FRANK ALLEN AT GOLD FORK

CHAPTER I

AT THE HORSE CORRAL GATE

"There he is again, Frank! The same queer chap we saw before!"

"That's a dead certainty, Lanky. But lower your voice a bit or he might take the alarm and vamoose."

"I sure wonder what he's prowling around Rockspur ranch-house for, and on a moonlight night, at that. But, Frank, it isn't our old enemy, Nash Yesson, is it?" cried Lanky Wallace explosively.

"No. And I'm just as sure it isn't Lef Seller," came from Frank Allen, referring to the bully of Columbia, Frank's home town.

The scene was the living room of Rockspur Ranch in the far West, where so many exciting things had already happened to Frank Allen and his chums, Lanky Wallace—whose folks owned the ranch—and Paul Bird. Paul was slumbering peacefully, totally unaware of what was taking place outside.

"There! You can see him plainer now, Frank!" went on Lanky. "He seems to be a runt of a man, with a big head and bushy hair. An ugly customer, I'd say. Do you reckon he's mixed up with the Yesson crowd?"

"Looks that way to me. See him wriggling along now, like a snake in the grass. He's up to some mischief, all right."

"He's wearing a cowboy hat, you can see now, Frank; must belong over with that tough gang at the Double Z Ranch."

"Whatever his game is, he'd better watch his eye or he'll find Lige Smith and his punchers hustling after him. Right now they're all radio hounds, and bunched inside the bunk-house, listening to jazz dance music."

"Say, I wonder, Frank!"

"What's struck you now, Lanky? Don't move, for that fellow's staring straight at this window! Gee, I'm glad our fire's died down! There! he's moving off again. What were you wondering about?"

Lanky Wallace snickered, as though amused by his thoughts.

"Why, don't you see, Frank? he's trying to find some way of getting hold of the map we grabbed, along with the gold nuggets when we watched Nash Yesson and Lef Seller dig up that rusty iron chest in the underground cellar."

Frank Allen considered the suggestion seriously, waiting a full minute before replying.

"Sounds reasonable, I must admit," he finally agreed. "We know that it was the crude map Josh Kinney left hidden there, that pair was so anxious to lay their hands on."

"Sure! It contains valuable clues that would help a prospector locate the long-lost gold claim Josh worked years ago."

"Now he's moving off, for some reason or other," went on Frank Allen. "It might pay us to slip outside and see if we can't get a line on his scheme."

"Bully! I was just wishing you'd say something that meant action," whispered Lanky Wallace. "But I hope you're not thinking of rousing a hornet's nest around his ears by poking a stick in the bunk-house and stirring up the Rockspur punchers?"

"Nope. We'll play this game by ourselves, Lanky. Sorry Paul happens to be asleep and nursing his lame ankle. He's going to miss all the excitement."

"Lucky for us we chanced to take a squint out of this window in the big living room before hitting the hay in our cubbyhole bedrooms." This being followed by a series of boyish chuckles, told plainer than any words could have done how pleased Lanky felt over the situation.

"Come along, and we'll slip out by the back door." Saying this, Frank led the way, with his chum trailing at his heels.

Mrs. Wallace and Minnie Cuthbert—a Columbia girl who had come West for the summer vacation, partly to be companion for Lanky's mother, and who was also a tried and true pal of Frank Allen's—had retired some time before, leaving the two boys to sit up and talk over their plans for the near future.

Softly Frank and Lanky passed into the kitchen, which they found empty at that late hour of the night, Charlie Gin Sing, the slant-eyed Chinese cook, having joined the bunch over at the bunk-house to listen as the loud-speaker sent out weird jazz, which seem to appeal to his sense of music.

"Wait while I take a peep first and make sure he didn't swing around to this side of the ranch buildings," Frank cautioned in his companion's ear.

"Coast Clear?" queried Lanky, with bated breath, a moment later.

"Yes. And I could just make him out moving toward the horse corral!" Frank informed him.

"Say, you don't reckon he's got some funny game up his sleeve, do you, Frank?"

"What kind?"

"Oh, such as would set the saddle band of broncos streaking it out on the prairie, mad with fear, to leave the Rockspur punchers without a single mount to saddle."

"What good would that do him, Lanky? Though perhaps he might hope to find a chance to steal that map while the men were all rushing after the stampeding ponies. But we'll try to look out for that sort of game. Come on!"

The chums crept outside. One thing Frank Allen had already noticed that seemed to be in their favor—the rear part of the house was in shadow. Even the keenest of eyes could not discover that the kitchen door had opened to give egress to a couple of bent-over figures.

"See him still?" asked Lanky eagerly.

"He ducked into that bunch of cottonwoods over there," Frank informed him. "Just the same, you must remember that the corral lies at the far end of that patch of woods. Now for some scout work! And it'll pay us to keep as close to the ground as we can."

"Whee! hope we don't run across any rattlers out here, Frank?"

"No danger," whiffed the other over his shoulder, for he was advancing steadily and cautiously; "those who ought to know say that snakes never move around during the night."

A soft sound like escaping steam told how greatly relieved Lanky felt; for from early childhood his one horror had been serpents of any kind. He had even been known to make a wry face when impaling an angleworm on his hook, as if it reminded him of his pet aversion.

Frank stuck to his original belief that the mysterious prowler was heading for the horse corral, and he shaped his course so as to come upon this fenced-in enclosure somewhere near the gate.

The stockade was of such a height that even a prize jumper among the broncos could never get its forelegs across the upper bar. Besides this, in order to further insure the safekeeping of the restless ponies, a hedge of thorny Osage orange had been cultivated, the mature trees giving the animals considerable shelter from the scorching rays of an August sun.

Every dozen feet or so Frank would come to a pause, and at such times seemed to be using both eyes and ears to discover any unusual movement or sound around the corral.

"You were right, Frank," whispered Lanky, catching hold of his companion's arm with his fingers and pinching harder than he intended. "I just glimpsed the fellow going inside. He's left the gate wide open too! Listen to the ponies snort and plunge, will you?"

"Get a move on, Lanky! We ought to be nearer the gate, so as to turn the horses back if they try to break loose."

Lanky was only too willing, since such a move promised to bring them to close grips with the possible horse-thief should the fellow start to rush from the corral after securing a mount.

The confusion inside the pen grew rapidly worse.

"He's trying to rope a pony he's picked out as a prize!" breathed the excited Lanky.

"We'd have him in a nice trap if we closed the gate of the corral and whooped for the boys to come on the jump!" suggested Frank, spurred on by the apparent necessity of doing something speedily.

"Good idea, too!" the other burst out, no longer caring who heard his voice, for the matter had by then about reached the crisis.

"Quick! He's coming full tilt, Lanky! Swing the heavy gate around this way and let me fasten it!"

It might have turned out better, if only they had conceived it a few seconds sooner. As it was, the rushing pony, urged on by savage kicks from a pair of spurred heels, was bearing down straight upon the two boys.

"Look out, Frank!" shrilled Lanky, as he saw a towering form between his eyes and the bright moon. At the same time he ducked in hopes of getting out of the way of the bronco's furious rush.

The frightened animal, seeing some moving object in its path, sheered to one side. That saved Lanky from the full force of a collision; but even as it was he received a push that sent him sprawling headlong to the ground.

Scrambling hastily to his feet, somewhat the worse for his upset, Lanky looked around to see what luck had befallen his partner in the mad attempt of trying to halt a frightened, galloping bronco.

"Oh, Frank!" he called out; and then his heart seemed to stand still with dread as he glimpsed a still figure huddled in a heap on the prairie some ten feet away, showing that Frank Allen had also been struck down.

CHAPTER II

THE SUDDEN ALARM

Just before Lanky Wallace was struck by the rush of the stolen bronco and knocked to the ground, he had let out the cowboy whoop for help.

It reached the ears of Hoptoad Atkins, the smallest rustler in the Rockspur bunch, as he was emerging from the bunk-house to see what the weather promised for the morning, he having a long gallop before him. At the same moment he heard the racket over at the horse corral, and sensing trouble of some sort sprang back into the house with a shout.

"Stampede of the ponies! Get out of here, everybody, with a rush!"

The cowboys came pouring out, and made for the corral in a string, the longest-legged being in the fore. Lanky, they found bending anxiously over Frank, who, having been knocked senseless, was just beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.

"Thief got away with one of our mounts," hurriedly explained Lanky. "He bowled both of us over when he came out of the corral like a tornado. Little critter with the biggest head you ever saw—been prowling around here at night, twice now. We tried to trap him in the circle, but he was too quick on the get-away!"

"Which way did he lope, Lanky?" demanded Lige Smith, the wiry and experienced foreman of the ranch.

"Reckon it was over west; but I'm a bit hazy after that knockout," returned the boy.

"I sure heard far-off hoofbeats in that quarter when I busted out of the shack!" announced Zander Forbes emphatically.

"Git ther ponies," broke in old Jerry Brime, a veteran puncher with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. "Mebbe we kin straddle him yet before he gits to the Double Z outfit! Whoopee!"

A rush was made into the corral, and lively hustling followed as each puncher picked out his special mount and roped him by the light of the moon's bright rays.

"Good luck, boys!" bellowed the still excited Lanky, as the cowboys galloped madly away. There was a little regret in his heart because he could not leave Frank Allen and join in the mad chase.

By this time Frank had pretty well recovered after his painful experience. He would feel a bit sore for some days, but could be thankful his injuries were no more serious than a few bruises.

"We made a fine mess of it that time, Lanky," he observed, when it was found that no bones had been broken by his nasty fall.

"Huh! didn't move quick enough! A matter of ten seconds; but that was plenty to queer the game, all right."

"He meant to stampede the whole bunch of ponies, looked like to me," Frank Allen remarked. "I wish we knew just what his scheme was, hanging around here and taking such big risks."

"I'm still thinking he wanted to have a try for that paper," affirmed Lanky doggedly, "and when he found he hadn't a ghost of a chance to lay his paws on the same, why, he got mad, and reckoned he'd have the laugh on our outfit by stampeding the range ponies."

The two boys made their way to the house, followed by Charlie Gin Sing. Here they found Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, as well as Minnie Cuthbert and Paul Bird, up and partly dressed, they having been aroused by the unusual clamor, and more than curious to understand what it all meant.

"No sleep for me with all this stuff going on," announced Lanky, as he sat before the resurrected fire in the big living room. "I mean to stay right here till the cows come home—I mean the cowboys—and have a close-up look at that skunk, if they overtake him."

None of the others evinced any desire to seek their beds; so half an hour afterwards when they heard the riders talking and laughing over by the corral both Lanky and Frank went out to learn what the result of the chase was.

"Shucks, he got clean away!" Lanky ejaculated, after hearing what some of the men had to say.

"But, anyway," announced the effeminate-looking puncher with the high voice, who had come West to build up his health and who rejoiced in the name of Sally Keating, "the joke is on that coyote, because he had the bad luck to pick out the worst pony in the whole outfit, with more mean traits than you can shake a stick at."

"You don't mean that white-eyed terror we call Whitey Knocker, do you Sally?" shrilled Lanky, in great joy. Upon the other's wagging his head in the affirmative, he continued with a bit of spite in his voice: "Then he's in for a peck of trouble! I only hope that bronc will break his own neck in the bargain when he goes down in a crash with his rider."

Lanky knew from experience what a pack of tricks Knocker had for all occasions. There were several sore spots on the boy's person that he could lay to his determination to beat the pony with that wicked white eye at his own game, his father having finally been compelled to forbid any repetition of the dangerous task.

By degrees the excitement died out, and there was an exodus of tired riders and others to their own quarters.

With the morning the boys went over the ground to revive their recollection of every incident connected with the previous night's thievery. They even followed the tracks of Whitey Knocker for some little distance, which could be done through a certain queer formation of the pony's off hind hoof.

"No use going any further, Lanky," said Frank finally. "The trail keeps on getting fainter right along, as the soil changes."

"Then, all we've learned," suggested his chagrined chum, "is that when he flew the coop he headed about as straight as the bee flies for Double Z Ranch."

"But our boys all say they've seen every puncher in that outfit, and what we could tell about this runt's looks with his big head didn't fit any of that rough bunch. Still, he may be a newcomer, playing a lone hand in hanging around Rockspur at night."

Frank Allen had always been a leader among his boy friends in the home town of Columbia in the East, as told in the first volume of this series called "Frank Allen's School Days."

Rockspur Ranch, a small cattle industry located on the plains, had been left to Mrs. Wallace by her bachelor brother, George Rockford, and the Wallaces had come out, partly for the banker's health, but also to inspect the newly acquired property.

Frank Allen and Paul Bird had been asked to become members of the party, and Minnie Cuthbert, the prettiest and most sensible girl in all Columbia—at least so Frank was firmly convinced—was along to keep Mrs. Wallace company.

A man by the name of Nash Yesson had tried to buy the property from the new owner. That failing, he had, with the assistance of Lef Seller, known as the bully and worst boy in Columbia, tried to get possession of a treasure he knew to be buried in a cellar under the ranch pantry.

The vigilance of Frank Allen and his chums defeated this effort, and the plotters were chased off, leaving the old rusty iron box they had dug up in the possession of the rightful owners. All of these happenings have been narrated in the pages of the book just preceding this, under the title of "Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch."

Lanky's uneasiness concerning the possible continued efforts of Yesson and Lef to steal the valuable paper and chart that, with gold nuggets, had lain in the iron box so many years, accounted for his suspicions that the mysterious nightly visits of the man with the big head were connected in some way with the long-buried treasure.

One of the papers yellowed by age that fell into the Wallaces' possession had been a rudely drawn chart of a mountainous section of country where years before gold had been found in paying quantities and a little mining settlement named Gold Fork was located.

It was understood that this place was now deserted, the shacks in ruins. So all hope of ever locating the long-lost mine worked in secret by Josh Kinney, former owner of Rockspur Ranch, died away.

This map had been drawn by Josh Kinney himself. Its existence was known, but no human eye had ever beheld it save the maker's up to the time it fell into the possession of Frank Allen and his two chums.

Jerry Brime knew something about the lost claim, for he had worked alongside Kinney at cattle raising and had himself tried, but without success, to follow the other when he disappeared. Jerry believed that Kinney was laying in a fresh stock of gold nuggets from the rich deposit, or "pocket," in his secret mine when this happened.

Brime and the three boys held many consultations as the days passed. The boys were bent on making an effort to locate Kinney's source of treasure-trove, and so asked a multitude of questions. Some of these Jerry answered readily, but in other cases his memory failed him.

"Wait till we-uns git up thar at Gold Fo'k," he would say. "Mebbe ole Jerry's mind'll be freshened a bit by seein' the ole place agin. Thet map's a-goin' to help a heap; an' I do reckon we'll git our paws on the stuff thet's hidden away in the five-fingered cave."

In the end Frank and Lanky came to believe that they must wait until Mr. Wallace gave the word for the little expedition to set forth. Then, if luck favored them, all might yet turn out well.

"There's only one thing that bothers me," Lanky said the afternoon they gave up trying to squeeze more information from the willing but helpless Jerry Brime.

"I can guess what it is," chucked Frank. "Nash Yesson?"

"And his crony, Lef Seller," admitted the smiling Lanky Wallace. "They may be hanging around here; for they are stickers, all right. Then again, for all we know, the pair may be up at Gold Fork raking the ground over with a fine-tooth comb, looking for the lost claim."

"What of it?" Frank asked complacently. "A heap of others did that same thing years ago and only found themselves up against a blank wall. I tell you, Josh Kinney was a cute one and knew how to keep a secret."

"Glad to see you feel so confident, Frank. With Jerry along to revive his memory of things and that little chart to help, I guess we've got a better chance to spot that claim than anybody ever had before. But that was startling news you had in the last letter from Buster Billings, our fat chum back in Columbia."

"Well, I'm not much surprised about Lef," said Frank, shaking his head as he spoke. "We always knew he was a bad egg, up to every kind of mischief he could think of."

"But to make away with something like two-hundred-and-fifty dollars which his father had given him to pay some bills!" exclaimed Lanky. "They said he lost it at the races, betting on losing nags," he added musingly.

"And now," Frank went on to say, "Buster tells us Mr. Seller reports five thousand dollars in Liberty Bonds missing; and he adds that suspicion strongly points to his own son, Lef, as the one who robbed the home safe."

"Well, Lef is in a section of country right now where Lynch law often overtakes a rascal; and believe me, Frank, if he's caught red-handed in any of his ugly tricks out here he'll not have an indulgent dad to help him out of the fix."

"As long as we have any reason to believe that precious pair still hang out around here, Lanky, we've got to keep our eyes peeled for trouble. What under the sun are you sniffing like that for? Think you smell a skunk around?"

"Made me think of the way we smoked that mountain lion out of his den—smell of dried grass, all right. I wonder if the boys are burning off a piece of meadow that's turned brown in this dry spell?"

Frank himself was now busily engaged in "sniffing."

"Well, there must be a fire where there's smoke," he said finally, at the same time showing a trace of uneasiness. "Strikes me, it comes from over that way."

"Look at that burst of smoke shoot up on the other side of the house!" cried Lanky. "Some fire, that must be as sure as— There, listen to Charlie Gin Sing giving tongue! The cook's as scared as a singed cat. Let's scoot over that way, Frank, and see what they're doing. Now others are yelling to beat the band! We were longing for excitement, and, sure enough, here she comes full tilt!"

"Lanky, it's the barn on fire, I do believe!" Frank managed to say as the pair of them went at full speed, swerving so as to pass around the house, when they would have a full unobstructed view.

"With all that hay and the straw from last year in it, too!" added the other.

Then as the boys turned the corner where Gin Sing was now beating wildly on a monster frying pan and making a dreadful din, Lanky finished with a whoop, and increased his pace, if such a thing were possible.

No question about its being the barn that was ablaze, for vast volumes of smoke were already pouring out from several places. These continually grew in density, while wicked looking red tongues of flame could be seen playing amidst the dense belching billows.

Frank had gone as white as chalk.

"Your mother—Minnie!" he gasped.

"What of them?" cried the agitated Lanky.

"I saw them go in some time ago! Oh, Lanky! what if they are still inside the old barn, trapped like rats and blinded with all that smoke?"

CHAPTER III

TRAPPED IN THE BURNING BARN

Lanky Wallace apparently could find no words to express the feeling of horror that gripped his heart. Never did any boy have a dearer mother than his own "Mom." No wonder the possibility of losing her in such a terrible tragedy seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins.

It was indeed an exciting time at Rockspur Ranch. Men were shouting as they ran toward the burning barn as only big-lunged cow-punchers can shout. The excited cook meanwhile continued to whang away with his big spoon, as though the frying pan he held might be a dinner gong and he meant to summon those who were a full mile away.

Too, the crackling of the leaping flames told that they were gathering fresh headway with every passing second, and these sounds began to be a factor in the conglomeration of noises that had so suddenly sprung into existence on that sunny afternoon in early summer.

Barns were not always to be found on cattle ranches, for it had usually been the habit of cattlemen to let their herds shift the best they could during ordinary winters. Usually there are sheltered nooks on the range where forage may be found with unusual efforts by the stock.

But George Rockford, Lanky Wallace's deceased uncle and the late owner of these hundreds of acres, had a mind of his own. He was not to be governed by what had been good enough for his predecessors.

So he had built a big barn, though lumber was difficult to secure and had to be brought many miles, even from the mountain gorges. In this barn he always kept a certain amount of hay and straw, for emergencies, he explained to the scoffers.

Several times during his occupancy of the place his forethought had been rewarded. When an unusually severe winter rolled around, during which stock out on the ranges suffered grievous losses through deep snows and blustering blizzards, that reserve stock of feed had saved the Rockspur herd from much privation.

Lanky could see some of the cowboys bringing up a hose that was attached to the tank of water meant for household use. The stock were driven to a never-failing creek about two miles away for watering, or, if they were loose on the range, they found their way there by themselves.

In his excitement Lanky made a dive for a bucket, and then gasped in dismay when a furious burst of angry looking flame darted out from a crack in the side of the barn, for all the world like the tongue of some gigantic serpent.

"Oh, Frank! what can we do?" he moaned. Even as he said these words he realized that Frank was no longer at his side.

Some instinct caused Lanky to turn his anxious gaze once more on the doomed barn. Knowing Frank Allen as well as he did, he understood what the other would be doing about that time.

"He's gone—right inside—and I've got to follow my leader!"

Lanky would have dashed blindly forward and despite the peril involved enter the door where that choking smoke was pouring forth, only that his father caught hold of him just in time.

Mr. Wallace, on learning that his wife and Minnie had been seen entering the barn some time before fire was discovered, had become greatly alarmed and had tried to go in after them, only to be driven back by the fierce flames. Now he would not listen for a moment the wild plea of Lanky to be allowed to follow Frank.

"I should have stopped Frank, too," said the gentleman, in a quivering voice, "had I guessed what he meant to do when I saw him running forward and taking off his coat. If he is lost it will be terrible! And your mother, too! The boys have already done everything possible for human strength and skill to accomplish. We can only pray they may all be spared."

"Zander Forbes is in there too, they say," blubbered the badly shaken Lanky.

"I shall never forget his heroism, and Frank's, too," said Mr. Wallace. "If I thought I could make it—" His voice broke. "I tried it before you came, but the flames drove me back."

"There's one of the boys coming out now!" quavered Lanky, pointing his finger as he spoke. "Why, he's leading Bessie, our pet milk cow! He has put a blanket over her eyes to blind her." The cowboy had used this covering as a blinder to the cow, knowing that otherwise it would be utterly impossible to urge her along past shooting lances of flame.

Lanky's voice died away in a low groan, for his suddenly aroused hopes had been just as speedily shattered. Only a cow saved, while precious human lives were hanging in the balance!

When Frank was gripped by the feeling that he must make a desperate attempt to find and save Mrs. Wallace and Minnie Cuthbert, he lost not a second in debating whether it was safe or not.

He could see that he would be met with considerable of that smothering smoke the instant he stepped past the open door of the burning barn. That was why he commenced to tear off his coat as he ran. Frank wrapped his coat about his head in the endeavor to protect his mouth, eyes, and nostrils as much as possible.

He knew the die had been cast as soon as he entered the place, since his retreat was cut off by a fresh burst of scorching flames and all he could do was to make his way forward.

From time to time he called at the top of his voice, but was staggered to find what a small amount of noise he could make, owing to the pungent smoke of the burning hay and straw.

The covering his head gave him some relief at first; but in a very short time he found his eyes smarting fearfully and tears helping to blind his vision.

Groping his way and trying as best he could to avoid those places where the hay was fully in the grip of the fire, Frank presently found himself falling.

The boy did not know what sort of a hole he had incautiously stepped into, for he had taken but a cursory view of the inside of the old barn during his sole visit there. Throwing out both hands, he sought to find some support, so as to stop the sickening downward movement. He came to a halt with a thump, one of his feet becoming fast between two upright timbers.

His situation was now much more desperate than before, since, try as he did, he seemed utterly unable to get his foot free from that clutch of the V-shaped timbers. It was as though he had become enmeshed in the tentacles of some unseen monster, which, gifted with enormous powers, was bent on holding him there a prisoner until the oncoming flames reached the spot.

CHAPTER IV

A CLOSE SHAVE

Frank Allen was not one to give up easily. He continued to strive to free the snared foot, his efforts being accentuated by the fierce heat of the roaring furnace that ate its way through the tons on tons of combustibles. In his extremity he shouted at the top of his voice, at the same time doubtful whether his cries could reach outside of the barn, with all that noise of crackling flames and roaring draughts. Still he continued to call.

"Help! Help!"

Although calling for assistance, the youth did not cease his frantic efforts to dislodge his trapped foot. He knew only too well what a slender chance there was that any one should be close enough to hear his cries and come to his rescue, even in the doubtful event of being able to get through the flames.

Then what was close to an inspiration flashed through his excited brain, and he lost no time in trying anew to break loose.

Luckily, he was able to bend over far enough to get at his shoe. With eager fingers he tore the laces open, and then made a last desperate effort to free his right foot.

A thrill ran through the boy when he found that he could draw the foot out of his shoe! He was saved—least, he was given a fresh chance to escape the dreadful fate that threatened to overwhelm him!

Sensible even in such a situation, Frank next tore his shoe loose, and managed to get it on after a fashion. Then he turned away from the furious blast of fire and groped through the dense smoke, heading he knew not in which direction, only that he was fending off the threatening catastrophe a little longer by fleeing.

The fact that he was not acquainted with the interior of the barn brought him fresh trouble. An avenue of escape might be close at his elbow, an opening such as would afford him exit, and Frank would not be aware of the fact.

He was experiencing for the first time in all his life the sensation that grips one who realizes he is lost. In the woods or among the hills, with a sky overhead to give him the points of the compass, no one could be better than Frank Allen at making his way to safety. But it was vastly different in that smoke-filled structure.

Once more he gave tongue, in the hope that if Zander Forbes or any other of his cowboy friends were close by he would catch the call and cheer the groping wanderer with an answering whoop. Meanwhile, what of Mrs. Wallace and of Minnie? At thought of Minnie his heart sank.

Once the situation took on new threats. A burst of flame straight ahead warned Frank that he must sheer aside if he wished to escape being singed. His heart seemed to be in his throat with the suspense that continually gripped him. And, oh, how he yearned for a breath of fresh air!

Then he thought he caught the sound of a husky voice calling his own name. Could Lanky have followed him into the barn, and was even then wandering this way and that, chased by the fire, and in as great a predicament as himself?

Again Frank let out a whoop, and was cheered to catch an answering cowboy yell. Then it was not his chum after all, but one of the punchers. Somehow, this thought gave Frank renewed courage, for every one of the Rockspur outfit must be well acquainted with the barn's angles that had proved so confusing to him, and could thus lead the way to an exit.

Nearer came the booming voice, heard despite all the clamor around him. Now the boy could glimpse a moving figure, pushing in a beeline for the quarter where he chanced to be.

"Jerry! is it you?" Frank shrilled, somehow touched by this evidence of affection on the part of the old rustler who did not hesitate to risk his own life in the endeavor to save that of his young friend.

"It sure is, Frank! I'm comin' to git yuh out o' this hot box. Hain't got much time to waste neither, 'case the hull pesky roof is shore to drap in on us right quick."

Jerry had taken hold of Frank's left arm while saying this, and immediately commenced moving backward the way he had come. What a feeling of confidence came over the imperiled boy when he felt those friendly fingers in contact with his person. It seemed as though a tremendous load rolled off his shoulders in the magic of that touch.

Apparently Jerry was leading him toward what looked like a danger point to be avoided; but, somehow, Frank felt no apprehension. Jerry must know the barn like a book; indeed, possibly he himself had helped build it in those days when as a much younger man he had worked on this ranch.

Sure enough, by a sudden turn they managed to put the worst of the fire behind them. Frank even believed he felt the first whiff of fresh air, and, oh! how eagerly did he draw it into his tortured lungs.

"Hyar we are, younker!" exclaimed the veteran cowboy as they pushed past a last nest of fire and reached the open air.

"Look, Dad! There's Frank, safe and sound!" a voice bellowed, and Lanky, followed by the limping Paul, came rushing toward the pair who had just emerged from the roaring furnace.

How the other boys did squeeze Frank's hands and almost cried, such was the tense condition of their strained nerves!

Frank turned and looked back, shuddering. It was not his own narrow escape that made him feel so weak, but the still haunting dreadful fear that perhaps Lanky's mother and Minnie had been swallowed up in the pitiless conflagration.

"Oh! Lanky—is there any news—have you heard—Minnie—your mother?"

His whole soul was in that cry, and although his eyes were still burning and smarting from the effects of the smoke, he fastened his gaze on his chum in a most entreating way.

"Cheer up, Frank!" exclaimed Lanky, slapping his chum's shoulder in what was intended to be an encouraging way. "We've reason to believe Mom and Minnie weren't in the barn after all when the fire started."

Frank drew a long breath and leaned on Lanky, his sensation of relief leaving him weak and wobbling.

"But I don't see them anywhere around here!" he exclaimed, looking to the right and to the left, where the punchers were standing in groups watching the barn and its contents go up in flames, for no puny human efforts could now stay the march of destruction.

Lanky was beckoning, and Frank saw that it was Charlie Gin Sing who started toward them. The Chinaman had apparently managed to get over the worst of his emotion at seeing such a sight for the first time in his life; he looked more like his grinning self, Frank noticed, as he trotted up to where the three boys were standing.

"Charlie," said Lanky, taking hold of the cook's thin arm, "tell Frank here what you say you saw. He's been afraid the ladies were caught in the fire. That was what made him rush in there at the risk of his life."

"Me see Missy Wally—young lady come out side door—yep, long time back till I smell smoke and see barn he ketch fire."

That was lucid, and positive enough to convince Frank that his fears had after all been groundless. Charlie Gin Sing could be depended on to tell a straight story.

"Where were you when you saw them come out?" asked Frank.

"Me standee kitchen door—get lungs full air—wave hand at Missy Wally—she like Charlie his cooking—wave hand back—finest lady in all land, Missy Wally."

"Which way did they go after coming out of the barn?" continued Frank, bent on getting at the full facts, for if those who were missing had returned to the ranch house, it was strange they had not appeared on the scene, with all that racket going on.

"Walk away—hab lit basket 'long—come from China—ginger like all Chinese eat."

"Show me the direction they were heading when last you saw them, Charlie. It's queer they haven't shown up by now, no matter where they went."

"That's straight goods, Frank," interrupted Lanky, his forehead wrinkled with anxiety.

"Think Missy Wally she go them woods—me tell her wild flowers grow there where cattle drink at spring! Look! What tell you? Here come runnin', you savvy, like in big hurry!"

Lanky gave a whoop.

"He's right, Frank—Paul! There they come, and running, too. Oh! I'm so glad I could yell my head off. All this while they've been there in that patch of trees they say Josh Kinney planted fifty years ago."

Frank was about as much relieved as his chum; but, just the same, he noticed something that apparently Lanky had missed.

"Your mother acts as though exhausted, Lanky," he said. "See how Minnie tries to buoy her up. Was it because of their fears the ranch house was burning up and some lives in danger, or did something else happen to frighten them?"

Mr. Wallace was already hastening toward the approaching pair, and the three boys started on the run, Paul hobbling bravely along, although his ankle gave him frequent stabs of pain.

The "woods," as the big clump of trees was called by the punchers, were some distance away from the ranch buildings, and it took the boys an appreciable length of time to draw near Mrs. Wallace and Minnie.

"I was right," Frank kept telling himself, as he noted the looks of both Mrs. Wallace and the girl. "Something dreadful has certainly happened to make them act that way! Mrs. Wallace seems ready to drop, and Minnie, too, is as pale as a ghost. But, anyway, they are safe enough, and not caught in that fire-trap!"

Now they reached the pair, and Lanky threw his arm around his mother.

"Oh, what a scare we've had!" he told her. "We believed you had both been caught in the burning barn. But Charlie Gin Sing gave us the right stuff when he said he had seen you come out and head for the woods."

"But we have been in danger, after all," said his mother, in quivering tones. "I shall never, never want to visit those awful woods again. Only for Minnie's presence of mind I might have lost my life!"

"Why, what happened?" asked the astounded and anxious Lanky.

"Snakes—rattlesnakes! A whole den of them!" gasped the still shuddering Mrs. Wallace.

CHAPTER V

A RATTLESNAKE ROUND-UP

Frank Allen could see now where Lanky got his horror of snakes, since his mother seemed to have the same detestation and fear of them.

He looked at Minnie, as though wondering whether she would back the older lady up in that astounding assertion. One prairie rattler would be bad enough, but to speak of a whole den, and so close to the ranch house as that, seemed a bit as though Mrs. Wallace unconsciously magnified things.

But to his surprise Minnie immediately nodded her head.

"Yes, there were ever so many of the nasty wriggling things, Frank," she assured him in her convincing way. "Some were monsters, and others teenty little bits of snakes, but full of fight just the same, big or little."

Frank could suspect there might be a story connected with their adventure in which Minnie had played the part of heroine. He realized, however, he must depend on Lanky's mother to tell the facts, for Minnie had never been one to boast of anything she did.

"What happened to stir them up so, do you know?" he asked Mrs. Wallace.

"Oh! it was my ignorance—foolishness I'd better call it," she told him frankly. "I certainly did think it was a locust buzzing, and stepped over to see the little drummer, when—I almost stood on a bunch of curled-up baby snakes. Why, Frank, there was a dreadful monster all coiled with its head drawn back, ready to strike at me and that buzzing sound going harder than ever."

She shut her eyes as though once again seeing the fear-inspiring sight.

"But—it didn't strike you Mom?" asked Lanky weakly.

"No," replied Mrs. Wallace, turning a fond look on her companion. "Just in the nick of time this brave girl snatched me back, exactly as if she had all the strength of Lige Smith in her arm!"

Frank felt prouder of Minnie than ever before—to hear how in time of an emergency she could act promptly, instead of squealing as some girls certainly would have done.

"Then I fainted from the shock," the lady continued, "but not before I saw that snake dart out of coil in the effort to reach me and, failing, draw back again on the defensive. Minnie actually dragged me, with all my weight, some distance away from the reptiles' den, and when later on I came to, there was not a single snake in sight."

"Min, you're just the finest trump ever," exclaimed Lanky. "I sure take off my hat to a girl like you. But didn't you two hear all the noise that was going on up around the ranch house?"

"Yes, I heard it, and was puzzled to know what the shouting and all that black smoke could mean," Minnie admitted. "But your mother still lay in that swoon, and my first duty was to her."

"She actually went past the den again, so as to get some cold water from the spring," explained Mrs. Wallace, turning to her husband, who arrived just then. "It was that that revived me. But I felt so weak and shaky that although both of us were greatly concerned on account of the dreadful sounds we heard and all that black smoke, we were some time in getting started for the house."

Minnie had left the group, knowing that Mrs. Wallace would be telling it all over again to her husband, and of course repeating her praise. Frank understand the modesty that could not bear to hear her own heroism praised, and he hurried after Minnie, walking with her to view the now almost gutted barn, which would soon be only a blackened pile, never to be rebuilt.

Great was the surprise of Lige Smith and the other punchers when they learned from Frank what had happened to alarm the ladies.

"Did you ever hear of such colossal nerve as those snakes showed in locatin' so close to human beings and actually fixing up a vipers' nest?" burst out Lige. "Boys, I take it that looks like a deadly insult. Reckon as how we ain't no use around these diggings, since the ole barn's a goner. Let's get busy and clean out that snake hole."

Nothing could please the punchers better, and there was an immediate scurrying around for poles and anything else that was likely to prove useful in bringing destruction to the "owdacious rattler crowd," as Jerry Brime remarked.

Of course, all three boys went along with the crowd to see how the extermination of the prairie rattlesnakes progressed. Lanky smothered his abject dislike and vowed he would be the death of that big reptile because of which his mother had just passed through such suffering.

"I'd like to say I'd given one of the wrigglers a stiff crack on the head so's to break his scaly neck," he confided to Paul, who limped along, bent on seeing all the fun there was to see.

"And you could get the rattles to show when you tell the yarn," suggested Paul. "I've got three of the same at home—used to hunt snakes every spring, just to know there was one less poisonous creature laid out stiff."

The crowd were soon on the spot. They found that the nest of snakes was not a creature of the imagination. Several "bouncers," as Lanky called them, set up a droning buzz as the party approached, and being quickly located were attacked with the poles and pistols.

Frank and Lanky were in the midst of the fray. A big rattler came for Frank, but he caught the reptile in the head with a rock.

"Look out!" yelled Lanky suddenly.

Frank whirled around, to see a medium-sized snake in the act of dropping from a bush just behind him. He flung another rock and at the same instant Lanky hit the snake with a club he carried.

"On your guard, boys!" yelled one of the cowboys. "We're in a nest of 'em."

"This is too much for me!" gasped Paul, and lost no time in limping to a distance.

"Take that!" yelled Frank, and struck at another snake with a pole he had picked up.

"There you are," came from Lanky, and he quickly dispatched three small snakes squirming from between some rocks. He had hardly done this when he gave a mad yell as another snake wound itself around his ankle.

Crack! It was the report of Lige Smith's pistol. He had aimed at the snake's head. His aim was true and the reptile dropped to the ground and went whipping out of sight in the bushes.

"Gosh, but that was a narrow escape," murmured Lanky, his face growing pale.

"I'll say so," was the reply. "But come on, there are more snakes over yonder."

The work of fighting the reptiles went on, and when the big ones had been settled even Paul took a hand in cleaning out what remained.

"Say, Frank, did you see me get a crack at that corking big one?" Lanky exclaimed, beaming with excitement and the knowledge that he was gradually overcoming his excessive fear of the entire snake family.

"It may be the granddaddy of the whole bunch," Frank told him, "and, as like as not, the very one that struck at your mother."

"I'm believing in that way, anyhow," affirmed the tall boy. "And now for getting his rattle box."

"Be sure to cut his head off first," warned Frank. "I've known of cases where a rattler believed to be done for was able to coil up and strike a fellow's leg with his poisoned fangs."

When the punchers and the boys got through with their self-imposed job there was not a live snake, small or large, in all that patch of woods.

"We'll sure keep our eyes peeled after this," said Lige Smith, as they started back to the ranch house "and it's a pipe cinch no snakes are ever going to hole out again in our wood patch."

Of course, Mr. Wallace was sorry to lose all the hay and straw that had gone up in smoke and flames, for it might prove useful during the coming winter season.

"But for one thing," he told Frank, when on another day they were talking over numerous plans, "we'll never think of rebuilding that barn, not having the same apprehension of forage shortage that haunted Uncle George. Besides, Lige assures me the winters are getting milder every season up here in the shadow of the Rockies, and that there will always be plenty of grass for our small herd."

The three boys were by degrees preparing to start on the long cherished trip to the mountains. Gold Fork and all its traditions of former glories before the diggings panned out, lured them more and more every day.

Lanky had persisted in his endeavor to prove himself of real cowboy caliber. He could ride any bronco that came his way, sticking on as he called it "like a burr in a darky's wool."

But one thing Frank noticed that roused his curiosity a bit. Somehow, the often expressed intention on Lanky's part to own and proudly wear as natty a pair of fringed and decorated "chaps" as any puncher could boast, seemed to have died out completely.

"What's happened to make you change your mind about those gaudy chaps, Lanky?" Frank asked one day, as their preparations for their trip neared completeness.

Lanky grinned good-naturedly.

"Shucks! I've only been looking around and observing some things that I didn't know before, Frank."

"As what, for instance?" demanded the other smilingly.

"First off the bat, it isn't the chaps that make the genuine puncher. I've noticed that generally the greenhorn has the niftiest outfit you ever laid eyes on and struts around when decked out like he owned the whole world."

"But, Lanky, every puncher does have chaps, and often more than one pair."

"Sure does, Frank. But—and here's where my argus eyes came in good—the finest rig he owns he keeps for extra occasions, like going to a dance or when taking cattle to the station for shipment; because, don't you see, on those special events he's apt to run across some of the girls."

Frank laughed at that, and wagged his head in appreciation.

"Your sagacity does you credit, Lanky."

"Look at our bunch at work on the range, rounding up strays, branding the youngsters, or doing any sort of work like that. Why, some of 'em even wear plain faded jean overalls, and the only things that would tell you they were punchers are their cowboy hats and the ropes they always carry."

"I can see you're making the grade, all right, old chum," chucked Frank. "And I give you a heap of credit for taking note of such happenings. Not much gets past your eyes—while they're open, I mean, Lanky."

As it happened, when they had almost forgotten all about the hovering peril that had given them so much concern a month and more previously, it was fated to once more awaken into life to annoy them.

It was Paul this time who made the discovery. He had been unfortunate on this visit to Rockspur, in having sprained his ankle, which was slow to heal. This had kept him in the background at times when his two chums were meeting all sorts of lively adventures.

Frank and Lanky had retired to the room which they shared in common, and chose to confer regarding what they should take with them and what leave behind. Paul was in the bunk-house listening-in, there being something in the air that night which he particularly wished to hear.

"Well, here's our corrected list," Lanky announced, holding up a bit of paper. "I reckon we've cut it down as close to the bone as we can, and everything I've not crossed off we believe we'll need. Dad will do the same, for I happen to know he always used to travel light when years ago he went into camp. But here comes Paul, so now we can hop into bed and get some sleep.

"Oh! will you?" said Paul, entering in time to overhear this last remark from Lanky. "As our old chum, Jack Eastwick, used always to say, 'maybe, maybe not.' I'm bringing you news that may make you sit up and take notice. That sly little rascal with the bushel head is skulking around again! I glimpsed him while crossing over from the bunk-house!"

CHAPTER VI

ON GUARD

"Douse the glim, first of all, Lanky!" said Frank Allen without a second's hesitation. Frank seemed always ready for action, which was one of his strong points.

Lanky thereupon blew out the lamp, and the three boys found themselves in vague darkness. The late rising moon was above the horizon, but the western side of the ranch house was wrapped in the shadows.

"Now, let's keep mum and watch," whispered Frank. "He'll think the last comer has turned in, and the coast will soon be clear. Pretty near time for the boys to shut up shop over there in the radio den."

"Getting ready to wind-up when I left," murmured Paul. "Lige has a rule, you know, that every puncher must hit the hay by eleven, so's to be up with the sunrise."

Silence fell upon them.

Minutes crept on as the boys crouched by the window, eager for the first glimpse of the strange little unknown man whose former mysterious actions had so engrossed their curiosity.

Now and then one of them would stir, or it might be heave a heavy sigh, as though this pent-up enthusiasm was making serious inroads on his patience. The cramped position in which they maintained their vigil added to the discomfort of the situation.

For some little time the boys heard the voices and subdued laughter of the punchers, as some of them came out, to wander over in the direction of the horse corral, in order to have a last look, so as to make sure all was right in that quarter.

Even that died out by degrees, and then absolute silence descended upon the vicinity of the ranch buildings. Up to the coming of the guests from the East there had been a pack of mongrel dogs connected with Rockspur Ranch; but Frank and his pals had seen neither hide nor hair of any for some time.

The time began to drag terribly, and Frank himself feared none of them would be able to stand it much longer. But presently Lanky pinched his arm and breathed into his ear the words:

"Saw something move just then—might have been a slinking coyote, but I reckon it had only two legs, Frank!"

"Where?" the other whispered back, feeling a thrill of expectation, as it began to appear as though their weary vigil might meet with some measure of success.

"See that star low down near the horizon—just to the right of that bush."

"I get you, Lanky!"

"I hit the bullseye, Frank, because there he is again!" continued the owner of the eagle vision.

All of the chums had their eyes glued on the point Lanky had mentioned, for the brilliant setting star was plainly visible. Yes, something was moving, for a fact, and it must be either a venturesome coyote prowling around in search of a toothsome bone or else a man down on his knees, crawling toward the ranch house.

Closer came the object of their scrutiny. Presently Frank gave a low and suggestive grunt.

"A man, all right," he muttered.

"Heading right this way, too," chucked Lanky, well pleased over the way things were working out.

A hiss from Frank warned the others that greater caution than ever was now necessary. It would be too bad if after all some thoughtless act on their part should frighten off the queer little "sawed-off," as Lanky refereed to the moonlight visitor.

Every few minutes they could see that he elevated his head as though to take a wide survey, and thus made doubly certain he was not creeping into a trap.

"It's the runt, as sure as anything!" Lanky told himself. "Know that bushy-top anywhere I could glimpse it! Gee whiz! I sure do wonder what sort of a stunt he's meanin' to pull off this time."

Just then, as the intruder was close enough to be fairly seen in the moonlight, Lanky made a discovery that added to his keen curiosity. In one hand the man carried what looked like an ordinary spade, as though his purpose had something to do with digging.

It was plain to be seen that the fellow meant to approach close to the boys' shelter. He was heading in a direct line for the magnificent tree growing near that corner of the low building, the very first one Josh Kinney had planted, and now highly esteemed during the hot hummer days for the grateful shade its foliage cast.

Now the prowler reached a spot close to the thick trunk of this tree, and, after a good look around, he seemed to be measuring with a tape-line.

The nerves of that trio of watchers so close by quivered with excitement. As their lookout was bathed in deep shadow there was no possibility of their being seen by the intruder, even though he looked directly that way, if only the boys made no movement.

Satisfied at length after several trials that he had struck the exact location for which he searched, the man, still bending down, started to push the spade into the turf.

It was soft and pliable so near the house, where the shade of the foliage above prevented the sun from baking the surface. Consequently, the dwarf seemed to be having no great difficulty in digging.

He worked in utmost silence. Not once did Frank catch the slightest sound, as of the spade striking a root or a possible stone. Indeed, in a way it was uncanny. Lanky, being gifted with a lively imagination, could easily picture the queer little man as a ghostly grave-digger, plying his trade at this hour approaching midnight.

It was useless trying to guess what object the fellow had in view, for the boys had not the remotest clue to guide them. But by exercising patience they were likely to find the solution of the mystery when he "struck oil."

His caution still clung to him, it seemed, and he took nothing for granted. As systematically as clock-work that bushy head would be raised and turned around in every direction. Then, as if convinced he had nothing to fear, the digger would once more get down to work and deepen the hole he had already made.

Apparently, whatever he was after must be buried at some considerable depth below the surface. Already he had quite a good-sized pile of loam heaped up.

Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to take the alarm, for the boys saw him flatten out until he "looked like a flapjack on the ground."

At the same moment a distant sound, as of the regular beat of a pony's hoofs, was faintly borne to the ears of the watching boys. They all understood what it meant, knowing that Buster Lightfoot had been missing at supper and was believed to be far off on the range looking up strays.

He was now returning on a tired pony, and doubtless himself as hungry as a wolf. Yes, now the boys knew he was turning Buckskin into the corral, after which they could see him heading for the bunk-house, his burly frame looming up in the slanting rays of the failing moon.

Buster knew better than to make any undue racket when returning at so late an hour, for he would have had the rest of the boys about his ears like a swarm of angry bees. He would find plenty of food laid aside for him by the experienced Charlie Gin Sing, and after disposing of the bread and meat and the hot coffee contained in an enormous thermos jug, he was expected to turn in for the rest he so sadly needed.

In due time all was quiet again, and the digger once more tackled his job, with a stubborn spirit worthy of admiration. Lanky liked his nerve in thus taking such great chances of being discovered and caught, when he might expect to be given a good hiding.

It would seem as though the man with the spade must attain the object of his search before long, since the hole was already of some depth. As a consequence the boys found themselves more worked up than ever.

Lanky discovered that his right arm was feeling prickly all over. He knew what that meant, for it was not the first time his arm or leg had gone to sleep from a continuous pressure of some sort.

His intention was to change around and lean with his left arm, if only it could be managed, for he surely did not wish to lose sight of things at this critical stage of the affair.

It proved to be rather an unfortunate design on his part for his right arm was as helpless as though paralyzed so when he tried to move it played him a most dastardly and treacherous trick, actually crashing through the window and shattering the pane of glass into a thousand pieces!

CHAPTER VII

IN THE BLACK BOTTLE

It is astonishing what a tremendous medley of sound usually follows the smashing of a window, especially in the dead of night, with everything around gripped in silence.

Frank had a sensation almost of panic, hardly knowing what had happened. Paul, on his part, involuntarily ducked down, as if under the impression that the runt outside had hurled his spade through the window and would possibly follow it with other things still more dangerous.

Lanky, who was himself the culprit, appeared to grasp the situation and its undoubted disastrous consequences better than either of his companions. This was proved when he made a vigorous bolt for the exit of the room, leading outdoors.

"Let's grab him, fellows!" he shouted back over his shoulder, just before tearing open the door and leaping headlong through.

In his haste he made some sort of miscalculation, and the next thing he knew he tripped over some object and went headlong to the ground.

Frank and Paul, having caught his idea, and being nimble enough to follow close on his heels, also had the experience of taking headers, so for a few seconds there was something of a mix-up.

When they managed to untie the tangle and gain their feet, look as they might there was no sign of the little man to be seen. He had vanished as quietly as the wreaths of fog do in the morning when a puff of air welcomes the rising of the sun.

"Please somebody kick me for a duffer!" pleaded the disgusted Lanky.

Loud voices attested to the fact that the smash and jingle of falling fragments of glass had instantly awakened every sleeper in the near-by bunk-house.

Out they came running, helter-skelter, some in pajamas, others partly dressed, as was their habit while sleeping, but all wildly excited.

"What happened, boys?" bellowed Lige Smith, racing up barefooted.

"That measly little runt with the big head's been nosing around here again! But he got scared off when my elbow slipped and broke the window."

It was Lanky who made this hurried explanation, ready to shoulder all the blame of the mishap. No one had accepted his invitation to indulge in kicking him, he felt sure both Frank and Paul must feel as disgusted as he was himself.

"Which way did the critter vamoose?" asked Hoptoad Atkins, quite savagely for such a diminutive specimen of a puncher.

"None of us saw him skip out," admitted Lanky, "But say, he came from over that way," and he pointed toward that part of the sky where some time before the bright star had set beyond the level horizon.

There was an immediate rush on the part of the rustlers, and Frank, on noting their scantiness of attire, could not keep from chuckling. He felt positive he would never see the equal of that picture again, and its memory would always bring a laugh to his lips.

Of course no vigorous search could be made, for many reasons. In the first place, none of the punchers were more than half clad; besides, chasing over the wide stretches of the prairie after such a will-o'-the-wisp as that unknown but slippery runt, was out of the question.

Then again it might be he was only "tolling" them away, so that during their absence he could stampede the horses or accomplish some other species of mischief, such as might take form in a rattlebox brain.

They went as far as the corral, to make sure the ponies were safe, and then came drifting back again, their curiosity having been awakened by seeing Frank hard at work with a spade, enlarging a hole in the ground that some one had dug.

Some of the punchers had gone back into the bunk-house to get into warmer garments, sensing that the end of the strange midnight adventure was not yet. These wise ones came straggling back, to find Frank had handed over his task to the eager Lanky, who was making the dirt fly.

Then came a sudden rifle shot and the thump of a bullet as it buried itself in the tree trunk just over Lanky's head.

Frank happened to be looking in a direction that enabled him to glimpse the distant flash.

"Git tuh kiver!" bawled Jerry Brime.

Some dodged around the house while others flattened themselves out on the ground, which they hugged assiduously. Frank was one of those on the ground, while Lanky and Paul hurried around the corner of the building.

Two of those who had secured weapons as well as clothes when in the bunk-house started on the run toward the quarter from which the shot had come. Just then a second shot sounded, and the whine of the projectile as it winged past close to their heads could be plainly heard, giving the boys a queer sensation.

Cowboy yells sounded as the pair of runners started directly toward the marksman's stand, but it was answered by a mocking laugh. Then followed the rapid pounding of a horse's hoofs, telling them that their intended quarry was in no hurry for the punishment which they would only too willingly bestow upon him, could he be overtaken.

Of course, they could not pursue on foot, for cowboys as a rule are badly handicapped when out of the saddle. After blazing away several times in the vague hope of crippling the unseen pony or winging its rider by a lucky shot, the two armed men ran for the corral, to get astride their mounts.

But all that of course consumed time, and when they were ready to start it was too late. Listen as they might, the keenest of ears proved unable to catch the least sound. Even the faint night breeze was against them, for it came out of the wrong quarter.

It was an angry bunch of punchers that gathered around where Frank once more assumed the task of digging. He had seen how recklessly Lanky worked, and considered it the part of wisdom to exercise a little more caution, not knowing whether there might be dynamite or some other explosive that lay buried there, and this action of the stranger only a trap to lure them on to their own sorrow.

It proved a wise move on Frank's part, as succeeding events turned out. Those hovering close around him, watching with more or less curiosity, heard a queer clicking sound. Evidently the carefully handled spade had come in contact with some object.

"Another iron box, I bet my dandy new quirt!" ejaculated Zander Forbes, showing signs of unusual excitement. Probably he or the rest of the bunch had never before been at the digging up of a treasure-trove until that night when Josh Kinney's secret receptacle was unearthed deep down in the cellar under the ranch pantry.

"Pull off another one, Zander, old hoss!" snorted Hoptoad Atkins. "Reckon I know the sound of metal hittin' glass."

"Shoot, Frank, and let's see who's got the correct answer!" Buster urged.

Frank Allen was not to be hurried an atom.

He leaned toward Hoptoad's guess, for the peculiar clink that followed his gently striking some object made him think of a glass bottle. The times were such that bootleggers drifted all over the prairie, disposing of their illegal wares to customers on different ranches.

Could it be possible that there was a regular cache of bottled goods hidden here so close to the ranch house? He had heard that Lanky's Uncle George had had more or less trouble with some of his former employees along these very lines; for they seemed able to get the stuff and go on protracted sprees in spite of all his precautions.

So when he reached over and lifted a bottle out of the hole it was with a feeling akin to bitter disappointment. Would this explain the persistent attempts of the queer little man to carry out some plan?

Low laughter and then grunts came from the group of punchers.

"Nothin' but a leetle moonshine, looks to me," old Jerry remarked, as he rubbed his pointed chin with finger and thumb.

"No brand on the pesky bottle, you-uns notice," ventured Lige, the foreman, trying to make the best of a bad bargain.

"Mighty queer that little runt taking such big chances just to get hold of a bottle of hot stuff," Zander Forbes from Yale remarked shrewdly.

"Jerry, they tell me you used to be a good judge of such things," observed Sally Keating. "Take a sniff, and see if you can name the brand."

"Hold on boys, you're all away off your trolley," Frank told them. "This bottle has been buried here for a good many years, I'd say; as long, it might be, as that old chest was in the cellar!"

"Bully boy!" snapped Lanky enthusiastically. "Hit her again, Frank! Put the pins up on the other alley and make a spare or a strike. Now go on and tell us how you know?"

"Here, fetch that lantern over, Charlie Gin Sing," Frank called out to the cook who had just appeared on the scene, understanding that all firing had stopped and that it was safe for him to venture abroad.

"Say, it does look mighty like the old bottle's been under the soil for ages, boys," agreed Zander, after a close scrutiny of the object. "Shake it, Frank, and see if you hear something gurgle."

"Nixey! Never a solitary gurgle!" gloated Lanky. "There's something else than liquid lightning inside that black bottle. Frank, knock the head off, or I'll explode, I'm that stuffed with curiosity."

Bang! went the bottle against the edge of the spade. As the glass flew in a shower a curled paper yellowed with age, fell to the ground. On this Frank pounced and straightened it out. Everybody crowded around, eager to see, and among them old Jerry Brime pushed his beak forward, to immediately cry out something that sent a thrill through the three boys.

CHAPTER VIII

STARTING FOR GOLD FORK

"By hokey!" Jerry ejaculated, mightily interested in the age-stained paper. "Sure I've seen thet thar figgerin', 'fore now! Yep! It seems like I kin' 'member ole Josh Kinney bottlin' the paper up wid a big grin an' askin' how it looked fur a drawin' prize. I done tole him it seemed to me a hen went an' crawled acrost the paper wid muddy feet!"

It certainly did look a bit that way, as Frank and Lanky were forced to admit. They studied their find for a few minutes; then Lanky rubbed his nose and went on to remark sarcastically:

"And, say, that same hen must have been some loco, to make such a bunch of crooked tracks."

"Well, it must be some sort of chart, or map," suggested Paul.

"I take it that's right," Frank observed, nodding his head. "Perhaps you might call it a supplementary one to the first we found."

"Now you're shouting, Frank!" snapped Lanky eagerly. "We know that other was mostly about the route to the place where Kinney pulled out his nuggets. All right! Then this tells in some Greek way that he undersold, but is a mystery to us, how to walk up and help yourself at the feed-trough, after you get inside the cave."

"About ah I can make out of it," said Mr. Wallace, "is that there seems to be a five-fingered cave, and the stuff is located in the central zone."

"Well, that's something of a clue, anyhow," Lanky decided. "Besides when we get to studying these queer marks closer maybe we'll run across some sort of key that'll make it all plain as print."

Frank noticed that Minnie was leaning out of the window of the small room she occupied, clad in a pretty and becoming kimono. She seemed to be drinking in every word that was being uttered.

"Chances are," Frank told himself shrewdly, "Minnie will beg like everything to go along with us. But of course that would be out of the question! There'll be all kinds of danger afoot. Besides, I don't think it's the trip for a girl to take, good pal as Min is."

Since the enemy had been chased off, and, besides, what he sought to secure possession of was already safe in their keeping, Mr. Wallace decided it was useless to cheat themselves any longer of their sleep.

As the boys had been chiefly instrumental in getting hold of this second chart, buried in such a peculiar fashion by the old pioneer, just as had been the case with the other, he asked Frank to keep it safely.

"We'll have plenty of time to pore over them both between now and our start, as well as while on the trails," he told them, before going back to his sleeping room.

"How soon can we get a move on, Dad?" asked Lanky eagerly. "Gee whiz! I'm all cluttered up with thinking about that trip and what strange things we'll be apt to see in the mountain regions."

"Not many days more, son," was all the reply his father gave, and with this Lanky had to rest content; though as time passed he would likely grumble more or less and show signs of ever growing restlessness.

There was no further alarm that night, nor on the succeeding nights. It seemed as though the activity of the Rockspur crowd had entirely broken up any plans the conspirators may have formed, and a change of base became necessary on their part.

"Huh! bet you a cookey they've set out for Gold Fork ahead of us, and we'll find the whole shooting-match camped on the ground when we get there," Lanky said to Frank on the third day after the night disturbance.

"What's the odds if they are?" his chum demanded, unmoved by all this display of feverish anxiety on Lanky's part. "They are no more apt to find the location of Kinney's claim than those hundreds of miners were in the old days, when Gold Fork was a bustling camp and men digging like wild-fire in the hope of striking a bonanza deposit of nuggets."

"Reckon that's so, Frank," Lanky acknowledged, won over by the coolness and good judgment of his chum. "If we're going to have trouble getting our paws on that cache of nuggets with both maps to set us on the right track, why, those four-flushers haven't even a look-in."

"Well, I've got a little news for you, Lanky, that ought to fetch a grin to your face. Your father told me not ten minutes ago that it's all settled."

"Meaning when we start for Gold Forge? Is that the racket, Frank?"

"To-morrow will be Sunday. We say good-by to Rockspur for a little while on next Tuesday morning!"

Lanky's face lighted up with joy. He threw his hat into the air and gave a whoop that would have shamed almost any reckless, care-free puncher.

"That's bully news, Frank Allen!" he burst out. "When dad saps a thing he sticks to it like a leech. My stuff is all packed, and I've even knocked off nearly half I laid out in the start to pack along. Dad told me we'd have to go light, as only one pack horse would be taken."

Great excitement followed, particularly among the younger element at Rockspur Ranch. Minnie hovered around and listened to everything the boys said. She examined the two crude maps several times, as though they held a strong fascination for her.

Frank often shook his head as he noted these things.

"She certainly does want to be one of the bunch, all right!" he told himself. "I'm dead sure Mr. Wallace will never consent, although his wife would let Minnie do anything she liked, she's so easy going, and thinks such a courageous girl could always take care of herself. But while I'm sorry to see her disappointed, I don't think she ought to go on what may turn out to be a fighting trip."

Of course the party would ride, and the ponies of the three boys were carefully groomed, also allowed to rest as much as possible, so they might be in the best of condition when the time arrived for the start.

It was not to be a large party, just old Jerry Brime, Zander Forbes, and Mr. Wallace, besides the trio of boys, with a pack animal to carry such stores and necessities as they must take along in order to insure a fair degree of comfort.

They had secured all the information possible from Jerry, as well as any of the other punchers who had by chance set eyes on the deserted mining camp in the mountains or knew something about the route hither.

To the best of their understanding, the boys figured they would have to ride something like forty miles toward the southwest, then change to face the setting sun. After going, possibly, for several days, in the end they would reach the foothills along the base of the mighty Rocky Mountains.

It gave them many a thrill, just the picturing in their minds of the new and wonderful sights that in all probability awaited them, while making their way to their intended destination.

"Wonder if well see any antelopes or mebbe a stray buffalo," Lanky said to Paul, as they discussed things on Monday morning—the probable state of the weather for the great day, now close at hand, how they would stand the long gallop in the hot sun, whether those persistent enemies who had pestered them so long would be lying in wait with other evil designs in view, and kindred topics, of which there seemed to be legions cropping up.

"Somehow," Paul returned, with a note of yearning in his voice, "I've been telling myself that I might have the ambition of my life granted before we left the Rockies."

"Now what could that be, I wonder?" quizzed Lanky.

"Set eyes on a real Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep," explained the other, with a little laugh. "Sounds queer, I know, Lanky, but I've never forgotten one I saw in a zoo, and it's haunted me ever since—those big curving horns on which they say it often alights when bounding from a cliff to a plateau thirty feet lower down. I've even dreamed of seeing that marvellous stunt."

Lanky rubbed the tip of his nose reflectively.

"I never thought of seeing a genuine bighorn in its native haunts, Paul. But if only I could have the glory of knocking a rousing big chap off his perch and getting a pair of horns to take back to Columbia as a trophy! Shucks I wouldn't mind going to some trouble over such a job!"

That was the difference between Lanky and Paul. Paul seemed satisfied just to see and admire objects in Nature's vast domain; but Lanky, having the hunter instinct developed in his nature, thought only of possession—the monster bass swimming in the shallow water of the lake did not interest him one-tenth as much as when it was leaping at the end of his line and giving him a succession of thrills in a frantic endeavor to escape.

Tuesday morning dawned with a dear sky. It promised to be a hot day, as all the weather sharps could easily predict; but then such a minor detail did not bother any of the members of the expedition a particle.

The boys were keyed up to a high tension, and ready—as Lanky put it, "to buck up against any old thing that might come along, from cyclones and waterspouts to attacks from hostile men who might take them for government agents spying on boot-legger operations."

Every soul on the ranch from Charlie Gin Sing to Mrs. Wallace was on the spot to wish them a safe and prosperous journey. Minnie hovered around and smiled in a way that puzzled Frank.

"Now I wonder what kind of a bee that girl has got working in her brain?" Frank said to himself more than once. Somehow, it made him a bit uneasy. "I hope she hasn't the feast idea of trying to follow us! That would be the maddest of pranks."

The good-byes were said, and the little cavalcade rode bravely off, those in the saddle turning to send back last words to those left behind, and particularly Minnie and Mrs. Wallace.

The cowboys who were to stay at home and perform the regular routine of ranch duties accompanied the party for several miles; then at a sign from Lige Smith they gave a parting yell and turned back.

At last the treasure seekers were off in good shape, with all sorts of possible adventures lying ahead in the unknown lands they must traverse. Frank, however, could not keep Minnie's queer manner from filling his thoughts as he rode on his way.

CHAPTER IX

LANKY'S SCHEME WOBBLES

Knowing the magnitude of the journey they had before them, the adventurers did not intend to make any attempt at speed. They must preserve the strength of their mounts for the hard part of the trip after arriving in the rough region of the mountainous country.

They had a cold snack and rested their mounts at noon. The forty miles in a southwesterly direction was passed over before a halt was again made for supper. Jerry and Zander Forbes were in charge, the one as "big boss," the other in the guise of a guide; though most of Jerry's work was apt to come after they reached their goal and found themselves at the old mining camp.

When they put saddles on the ponies, and started off, they faced due west and a setting sun.

"Only for that heat haze over there," raid Zander to the boys close at his side, "you might glimpse the tops of the mountains if you happened to have sharp eyes and knew just where to look. Most green-horns would be apt to reckon it was only the dim outline of a low-hanging line of white clouds."

Lanky strained his eyes to stare in that direction. Sometimes he felt pretty certain he could just discern a faint line above the level horizon, which he fondly told himself must really be the outline of the lofty Rockies, the object of their long ride.

When the day was done the sun had finally disappeared and the glorious bed of crimson and gold that awakened lively feelings of admiration in the souls of the boys had turned to dark blue, it was decided to camp for the night on the prairie.

This was now nothing new to Frank and his chums, since they had been out overnight several times with some of the punchers, riding range after straying stock.

"I'm glad of one thing, though," Lanky told Paul, as a fire was kindled of such stuff as they had managed to pick up on the way.

"Shoot!" exclaimed the other, when Lanky held back, as was his habit when he wanted, to enliven the curiosity of those in his company.

"We didn't run across the rough-house gang of punchers that hold out over at the Double Z Ranch, nor yet any of the sheep-herders from over near Skidmore Station. We're trying to mind our own business and looking for trouble with no outfit, though of course we don't mean to be stood on."

The night passed in comparative peace, though a pack of coyotes persisted in keeping up an all-night chorus of yelps and long-drawn howls that sounded more wolf than otherwise.

With the morning they were early in the saddle. It was so hot that Mr. Wallace had decided to lay off for several hours toward the middle of the day, making up for lost time by the early start, also a ride after nightfall, when the cooler airs would creep down from the mountains ahead.

They could plainly see these mighty elevations now at any time they chose to cast their eyes up and down the horizon toward the west.

"But the atmosphere out here on the level plains is mighty deceptive, you must remember, boys," Zander Forbes had warned them. "A horseman can keep riding for ten hours steadily in a straight line, and at the end of that time seem to be hardly any closer to the mountains than when he started."

"But we understood there'd be only two days of hard riding after we headed into the west!" remonstrated Lanky.

"Well, by late afternoon to-morrow we ought to be inside of fifteen or twenty miles of the foothills. But like as not we'll have to make a third camp on the prairie."

This turned out to be the case; and when the towering Rockies seemed to be so close, the boys wondered why Mr. Wallace decided to defer the remainder of their ride until the next morning.

"Fresh mounts in good condition," the gentleman explained, "are worth much more to us than the gaining of a little time."

In his younger years Mr. Wallace had been considerable of a sportsman, taking his holidays each fall in a camping trip to the Canada bush, where he hunted the moose in a primitive wilderness.

Of late he had not taken any such trips, and his health had suffered in consequence, which helped to bring about this present outing.

The coyotes were as noisy as ever that night. Besides, Lanky heard a new and more thrilling sound, with which he was making his first acquaintance. Jerry told them it was the long-drawl howl of the big gray timber wolf, savage creatures that traveled in packs, and when beset by hunger seldom hesitated to attack a lone hunter.

"If yuh find yuhself beset by sech a pack o' varmints," was the sage advice of the veteran range rider and hunter, "don't keer a picayune 'bout showin' the white feather. If so be thar's a tree handy, shin up it like a streak. Then take yuh pick o' the pesky wolves an' knock 'em over in a row."

"I tried fighting a pack once," observed Zander, with a grimace. "Got the marks of them fangs on my legs and arms to this day. I'd have gone under to boot, only a storm broke and a terrific peal of thunder and a blinking flash of lightning as a tree was struck close by scared the graycoats off and gave me a chance to climb a tree."

With the coming of morning the journey was resumed, and the rising sun saw them almost half-way to the base of the foothills that served as an advance guard to the mountains themselves.

It was just nine by Frank's wrist watch when they arrived. Jerry showed them a trail that led over the range of hills to a canyon zigzagging up the great divide, it having once been the bed of a mighty torrent.

By noon they were fairly over the ridge. Beyond lay a small valley, and Jerry was able to locate and point out the canyon he expected to utilize in climbing to the plateau where Gold Fork lay. The place, they understood, was now the picture of desolation, with tumble-down shanties and stores marking it as a long since abandoned mining camp, where an alluring boomlet bubble had burst, to disappoint and ruin hundreds.

The ponies were somewhat winded after that stiff climb, so when the ride was continued they took their time in making the descent.

"Shucks! two to one we've got to lay over in this washbowl of a valley," grumbled Lanky, "and won't get to the old camp till to-morrow night."

Frank, being more disposed to take things as they came and not show undue eagerness, only laughed at his disappointed chum.

"Plenty of time, your dad told you, Lanky," he remarked.

"Yes, he's always telling me that Rome wasn't built in a day. But I certainly hate to waste the hours. What makes you look up at the sky so often, Frank? Expecting to have a storm break loose on our heads, are you?"

"Nothing in sight to say so," replied the other. "I was watching the wheeling movements of those big birds a mile or so high. Jerry tells me they are vultures, the largest carrion birds we have in this country, known as California vultures."

"Wow, so that's what they are! I saw them some time ago, but took it for granted they must be only turkey buzzards skimming around on the lookout for some eats. Vultures! Are they related to the monster South American condor?"

"First cousins, Zander Forbes told me, and nearly as big, though not so powerful. Why, those condors can carry off a good-sized lamb, I've read. The buzzard of the East and South belongs to the same family, as does the fish-crow of Florida, though of course they're a lot smaller."

"Vultures! Well, I never expected to set eyes on such birds on this trip. When Zander was telling that story the other night about an adventure he had when trying to secure an egg for a big museum and near losing his eyes from pecks of the mother, he said this California specimen was hardly ever seen except west of the Rockies; and just now we're on the east side of the big divide."

"I don't know anything about that, but he seemed a bit surprised to see them around here. I reckon they go where the feeding is best, even if it takes them across the snow-capped summits of the Rockies."

Lanky kept looking up frequently after that, as though some freakish scheme had been hatched in that fertile brain of his which he meant to try out, if only an opportunity offered.

At least, his guess concerning their camping in that valley turned out quite true, for when they were half-way across the basin Zander gave the order to pull up.

They were going to enjoy a hunter's feast that night, for the first time on the trip. Zander had managed to creep up on a feeding antelope, by keeping to leeward of the timid animal, and with a remarkably long and clever shot dropped his quarry.

So they expected to eat fresh venison to their hearts' content, and the three boys anticipated a delightful meal.

"Say, Frank, they're scooping down closer right now," Lanky observed, as he caught hold of his chum. "I wonder if they smell our fresh meat and hope to get the leavings of our supper."

Frank, however, shook his head skeptically.

"More than likely they've sighted some sort of carrion lying in the valley here, and are making for that. You can see that they keep wheeling in big circles over a spot lying to the north of us, and not more than a couple of hundred yards away from here."

"I'm glad it's to the north," said Paul; "for if there's a dead animal over yonder, so long as the breeze keeps in the southwest we're not going to hold our breath half the night. See! One of the big birds has dropped down to the ground. What monster wings they have; and they keep flapping them up and down as if ready for a scrap as they hop around sideways."

"Zander told me these vultures are about four feet in length from beak to the end of their tails, but that they have a wing spread of over ten feet!"

"Some birds, I'd say," replied Paul. Lanky was only grinning as he eagerly watched the other scavengers of the air drop down and commence to copy the gyrations of the first pilgrim.

"Gee! I'd sure like to try it out," Frank heard him mutter. But what Lanky meant he did not bother to explain, and Frank in the rush of other things forgot to ask him.

"I wonder now," mused Frank, as he watched the big birds hopping about with their wings often used in fighting one another over the spoils, "if he remembers how old Sindbad the Sailor caught a giant roc when a prisoner in that valley and climbing on its back was carried to safety? That would be just like harem-scarem Lanky, with his queer schemes for fun."

A little later he noticed Lanky talking with Zander Forbes, who seemed to be more or less amused at what the boy was saying. The others were all busily engaged at various tasks, and so Lanky was left to his own devices.

Frank's attention was later on attracted to the vultures when he heard a confused sound as of many great wings in motion. Looking out toward the spot they had been feeding he saw they had jumped off the ground and were circling in the air, but keeping within landing distance of their supper table. And there was Lanky, as big as life, stalking toward the spot!

Frank whistled softly in surprise, and then chuckled.

"What under the sun is that chum of mine figuring on doing?" he asked himself. "He's got something on his arm that looks mighty like the fresh skin Zander peeled from the antelope he shot to-day. Yes, and that's a rope he's trailing, too. Something's up, it strikes me."

He kept an eye on Lanky, to see the other stretch himself on the earth and draw the deerskin over him, hair-side down.

"Well, that sticks in my craw," Paul remarked disgustedly as he joined Frank and stared toward the scene of operations. "That chump must have a tougher stomach than I happen to own, to deliberately camp down out there so close to where those monster birds were feeding. Ugh! what wouldn't Lanky risk just to carry out what he'd call a joke?"

"We can soon get a wrinkle on his game by keeping an eye on the spot," vouchsafed Frank. "You see the vultures are already getting over their alarm and are swinging closer to the place with every circle they make."

"You hit the nail on the head that time for keeps, Frank. He keeps lying there as if asleep. What's he got covering him, do you happen to know?"

"Looked to me like the fresh skin of that little deer Zander brought down at such a long distance to-day." Frank informed Paul. "Besides, I saw Lanky talking to Zander, who seemed tickled at something our chum was explaining."

"Oh, well, there's got to be something doing all the time with Lanky, and when it doesn't come along promptly, trust him to rig up a trick to fetch out a little excitement."

"All I hope," added Frank uneasily, "is that he doesn't find he's bitten off more than he can chew this time."

"You don't like the looks of those vultures, then, I take it?" queried Paul.

"No. They're powerful and ugly-tempered birds, Paul. There, the boldest in the bunch has dropped down, and is heading up to his feed trough again, with those queer jumps and his wings flopping, as if in challenge to the gang to beat him to it."

"Yes, and the rest have forgotten their alarm, for they're dropping down in hot haste. I reckon they're afraid that chap will gobble the whole meal before they can carry off a snack. Now one curious bird is making for that fresh deer-hide, thinking it's manna that dropped down from the clouds. What fool game has Lanky got up his sleeve?"

"No telling," was the brief reply.

A couple of minutes passed. Then suddenly the entire assemblage of giant birds once more jumped off the ground, just as the boys had often seen buzzards do, to start their circling again on wide-spread pinions.

"Look! Oh, look, Frank," cried the excited Paul. "Lanky's slipped a noose around the leg of that biggest one, for it's only gone up a short way and is beating its wings like a crazy thing! There's Lanky now, trailing along the ground. But, Frank, why's he going feet first?"

"He's made a fool play, and got the rope twisted around one of his legs!" exclaimed the astounded as well as alarmed Frank. "He's being dragged along by the vulture! Paul, he may be killed!"

CHAPTER X

THE LOCOED BUFFALO

The loud talking of the two boys and the flight of the flock of scavengers—of all but that lone captive—soon attracted the attention of the other members of the party.

Mr. Wallace gaped in wonder and annoyance at seeing his son being dragged along, frantically clutching at every object in sight, in the hope of anchoring, and thus staying, his progress. Jerry Brime stared, hardly believing his eyes at witnessing such a curious happening. But Zander Forbes, who had been made Lanky's confidant in the matter, stopped laughing and jumped toward the spot where his rifle lay, the gravity of the situation coming to him like a sudden blow.

Lanky had fortunately succeeded in laying hold of what looked like a sturdy tuft of wiry buffalo grass, and to this he was clinging with might and main. At the same time with his other hand he was stretching down, trying to release his leg from the binding coil of rope.

As long as the strong wings of the frightened and now angry vulture continued to beat the air so wildly, this was rendered utterly out of the question; for the rope was kept taut, and all Lanky's desperate efforts to unfasten it failed.

"The bird's got tired of trying to yank him up into the air, Frank!" called out Paul. "See, he's dropped back to the ground again, and, as sure as you live, he's hopping straight at Lanky as if he meant to give him a licking for his meanness! Wow! I'm glad it isn't me out there."

"Lanky doesn't seem able to get clear of that loop of the rope!" snapped Frank, "and unless something happens to prevent it he's going to be in danger of having that terrible bird pecking at his eyes!"

"What can we do, Frank, to stop that?" gasped the aroused and now alarmed Paul.

"Let's run, and shout to try and scare the bird off!" suggested the other loyal chum of the reckless Lanky.

"Wait! There's Zander with his gun, Frank. I guess he's got the number of that bird's mess, all right."

Paul had hardly spoken when there came the sharp report of a rifle. Frank, to his great joy, saw the angry vulture fall over and kick as though its finish had indeed come with the pressure of Zander's fore-finger on the trigger.

"Bully! Bully!" shouted the relieved Paul. "He cooked that old fighter's goose for him all right! Now Lanky's managed to get his leg free, and is coming back to camp, carrying the rope and the antelope hide. His little game worked all to the good, but took a turn he didn't count on. See him limp, will you? That left leg feels sore, I bet you!"

"I reckon it serves him about right, as his dad will tell him," observed Frank. "Of all the fool tricks I've ever known that boy to try out, this wanting to lasso a live vulture takes the cake! Most people wouldn't want to touch the horrible things with a ten-foot pole."

Lanky looked foolish as he reached the place where Jerry had a little cooking fire burning, although he grinned, and tried to pass the whole thing off as a mere incident.

His father said nothing to him just then. But Frank and Paul knew that in the end Mr. Wallace would have a confidential talk with his son, in which Lanky would "eat humble pie," admitting that his had been a silly scheme that gave him only what he deserved.

Jerry managed to broil enough of the antelope meat for all, even though the three boys did come back repeatedly for further portions, things tasted so good to them.

Mr. Wallace understood, for he had eaten in the open many times himself.

"Food always does taste different when the surroundings are Nature's," he said, as they still sat around and "stoked up," as Lanky termed it.

"It does to me, for one," admitted Frank. "Chances are that if we had this spread at home, with a white tablecloth and china to serve it on, none of us would care a great deal for this venison. It might seem tough and dry unless cooked with bacon slices between. But out here, with appetites like woodchoppers in the cold North, it's a whole lot different."

Lanky was unusually quiet that evening, Frank noticed. Undoubtedly he realized that sometimes what are meant to be pranks turn out to border perilously close to tragedies.

When morning came the boys noticed that no haste was made to get started, and presently the reason for this was made known.

"Would you believe it," said Frank, coming over to where the other two boys were sitting after breakfast was over, "that miserable pack pony has wandered off during the night. It's going to bother us a heap, I reckon."

"Do you mean we'll be held up here in this little valley while a hunt is made for the pony?" demanded Lanky, looking anything but pleased over the possibility of further delay.

"All of us are to start out and search," admitted Frank. "Your father's given us the job of combing the valley to the north, while the others head south. We are to get back to camp by noon, and if the beast hasn't been found by that time we'll have to divide the stores among the bunch, for your dad says he can't be delayed any longer."

"I know what he's thinking about," said Lanky. "He's expecting a mighty important letter from New York that means a whole lot to him in the way of money. It may not arrive before we get back to Rockspur; but if it does I heard him telling Lige to send along one of the other boys to find us at Gold Fork."

According to the plan resolved on, the three boys left camp, going to the north in search of the pack pony, just as Zander and Jerry started toward the south.

"It'll be a nice little gallop for us, anyway," said Frank, who always looked at the bright side of things.

Paul, however, shrugged his shoulders and he called out:

"I'm not quite so keen about a side gallop as you fellows. Fact is, I'm getting pretty well filled up on pony riding. Three days straight is going some for a greenhorn like me. But I'm game to stick it out to a finish. Only I do hope we run across that Wandering Willie of a pony inside of an hour or two, so as to strike back to camp again."

For some time the boys rode along, keeping a lookout on every side. It kept growing warmer all the while, for the mountains shut off any breeze from the west, while a ridge called foothills did the same in the opposite quarter.

An hour passed, and not a single glimpse did the boys get of the missing pack pony.

"Looks as if he had gone south instead of this way," commented Frank. "Though it's possible the beast had intelligence enough to head over the rise and start back home."

"Homesick, you mean, Frank?" laughed Paul.

"Some horses are affected that way, I'm told."

Lanky was unusually quiet all this while. Frank wondered whether the ludicrous adventure with the lassoed vulture had given him a lesson in prudence he would not soon forget.

He looked toward the towering peaks to the immediate west, as though aggrieved because things had happened in such a fashion as to prevent their ascent of those rugged slopes by way of the friendly canyon.

That was what Frank was thinking, but after all it appeared that he did Lanky an injustice, for presently the other broke his silence to say:

"Once or twice last evening, just before dark set in, boys, I had a sort of hunch I could faintly glimpse smoke rising up on the side of the mountains."

"But you didn't mention a word about it to us, Lanky!" Frank put it to him reproachfully.

"I didn't, for a fact," admitted the lad. "To tell the truth, I was feeling kind of punk over the fool game I set out to pull off, and so I just concluded to keep mum and not jump out of the frying pan into the fire. But the more I think about it, the stronger is my belief that it was an occasional wreath of blue smoke I glimpsed."

"That would mean a campfire," said Frank. "And of course you feel dead certain you could say who'd be sitting near that same blaze, having supper?"

"Just what I could!" Lanky chuckled. "For one, Nash Yesson. Then, close by, you'd see a slinking sort of chap known in Columbia as a bully, and chock full of meanness. Lef Seller, who robbed his own father. Yes, and just as like as not you'd set eyes on a queer little runt with a head three sizes too big for his body, name unknown to us, but particularly fond of trying to find hidden things on moonlight nights."

"Well, I agree with you, Lanky," admitted Frank. "If there was a fire, those were the three chaps who'd be sitting beside it and talking about their chances for finding Kinney's secret cave where the gold nuggets were cached."

"Frank," said Paul just then, "did you hear what Zander was saying about the report brought to Rockspur one day last week?"

"What was that?"

"That Buffalo Smith's herd of bison had broken from their range and gone back to the free life of their kind. They skedaddled in a night."

"Yes, I heard about that," came the reply. "And Zander told me as his own private opinion that Captain Smith would have trouble rounding up the run-aways, because they'd separated in every direction, each seeming to want to look out for himself."

"Wasn't that a queer way for buffaloes to act?" queried Lanky. "I always understood they kept together in a bunch, just as our cattle do unless they've been stampeded and badly frightened, when they go into a panic."

"Zander, who seems to know lots about the animals, told me," commented Frank, "that you never can tell what a buffalo will do. He says they often seem to get wild and crazy, as if they'd been eating the loco weed that's found sometimes on the plains. But what made you bring up that subject, if it's a fair question, Paul?"

"Oh, just because we're pretty close to one of that same run-away herd right now," came the cool and astonishing reply.

"What's that?" exclaimed Lanky, perking up instantly.

"Where do you see a buffalo?" asked Frank, also interested, although believing the other must have deceived himself.

Paul pulled in his pony and pointed toward the foot of the mountain chain.

"Right alongside that patch of trees growing in front of the big boulder. There, he's raised his shaggy head and is staring straight at us!"

The others took one good look, and then while Lanky whistled to mark his surprise, also delight, Frank hastened to give his opinion.

"Good eyes you've certainly got, Paul, for I looked that way myself, and if I noticed anything at all I must have believed that object was only a shadow. But it's as plain as print to me now. That's a buffalo bull—his bulk tells us that."

"Shall we ride over and take a squint at the beast?" asked Lanky.

"For one," Paul told him, "I'd like to say I'd seen a genuine wild buffalo on his native ground, and me astride a cow pony."

"Let's go!" was Frank's terse way of saying he found himself of the same mind as the others. No one had to ask Lanky what he wanted to do, since he invariably proved ready for action of any kind.

Accordingly they turned to the left and cantered forward. Already did the cow ponies scent the presence of the lumbering beast near by. This was made evident by the way in which they snorted and took brisk, chopping steps, indicating their extreme excitement.

"They're not used to coming so close to buffaloes," explained Frank. "Fact is, I hardly think any one of the three has ever before glimpsed such a sight as this."

"But their noses have caught the wild animal scent, you can see," Lanky ventured, he being much at home in the doings of four-footed creatures.

"Why doesn't the silly thing start running off?" cried Paul. "I thought they were always reckoned a timid bunch in spite of their bulk and savage-looking mop of hair about their heads."

"Slow up, fellows!" called out Frank just then.

"Why, what's the matter?" demanded Paul, turning toward Frank.

Lanky kept going on, as if to say:

"Shucks! who's afraid of a lonely lost buffalo? Not me!"

"I don't quite like the way old Boss acts," continued Frank. "See him shake his head and lower his ugly black horns. You've both seen a bull in the pasture do that many a time, boys, when he was getting primed for a charge."

"Yes; and I don't like the looks of it!" asserted Paul emphatically.

"Say, do you think he's got the same objection to my red handkerchief that a tame Jersey bull shows?" and Paul threw up his hand, ready to tear the offending fiery cowboy neck-piece loose, so he might cram it into his pocket.

"It might be that," Frank told him. "Then again, wasn't there something said about the herd of bison having made a meal off that terrible loco weed that grows in places and affects cows and sends 'em off like mad dogs?"

Even Lanky pulled up when Frank said that. His recent experience in the realm of adventure was too fresh for him to forget the humiliation that followed close on its heels; and prudence, as his father had counseled him, began to urge that from now on he go a bit slow.

The ponies seemed to understand intuitively that the buffalo was not the ordinary docile domestic beast, accustomed to the presence of man. They snorted worse than ever, acting as though eager to whirl about and leave that part of the valley as fast as four legs could carry them.

"Whoop! here he comes licketty-split!" yelled Lanky. "I've got a date somewhere else, believe me! I sure haven't lost any buffalo! Tra-la-la! Old Boss, here's giving you the grand bounce! It's not me you want!"

He let his frantic pony turn as on a pivot, and shoot away, with Frank a good second.

Paul, never a good rider, tried to do likewise. He had the ill-fortune to lose his seat, and be thrown to the ground. He looked back to see that black-horned and shaggy-headed beast charging wildly toward him!

CHAPTER XI

A CAMP IN THE CANYON

"Hold up, Lanky!"

Hearing these words shouted suddenly by Frank, Lanky Wallace turned in his saddle. Seeing Paul's peril, he drew his unwilling pony's head around, and commenced to gallop back again just as fast as he had taken flight.

"Look lively, Paul!" shrilled Frank, fervently wishing he had his rifle along, when he might trust everything to a shot, in the hope of at least crippling the locoed buffalo bull.

"Hi! Paul!" bellowed Lanky. "The tree! Make for the tree! Only chance to give him the grand laugh! Hey! Side-step it in a hurry! Good jump, Paul, old boy! See him get over the ground for that tree, will you, Frank? Talk to me about home-runs, Paul's got it all plastered over his old mates on the Columbia High team. He's after you, Paul! Dodge those shiny horns again! One more whirl like that, and you'll arrive! Got him again, but he's on to your curves. Beat it!"

Paul did, and in great shape. He arrived at the lonesome tree in time to scramble up amidst its low-hanging branches before the furious buffalo came lumbering along, foam flecking each corner of his mouth.

"Hold up, Lanky!" cried Frank.

"What's the next thing on the program?" asked the impetuous one, pulling in his rearing steed and holding the bridle as tight as he could—one run-away pony was surely sufficient without having the others take their leave.

"Chase Paul's nag and fetch him back." Frank had assumed charge of the situation; for he was accustomed to being the captain in baseball and football games, his companions gladly looking to him for leadership.

"You'll find a way to get Paul out of his fix, will you, Frank? All right, here goes for a pony chase!"

With that Lanky was off on the jump. He never even bothered to ask Frank how he meant to maneuver, in order to get Paul out of the bison's reach.

When Frank next turned his attention to the strange scene before him he found that Paul, having recovered his breath, was taking things in a matter-of-fact way that rather amused his chum.

Leaning down from his safe perch he was talking to his guard. The buffalo bull was staring up at his prisoner in the tree with those small but wicked-looking eyes and at certain points in Paul's harangue Frank was highly amused to see the animal scrape the ground violently with a fore hoof, as if he did not agree with the argument at all.

"Looks as if the old scamp might be saying," chuckled Frank, "'you just drop down here once, and I'll show you how I can polish you off slicker than anything you ever saw. Try me, that's all.'"

"Hey! Frank!" called out the boy up in the tree, noticing for the first time that his chum had drawn somewhat closer and was holding in his prancing and snorting pony with a firm hand.

"All right, Paul. You sure did climb some that time!"

"Well, anybody would be apt to, with those black horns right behind him," the other retorted in self-defense.

"They say a miss is as good as a mile, and you did have a close shave."

"But how'm I going to get out of this scrape? That's what's bothering me!"

"Forget it, and trust to your Dutch uncle to hatch up a scheme to fool old Woolly Head. Now listen, and I'll unfold the plan."

"Shoot!"

"Notice that Lanky's galloped after your run-away pony?"

"That's mighty fine of him," ventured Paul. "I'd begun to believe I'd have to do considerable hiking before landing in camp again; or else double-up with one of you fellows. Well, what's next?"

"I'm going to lure that bison of yours off by his lonesome, if I can fix things right."

"Sounds good to me," came the reply. "But first of all, don't denominate this shaggy monster as my property. I don't claim to own a solitary share in him hair, hide, or horns. He belongs to Buffalo Smith; though I'd like to convert him into tough steaks, if only I had a rifle handy."

"I've managed to snatch up that offensive red handkerchief of yours," explained Frank, "from where you threw it when chasing for refuge. It must have been the innocent cause of all your trouble and as tit-for-tat I mean to make it help you out of this pickle."

"Oh! now I get you! You expect to coax the old lummix to chase after you for a mile or so, and so give me a chance to climb down?"

"That's the little game, partner. When you see me wave my hat get a move on, and drop."

"But if he sees me on the ground he's dead sure to come back with a rush, and I'd have to take to the mountains to keep clear of those shiny short horns!"

"Oh, I expect to keep him employed till I see that Lanky's shown up, leading your pony. Get that, Paul?"

"A regular old booster of a scheme, Frank, if only everything works in a groove. Get busy then, and flag him. I'll lie low, so he'll forget all about poor little Paul up a tree!"

Frank delayed no longer, but started waving the red neckerchief violently in the most insolent fashion he could devise. At the same time he called out tantalizingly at the buffalo, daring him to come out and have a nice little run for his money.

More pawing at the ground followed, accompanied with low, hollow sounds that stood for bellows. Evidently the bull was thus engaged in working himself up to a certain pitch of rage, when he would be unable to resist the lure of that flaunting and much hated red flag.

"Whoop! he's off. Frank, get going before he takes a whack at you!" shouted Paul, as the animal suddenly tore away with lowered head, eager to give battle to the reckless enemy who thus dared him.

If Frank had possessed three hands to pull at the reins he could not have held in that frantic cow pony when the little beast saw that lumbering bull charging.

Whirling around, he went off like a shot, only desirous of placing plenty of ground between himself and the mad creature. Accustomed to cattle as he must be, nevertheless there was something terrifying about the bunchy-headed buffalo that sent the pony into equine spasms.

Frank managed to pull him in a bit, so as not to outdistance the charging bull, lest he go back to his prisoner again. He also continued to flaunt that offensive red flag and send jeering whoops over his shoulder that kept his pursuer spurred up to fever heat.

A full mile was covered in a short time. Then a distant shout was borne to Frank's ears. On investigating he discovered that Lanky had succeeded in capturing the run-away mount and was already close to the tree, from which Paul could be seen descending in eager haste.

"Now then, get a move on you, Chestnut!" Frank called out to his pony, at the same time kicking his heels into the animal's sides.

Gradually he began to gain on the bull, which after another mile lost heart, and dropped out of the race. Frank, seeing his two chums coming in a round-about way, waited for them to join him. Paul was grinning amiably, as if he had rather enjoyed having been in the spotlight. Things looked different to him, now that it was all over but the shouting.

They again took up the search for the pony that was so badly needed to carry the pack, and were fortunate enough to glimpse the animal feeding on some luxuriant grass that had tempted him to forget his love of freedom.

Having captured the run-away, the boys once more turned their faces toward the south, and in due time reached camp. The others did not return for another hour or more, and were of course pleased to learn of the recovery of the pack animal.

It was now noon, so they had a bit of cold lunch, and after that a start was made.

Jerry was in the lead, it being their intention to make for the canyon. If this was followed up the face of the mountain range it would in due time take them to the plateau where Gold Fork lay in its desolation.

The boys now had a chance to see a real Rocky Mountain canyon, where ages ago a torrent used to come tearing down from the snow-capped peaks above, gradually to wear away the earth lying between solid walls of rock, until they loomed up a hundred feet or more on either hand.

It was now a dry defile, the lads noticed, although they fancied that once in a great while, during some cloudburst, there might be a deluge of water come roaring and tossing down the canyon, carrying everything before it.

They found it hard work picking their way upward; but Jerry knew pretty well how to avoid the worst of the difficulties.

"This means we're going to pitch camp in this channel of an old-time torrent," remarked Frank, as the long afternoon wore away and their hard-worked ponies gave signs of being very tired.

"It'll be a new experience," observed Lanky, looking around at the lofty walls that rose on either side. "Gee whiz! but I'd hate to be caught in this hole if a storm broke and the rain came down as it does sometimes out here in the Rockies. We'd soon be swimming I reckon."

Paul Bird looked uneasy, but made no remark, for he rather suspected that Lanky was saying what he did in anticipation of "getting a rise" from him. As long as Paul had known Lanky, he had never learned to tell with certainty when the tall fellow was joking and when he was serious.

As evening approached Jerry called a halt. He must have had reasons for choosing that particular spot to pitch camp, Frank decided, after noticing how the veteran puncher and prospector looked around him from time to time, as if renewing old-time recollections of the place.

A fire was made, there being an abundance of dead wood at hand, coming from the stunted trees that grew out of clefts in the surrounding walls.

"What makes it seem so hot here?" asked Paul, wiping his reeking forehead with the same red neckerchief that had excited the buffalo bull.

"Oh, it's nearly always hot around these mountains," replied the artful Lanky. "Folks say it's because some of them used to be volcanoes ages and ages ago, and the fires must still be burning deep down."

But Paul scoffed at the fantastic idea, knowing full well Lanky was only "drawing the long bow" for his especial benefit.

"If you look," remarked Frank quietly, "you'll notice that it's clouded up; and with all this high temperature I wouldn't be surprised if we had some rain before morning."

"Let's hope, then," added Lanky, and really meaning what he said, "that it isn't to be one of those terrific cloudbursts Zander was telling us about at supper. I like swimming, all right! But excuse me from being swept on a boiling torrent down an old canyon half a mile long, to be kicked out on the prairie like a knocked-about bag of meal."

"Well, Jerry knew what he was about when he picked out this particular point for our camp," Frank went on to say confidently.

"We'll pin our faith on Jerry, then," said Paul, trying to appear quite unconcerned, though his heart did beat faster than its wont as he surveyed the myriad of sharp-pointed rocks and enormous boulders marking the course of the crooked defile.

Another thing the watchful Frank noticed later on told him Jerry Brime did not mean to be caught entirely unprepared, should any sort of impending disaster break over their heads.

He himself took the trouble to do up their pack of stores after supper was over, a most unusual thing, and arrange so that at a moment's notice it could be secured on the back of the pony.

The animals, too, were kept saddled and bridled, as though in readiness for sudden flight. Frank wondered what sort of time they could make going down that dreadful gap in the face of the mountains in the dead of night, and with a million obstacles lying in wait to bring about trouble.

They needed no blaze that night to keep the chill away; it seemed strangely suffocating, a fact that might account for the unusual wakefulness on the part of the three boys.

"Don't know what ails me," grumbled Lanky who was stretched out in his beloved checkered blanket close to Frank. "I keep turning from one side to the other, and just can't get asleep, tired as I am. Guess mom would say I'd got the 'fidgets,' while dad'd likely tell me I was too greedy with that campfire-cooked venison. Shucks! something's going to happen, I reckon."

"It sure will, if you don't quit that mumbling," chuckled Frank, "for I can see Zander popping his head up and looking this way, as if he had half a mind to make you go off and herd by yourself."

"You said it, Frank," came from Paul, on the other side of Lanky. "I'm no knocker, but he keeps digging his elbows into my ribs every time he turns over. Please quit it, Lanky, and settle down."

Somehow or other, the uneasy one did manage to control his restlessness, and he soon lay sprawled out on his back and breathing hard, which was a pretty good indication that he had passed over into dream-land.

Frank did not have the slightest idea how long he was lost to the world after Lanky quieted down. It may have been several hours, for there was nothing to tell him what the time was when he was aroused by a frightful crash of thunder that seemed to make the solid rocks under him tremble with the vibration.

Then came a dash of rain that almost instantly deluged every one, so that clothes and blankets were soaking wet.

When a flash of lightning lit up the canyon as by bright sunlight, Lanky was seen threshing around in the endeavor to get free from his blanket that had crept up about his ears as he slept. At the same came his triumphant shout:

"What did I tell you? Something's happened all right, hasn't it?"

But Jerry Brime gave them no time to dispute.

"We got to git outen this right smart, 'case that looks like a cloudburst to me. This hyah canyon she'll be ten feet deep in a flood afore yuh knows what's comin' down on yuh. Everybody git yuh duffle, an' foller old Jerry!"

CHAPTER XII

A RACE WITH THE CLOUDBURST

It was a scene of the wildest commotion, as the almost continually flashing lightning depicted. The three boys had it seared on their minds so that they would never forget the thrill of the occasion as long as they lived.

But for that rare forethought and preparedness on the part of Jerry Brime, it would have been many times worse. His arrangements for sudden flight allowed the party to make a move without wasting a single minute of precious time.

The ponies gave them some trouble, for they seemed to sense impending calamity, and were nearly frantic. But by now even the tenderfeet had learned how to manage frightened mounts; and as each one had his own cayuse to lead, once he got a firm grip on tin bridle near the bit it was not a very difficult task.

At least the lightning, coming so incessantly, proved of immense advantage to the party. Frank shuddered to think what dreadful stumbling, with resulting injuries, would have been their portion had they been compelled to make their way down the defile in utter darkness, with those flinty and jagged-edged rocks strewing their path.

So the camp was abandoned in much less time than it had taken them to arrange things. There was great need of haste, too, it soon proved.

"Oh! listen, Frank!" cried Paul, as he turned toward his chum, who managed to keep close by, ready to give a helping hand should the need arise.

"Yes, I hear it, Paul!"

"It sounds like a river broken loose!" continued the other, in an agitated voice.

"Just what it is, I reckon—a fresh river—the flood!" Frank told him.

"Faster, everybody!" called Mr. Wallace, conscious of the magnitude of their danger.

"Yep, move lively, 'case she's a-tearin' down the mountain like greased lightning!" Zander Forbes called out; lapsing into cowboy lingo, college graduate as he claimed to be.

As Jerry had to be in the van to serve as their guide, Zander had taken it upon himself to tow the pack-pony as well as his own mount. This was a tremendous responsibility under such conditions, and few punchers there were who could have managed it; but then Zander seemed to be little short of a wizard among animals.

The thunder still bellowed, while the rain fell in almost solid sheets, so that in all there was a hurricane of sound around the fleeing party. Still above this noise they could plainly distinguish that awful roar of rushing waters on the rampage, than which there can be no more terrifying sound possible.

Paul Bird had to clinch his teeth until his lips bled in order to master the deadly fear that gripped his very soul and made him feel sick. In imagination he was picturing the scene Lanky had drawn when he spoke so jokingly about "swimming down on the boiling flood to be swept out into the little valley with broken bones and life extinct."

So far as Frank could see, those grim and lofty and forbidding walls continued to hem them in on either side—utterly unscalable, and looking like the jaws of a trap that was destined to be their doom. But he felt positive that Jerry knew of some avenue of escape from the canyon, if only they were given the time required to reach the opening. Once the flood caught up with them, all would be lost.

He had never looked upon such a spectacle in all his life, but he understood that the first wave might be something like ten feet high, and making the descent of the abrupt mountainside with incredible velocity, so that it was bound to carry horses and human being off their feet when it struck them, and as the downpour still continued the chances were that the torrent would gain additional volume with every rod it rushed along.

On the fugitives pressed, making better time than could have been attained under any other conditions, for there is nothing equal to the dread of death to spur men and beasts on to herculean efforts.

Fortunately none of the ponies had thus far stumbled. Although the time lost by such an accident might be only the fraction of a minute, even such a brief delay was apt to cost them dear when the race was so close. Frank's pony seemed to lag a bit, having hit upon a section of ground that was rougher than the rest, being strewn with more loose rocks, and in this way the lad found himself the last member of the sextette.

In a flight such as this, it is usually every one for himself, since there is no time given to double-up. As Lanky would have stated it, "Every chap must look out for himself."

Jerry was calling out now at the top of his voice, and despite all the other booming sounds they could catch the drift of his words, meant solely to encourage them at this crisis.

"It's right ahead of us! We're bound to git thar all hunk! Keep a-goin' like hot cakes, fellers! I know whar I'm at, yuh kin bet yuh boots!"

He finished this rush of shouted words with his familiar old cowboy yell, as if to defy the rush of the flood and the fury of the summer storm.

If they attained their goal and managed to get out of reach of the avalanche of water, it would be by the skin of their teeth. Lanky could not have uttered a word just then, no matter how desperately he tried, for his lips felt as dry as those of a fever-stricken mule-skinner in a caravan, and his breath was coming in pants, as of a hound that had run a long race in chase of a hare.

Just when he was almost on the point of despairing and under the belief that Jerry must have miscalculated the time required to reach his escape valve from the canyon trap, Lanky heard the veteran give a joyous cry:

"Hyah she is, boys, and the kentry's saved!"

Never had such welcome words come to the ears of those fugitive treasure-seekers. It inspired them to keep up their efforts a fraction of a minute longer, though the closeness of the coming flood was enough in itself to urge them to astonishing agility.

Jerry and his mount were turning abruptly to the left. Lanky wondered how it came he had failed to notice this single break in the continuity of those cruel granite walls when they were slowly ascending the face of the mountain chain. But it was there, just the same, and a good thing for the hard-pressed outfit.

They straggled out of the canyon bed and climbed to higher ground with all the speed they could muster. There were not half a dozen seconds to spare, Lanky realized, with a shiver of horror, when he heard the sweep of the crest of the flood go rushing madly past, and even found his legs in water up to his ankles.

How thankful they must feel, and with what lighter hearts would they stick to their isle of safety until the flood went down again. Paul could not contain himself, even though his wind was scant after his recent efforts.

"Lanky, look! Oh, look! Here's Frank's pony close at my heels! But where is Frank?"

At the words all of the party came to an abrupt halt, a feeling like ice gripping every heart. The roar and sweep of the flood was not quite so frightful as before, since its crest had gone by but a new terror now seized them.

Was Frank caught in its terrifying grip?

CHAPTER XIII

WASHED AWAY

What had actually happened to Frank Allen might easily be termed tragedy. What made it all the stranger was the fact that he owed it to the frantic eagerness of his pony to escape the clutch of the oncoming flood.

Having been detained a little because meeting more obstacles than the others of the party, Frank was still in the canyon when the others turned out of it. Fascinated by the spectacle behind him, he turned his head in the act of climbing out to take one last fleeting look up the cut.

What he saw by the aid of the lightning was a sight that must always give him a queer chill, because of what followed so closely in its train.

A mighty wave was pouring down upon him, its crest foamy and leaping as if in glee. It was eight or ten feet high at most, but to the excited imagination of the boy it seemed doubly that.

The mere turning of his head as he did caused him to lose a fraction of his steadiness. At the same instant the pony made such a frantic leap forward that Frank lost his hold on the bridle. The next thing he knew something hit him squarely in the chest as with a sledge hammer, knocking him backward. It must have been one of the pony's recklessly flung hind hoofs, in the way of which Frank had tumbled.

Before the starred boy could more than struggle to his knees in the effort to escape his fate he was picked up by that roaring flood and borne swiftly along.

Fortunately for his own good, Frank managed to retain his wits, awkward and perilous as his situation now was. He threw out both arms and tried to clutch hold of such rocks as he came in contact with, usually the projecting knobs that were connected with the near wall, and perhaps six or more feet from the bed of the canyon.

Several times he managed to get some sort of a grip on such a welcome anchor, only to find he was utterly unable to maintain his hold. On each occasion the fierce current snatched him loose again, after almost dislocating his shoulder or his elbow.

One thing these several detentions did accomplish, and that was to retard his downward rush a little each separate time. So he was gradually falling back a dozen feet or more from the apex of that leading billow. Thus he presently found the water somewhat less agitated, though still mighty in its pull.

Buffeted and tossed like a chip, Frank Allen was fast losing the best of his strength, although his grit still held out. The never-say-die spirit such as he had exhibited on many a hard fought football field or a struggle for supremacy on the diamond, was fated to stand back of him again in this tussle with the on-rushing torrent.

When for the fourth time he managed to fasten his fingers, like the talons of that vulture Zander had shot on a projecting point of rock, he summoned every fibre of his whole being to conquer the drag of the current.

Inch by inch he felt he was succeeding. Past him the torrent still rushed, but he had reason to believe it did not have him wholly in its power as before.

So in another minute Frank was able to drag himself on to a friendly rock. He was so nearly spent by that time that it was with extreme difficulty he managed to keep his seat. Several times he almost toppled off his perch, which would have undoubtedly been his end, since he was now very weak.

By slow degrees his strength and will power came back, and a sense of deep gratitude filled his heart because of the Hand that seemed to have thus plucked him directly out of deadly danger.

But what should he do next?

He realized that of course the others of his party would be mystified on account of his absence and the appearance of his pony among the rest of the animals. There was no possible way, however, by which he could acquaint them with his wonderful escape from a terrible fate.

His first plan was to remain where he was until hours had passed and the flood fully subsided. Then, by dropping down into the canyon's bed once more, he could ascend its tortuous course until he found the fissure by means of which the party had climbed as he hoped, to safety.

Moving backward in order to make more certain that he would not slip and thus get into fresh trouble, Frank found that a crevice opened up in the wall of the cleft, wide enough for him to pass along.

It ascended, too, which was a plain invitation for him to continue as long as the going proved to be possible. All the while, he realized, he must be getting nearer the top of the lofty canyon wall, where he would find the surface of the mountainside.

One thing he discovered that pleased him—the rain had ceased. Also the roar of the thunder had dwindled to mere growlings in the distance.

"The storm's gone past," Frank told himself, eager to hear the sound of his own voice once more, for it would make his strange surroundings seem less gruesome. "At the worst, I'll only have to spend the rest of the night by myself on the mountain."

Such a possibility did not much concern a boy who had made many a lone camp in his days of hiking. Sometimes this had even been across an entire state, so as to enlarge his faculties and observe the wonders of nature, as well as rub up against such people as could be found in country backwoods and charcoal burners' camps.

Then came still another discovery. On looking up to find just how far above him the surface might be, what was his delight to see a bright star peeping in between the sides of the cleft in the rocks.

When three minutes afterwards Frank crept out of his "Jacob's Ladder," as he meant to call the friendly fissure, he found that the clouds had begun to roll away to leeward and many stars dotted the heavens overhead.

At any rate, he had nothing more to fear from the storm. But it had come close to being an expensive experience for him. As his nerves quieted down by degrees he felt more like himself, and able to grapple with any ordinary difficulty that might come along.

Everything was soaking wet, water even running from each outlying rock's surface. He himself was completely saturated; but as it still remained fairly warm Frank minded that not at all.

"Now what's to be done?" he asked himself, meaning to form his plan on the spot and then carry it out as best he could.

Of course, it was utterly useless to dream of attempting to find his party while darkness lasted. They might be far distant, unable to hear his shouts in case he raised his voice.

"More than that," Frank added, as an after-thought, "it would be a crime to tempt Lanky, or any of the others, to come down the face of this rocky mountain, risking all sorts of dangers they would not see in the dark. There must be many a precipice between their new camp and here, where a slip would spell death."

That point settled, Frank decided to try to pick out some half-way decent camp site and make the best of a bad bargain.

He had much to be grateful for, and, besides that, Frank Allen was never the boy to grumble because things did not chance to run as smoothly as he might have wished.

After looking as best he could around the vicinity, he settled on a certain spot as well adapted for his purposes. For one thing, there were several stumps of trees near by; and if only he could knock one of these to flinders by using a big rock in lieu of an ax, he conceived the idea that he would yet have a cheery blaze started.

Among other symptoms of eternal preparedness that were characteristic of Frank was his always making sure to carry a waterproof metal matchsafe, filled with "fire-sticks," in his pocket.

He had not been immersed in the water a great while, and felt absolutely certain his precious matches would be dry and ready for use. With this desire for comfort, as well as an opportunity for drying his clothes, spurring him on, Frank started work on what seemed to be the most promising of three stumps.

There was an abundance of half-dead wood lying around, wet, of course, after such a deluge; but he fancied he would have little difficulty in keeping a fire going, if only he found enough dry stuff to start kindling it.

His guess in connection with the heart of that stump proved to be a good one, for he soon had taken out sufficient dry stuff to answer all purposes. So, striking a match, he applied it to the tinder thus collected, and had the satisfaction of seeing a flame start up at once.

This he carefully and assiduously cherished and fed until he had collected quite a nice mess of red embers. Then he began to put on some of the other wood, and, as he anticipated it soon burst into a crackling blaze.

How good it felt to the wet boy, words could hardly tell. By degrees he managed to dry his clothes by keeping turning around like a teetotum, from one side to another, standing the heat as long as possible.

An hour had perhaps gone—Frank could tell only by the movement of the heavenly bodies, since water had got into his wrist watch and stopped the wheels from turning.

He found himself turning every little while toward the east, in the hope of seeing signs of dawn, even though good common sense told him that must still be an hour and more away.

Just as he began to feel what he called "dopey," sitting there by the warm fire, his head nodding, Frank caught a sound that disturbed his growing confidence that the worst was past. It was a series of queer, blood-curdling yelps that he guessed came from a pack of those fierce, mountain gray wolves Jerry had told him about. From the tenor of their eager howls, the boy knew they must be hunting for something toothsome with which to sate their ferocious appetites!

CHAPTER XIV

THE TIMBER-WOLF PACK

"That sounds bad to me," Frank told himself, as he listened to the long-drawn howls of the carniverous wolves, echoing so drearily along the side of the mountain. "Seems like this is my night for shaking hands with Old Man Trouble right along. Whew, there must be as many as half a dozen hungry creatures in that pack!"

He fed more sticks to his snapping blaze, and a minute or two later had made up his mind.

"Doesn't seem to be a decent-sized tree left around these diggings. I reckon an avalanche must have carried them all down to the foot of the mountain, and these saplings are second-growth timber. That means I'm not going to follow Paul's example, and roost in a tree."

Frank, of course, was well acquainted with the fact that nearly all wild animals to be found in western wilds are afraid of fire. That would mean he must have sufficient fuel close at hand to keep his blaze going for several hours; really until the coming of dawn should send the ravenous beasts skulking off to their dens, they being creatures of the night.

"Time I got busy and collected all the stuff that will burn," he said, after making this decision to stand by the fire as his best resort. "It might even be I'll have to start a second blaze, to keep them from creeping up from the rear and taking me off my guard."

He went to the task with great energy, forgetting all about sore arms in his desire to pile up the wood.

Crash! and down came the heavy rock again and again, breaking the wood in short lengths suitable for his purpose. It was wonderful how rapidly his pile grew, but then Frank was fully aware of the tremendous amount of fuel an open campfire can devour in the course of several hours, and if his supply gave out just at a critical moment he would be undone.

Now and then he would stop to listen.

"Their keen ears must have heard this noise of my wood-smasher at work, and chances are they'll get wise," he remarked between his gasps for breath at one period of his energetic labors. "Yes, their howls are a whole lot closer than when I first heard them."

That caused a quick return to work, for his wood-pile was not as large as caution dictated. How Frank wished he had his rifle with him, for then he could rapidly diminish the pack until the rest took fright and left for some distant refuge.

The doleful sounds continued to break the silence of the night with a horrible significance. No one who has never heard the howling of wolves, with not any weapon other than his hunting-knife to defend himself against their sharp teeth and terrible claws, can realize what a strange feeling assails even a valiant heart as the sounds draw steadily nearer and nearer.

Frank picked out a good stout cudgel, and kept it handy for use in case it came to a fight with the pack. Still the boy hoped he might fend off the animals by a judicious use of flaming brands, hurled from time to time into their midst.

So rapidly had they come that now he felt sure he could hear the rush of their bodies through the bushes close by. Then he caught sight of a moving figure seen dimly by the firelight, and which crouched low as it came toward him.

Frank uttered a yell, and, springing to his fire, stirred it to greater efforts. Not content with this, since the wolf still lay only thirty feet or so away, he snatched up a burning brand and sent it whizzing through the air.

"My old cunning as a baseball pitcher comes in handy on such an occasion as this," chucked Frank, when he plainly caught the "plunk" that announced the collision of the whirling faggot of wood with the crouching beast.

He heard the surprised beast give a snap and a snarl. The hard-flung, blazing missile had burnt its hide, and Frank saw the animal scuttle off in great haste.

"So long, Mr. Wolf!" he shouted, in great glee over the success of his initial effort at bombardment. "Got your number that time, and three strikes means you're out! Plenty more tricks in the bag, you want to know. Who's the next victim? Don't be backward about stepping forward; all coons look alike to me when I'm pitching gilt-edged ball."

Before long he was aware that his enemies had his camp completely surrounded. Glance whichever way he might, Frank could glimpse a pair of yellow, wicked-looking eyes fixed hungrily upon him.

"Now I've got to mind myself, all right," he muttered, holding in readiness for quick action in case the beasts attempted to rush his fortress in a body. "I don't like them creeping so near, and I'd better put a few more of these red brands to good use."

He seized upon one, and sent it hurdling through space; then a second followed in rapid succession, the bombardment being maintained until he had given the whole circle a share of the blazing faggots.

"All pins down, and a count for me," the undaunted boy called out, partly because the sound of his own voice helped keep his spirits up. "Set 'em up in the other alley, boy! Huh! didn't just like having it rain fire, did you, old Graybacks? Moved back a bit, too. And I'd feel a whole lot easier, if you'd keep that distance from now till daylight!"

But the scare of the wolves was of short duration. Inside of ten minutes they had crept back once more to their former advanced line, so that again the boy could see those glaring orbs whichever way he looked.

He had to repeat the barrage, using up more of his precious wood than he could well spare.

"Retreated again," he told himself, though with a lack of his former enthusiasm. "But I can't keep that sort of thing going right along. I'll hold off longer, and then jump for them with a brand in each hand."

He waited until he could actually glimpse the grim crouching figures of the determined wolves flattened on the ground, just as he had many times seen the pet cat at home do when ready to pounce on a robin or a sparrow. Then he started for them, shouting at the top of his now hoarse voice, and at the same time flourishing two torches with great vigor.

The animals could not stand such a display of fireworks, and beat a retreat once more. Frank was shrewd enough not to be tempted into going any great distance away from his best friend, the fire.

Time passed on leaden wings as Frank Allen kept up this strange vigil. By judicious management he succeeded in husbanding his shortening supply of available fuel. On discovering signs of coming dawn over in the east Frank took fresh heart, and began to believe he would win his battle with the wolf pack.

Stronger grew the oncoming daylight.

"Showing signs of meaning to throw up the sponge, are you?" he called out tauntingly, as he discovered one of the animals turning tail and slinking away, heading along the mountainside, evidently having a den in that quarter. "Well, here's wishing you better luck in getting supper another time, when it's venison you're stalking and not a poor tenderfoot cowpuncher. Good riddance to bad rubbish. There goes a second chap, licking his chops like all hungry disappointed animals do."

So the pack disintegrated, until so far as Frank could see there remained only a solitary sentry out in the scrub.

"Seems to be a whole lot more tenacious than the rest of his bunch," chuckled the greatly relieved besieged boy. "I'll fix him, all right. Plenty of ammunition now, and to spare."

He boldly charged the last member of the once threatening pack, and pelted him with a number of burning sticks in rapid succession. It was some gratification to score several "hits," and in the end he had that wolf running for shelter, with a badly singed hide to make him remember with regret his close acquaintance with one of the elements that he held in fear.

"Coast seems to be all clear now, but I'd better hang around for another half hour or so," Frank told himself. "Gee! what a dandy fire for cooking bacon and eggs over, if only I had them."

When he took it for granted that the time set had passed, Frank started off. The sun was already above the low and level horizon beyond the foothills lying to the east, and Frank gave a fond look that way, remembering that over in that quarter lay Rockspur Ranch, with its familiar surroundings and the friends who occupied so much of his waking thoughts.

He found the going anything but easy, so rough was the mountainside in every direction. Now and then he was afforded wonderful views, as some new vista opened up. Frank hoped he was through with adventure for some time; though remembering that these wild mountain regions were said to be the hunting-grounds of certain savage animals, such as the grizzly bear.

"I'd sure hate" he was muttering at one time as he climbed, "to run smack into one of those old Mountain Charlies, as Jerry said they are called over on the coast side of the Rockies. I'll try to keep my eye fixed on some nice tree that I can shin up, in case there's any need of a change of base."

By slow degrees he was making fair headway up the rugged slope. Several times he found it necessary to detour, on account of a cliff that loomed up in his course and that could not be scaled, even should he take his courage in both hands and make the attempt.

"They do say the longest way around is sometimes the shortest in the end," he buoyed up his spirits by saying; "and I'd a heap rather go an extra half-mile than fall from that rocky wall."

He was wondering how much farther he ought to climb and if it might not be the part of wisdom on his part to start yelling on the chance of being overheard by the others of his party, when he fancied he caught the sound of a human voice.

The more he listened the better convinced he felt that he had not been deceived by his ears. Some one was grumbling, and talking in a fretful tone.

"Hello!" called Frank, cupping his hands and sending out the shout in the direction the sounds seemed to come from.

"Oh, help! Help!" came back almost instantly and in piteous tones.

"I ought to know that voice!" snapped Frank.

Thrilled by the anguish which he had caught with Lanky's muffled appeal for assistance, Frank Allen hurried as much as he dared. As he advanced he continued to call out reassuring words.

"Hey, Lanky, I'm coming!"

CHAPTER XV

WHAT HAPPENED TO LANKY

"Come as quick as you can—nearly all in, and feel like I'm going to—faint, you know. Think of me, Lanky Wallace, actin' like that! But—it's awful—being turned upside-down this way! Hurry along!"

Lanky's words greatly mystified Frank, for as yet he had failed to get the first glimpse of his chum in trouble. Not for long, however, did this ignorance last.

"Well, Lanky Wallace sure has pulled a stunt I never saw equaled!" burst from the lips of the amazed and startled Frank, when, bursting through a barrier of thorny brushwood, he saw a swinging figure hanging head downward over the edge of a sheer drop that would measure a full twelve feet.

It was Lanky all right, though few of his friends would be able to recognize him if discovered in that awkward and ridiculous posture. One of his feet seemed to be entangled in a vine that grew from a fissure close to the top of the diminutive cliff, which, of course, assumed the size of a precipice to the unfortunate human pendulum.

But it was no laughing matter to Lanky. If left too long, he would come to a dangerous pass, since all the blood would go to his head, and so encompass his death.

He must have twisted and writhed with might and main in the endeavor to reach up a groping hand and obtain some sort of grip upon the vine that was the cause of his stumbling over the edge of that cliff.

Now he had stopped all that useless work and was swinging back and forth, for all the world like the weight in a great grandfather clock in the Allen home at Columbia.

Losing not a second in inaction, Frank hastened to make his way up one side of the rocky wall, which he was able to do by searching for toe-holds.

These did not always prove as substantial as he would have wished, for once he slipped and slid backward several feet, amidst a vast falling of shale and earth.

Poor despairing Lanky gave vent to an agonized howl on hearing the racket thus made. He naturally fancied, not being able to see a thing on account of the coat dangling over his head, that his rescuer had gotten himself into some serious predicament, which would "settle his—Lanky's—goose," since further delay must drive him frantic.

"Nothing gone wrong, Lanky. Only lost my grip. Be with you in three shakes of a dog's tail. Don't worry, it's Frank talking to you! Now I'm at the top, and going over!"

The knowledge that Frank was actually alive after all the dreadful fears that had oppressed both himself and Paul, helped revive Lanky's drooping spirits considerably. He stopped groaning, and Frank thought he heard him say in a fearfully weak voice something like:

"Bully—it's Frank! Oh, bul—ly boy!"

Now Frank was crawling along the edge of the little precipice toward the spot below which his chum dangled like a mason's plumb-line down the wall he was building.

"Here I am, Lanky, right above you!" he called out cheeringly. "Yes, I can see where you went headlong over, your foot trapped in this vine!"

He leaned cautiously over the brink. Lanky was directly below, and Frank was pleased to see that it would not be difficult for him to get a firm grip on the other's ankle; though just how he was to raise Lanky gave him immediate concern.

Some object caught his eye—it looked a bit like a coiled snake of tremendous proportions, lying there almost on the edge of the abrupt descent. Then Frank realized that it was a coiled rope. Lanky himself had undoubtedly fetched it from the temporary camp, under the impression that he could find a good use for such a thing, if only he should run across his missing chum.

As a plan flashed into his active mind Frank snatched up the strong rope, leaned over, and managed to get its end around Lanky's ankle. As speedily as he could he fastened it securely.

"Listen, Lanky!" he cried out. "I've got the rope fixed so I can lower you down to the ground, once I've cut that vine apart. Here goes, then!"

First Frank took a single hitch of the rope around a small sapling that chanced to be within reach, a most fortunate thing. This he did so it would be doubly easy and safe to lower a heavy weight, without risking being pulled over the edge himself.

Then out came his knife. How glad he was he had always made it a point to keep a razor-like edge on his handy blade. Two, three slashes were all that was required, when the tough vine parted and, by easy little jerks, Lanky commenced to go down toward the rocks below.

No sooner did Frank see that his chum had landed than he fastened the rope in a knot, swung himself over the edge and slid down as if he clasped a greased pole, in the customary doing at the annual Harvest Home fair at Columbia.

Lanky was groaning and moving a little, as Frank knelt down beside him. When he drew the other's coat away from his face Frank was alarmed to discover how black Lanky looked. Evidently a short time longer of that hanging must have quite finished him.

Hearing water gurgling close by, Frank hastened to the small rivulet that came leaping and bubbling down from the snow-clad heights above. He filled Lanky's hat—his own had gone down with that raging torrent—and was speedily back at the other's side.

First of all he made Lanky drink a little of the icy water. Next he bathed the flushed and discolored face with some of the same fluid. The result was gratifying, for by slow degrees that dreadful, purple hue faded from Lanky's features, and he even smiled wanly, his eyes kindling with the awakening joy he felt at once more seeing his best chum bending over him.

"We thought—you must have gone,—Frank!" he managed to say, trying to lift his hand, which Frank had been patting affectionately.

"Well, I had the closest shave of my whole life," replied the other, wincing at the vivid recollection of that never-to-be-forgotten experience. "But you'll hear all about it later on, Lanky; also how I've been keeping a lively pack of gray wolves at bay for several hours by throwing burning brands from my fire at them as they hovered around."

"Whew!" breathed Lanky, gazing at his chum with admiring eyes. "And all I've managed to do along the line of adventure was to trip over a vine, hang head down over a precipice and yell for help!"

After a while Lanky felt so much stronger that it was decided to make a move. He had kept his bearings while starting out at break of day in the hope of finding Frank so now he was able to serve as guide.

They took their way slowly, for neither of them felt very robust. Accordingly it was well on to the middle of the morning when at last Lanky pointed ahead, to remark with a sigh of relief:

"You can see the smoke of their fire right over that big boulder, Frank. They're sticking close to the place where we came out of the canyon, because Jerry says there isn't any other trail he knows of by which to reach Gold Fork camp."

When they were discovered there arose a great shout. Paul waved his hat enthusiastically. Mr. Wallace did the same while both Jerry Brime and Zander Forbes joined in the hearty greeting. The latter had just come back, after combing the lower reaches of the canyon, the flood having passed away, leaving only a bare trickle of water to hint at the almost tragic event of the preceding night.

By degrees the story was told, and everybody seemed to think Frank must surely bear a charmed life, to pass unscathed through two such exciting and hazardous adventures in one night.

It had been agreed upon between the two boys that they would say nothing about what had happened to Lanky. For one thing, he felt ashamed at having been so easily caught napping, and placed in such a ridiculous position. Then, again, he did not want to worry his father with such harrowing details as must follow on his being questioned.

"Of course you can tell Paul all about my silliness," Lanky had said at the time this arrangement was made. "I know he can keep a secret. But I'd never hear the last of it if the fellows in Columbia ever got wind of my fool play."

As Lanky had partaken of no breakfast, being in such a hurry to commence his search, and Frank had fasted since the preceding night, an early hot lunch was made ready, after which they started on again.

Jerry led the way down into the bed of the canyon, whose treachery none of these travelers would ever forget. Once more their faces were turned upward, as the sure-footed ponies made their way among the loose rocks that dotted the bottom of the defile.

In years long gone past all those headed for the new gold discovery had covered this identical ground. The boys could easily imagine them toiling upward—grizzled prospectors and regular miners, some toting all their possessions on their backs, others enjoying the luxury of a donkey to carry burdens.

"And like as not every mother's son of the whole bunch," Paul Bird remarked, on talking with his two chums concerning these things, "was as enthusiastic and hopeful as we are right now, expecting to be lucky enough to run across some wonderful pocket of nuggets, like Josh Kinney had done."

"Yes, that's true enough, Paul," replied Lanky. "But none of them happened to have a neat little homemade chart made by Kinney himself and telling where his cache was hidden in that five-fingered cave. There's a whole lot in having the inside track, you know."

Several hours passed.

They had been making fair and steady progress upward, and Frank could more than half guess they were presently coming to a break in the abrupt steepness marking the sheer mountainside.

"We must be close on that plateau, where we understand the deserted camp lies," he told the other boys.

"What makes you think so?" asked the pleased yet skeptical Paul.

"The lay of the land, for one thing," came the reply. "Then, again, I've been keeping my weather eye fixed on Jerry."

"Clever idea," admitted Paul; while Lanky grinned, proving that he himself must have been doing something similar.

"He's been getting more and more worked up right along," continued Frank, who made it a practice to observe everything around him, and form his own conception of its meaning.

"Reckons he's back again in the good old days," Lanky broke in just then, "when Gold Fork was on the boom, with everybody figuring on being a millionaire before the sun went down six more times. Huh! makes me laugh, the innocence of those old codgers! Poor sillies!"

Even as Lanky spoke, Jerry turned around with uplifted hand.

"We're right thar, boys, and yuh goin' to set eyes on the remains afore yuh's five minuits older. Don't laugh, please, 'case to me it's like a-goin' to a funeral of an old friend. Seen some right lively times hyah in Gold Fork, an' I sumtimes dream 'bout the real men I nudged shoulders with in them rushin' days o' the long ago."

"Let's remember that, fellows," said Frank softly, "and respect Jerry's feelings in the matter. If we have to be amused we can pick out times when the old man isn't around."

"I'll not forget, Frank," said Paul instantly. "I think I can understand about how he feels. To see this familiar stamping-ground again will be like having ghosts walk."

"Ditto here," grunted Lanky, though not quite so given to sentiment.

The stipulated five minutes had not passed when on breaking through a barrier of wild-looking brush and bushes the party came fully upon the wreckage of one of the oldest and most talked-of mining camps in all that region.

To Frank especially, with Jerry and his memories in mind, the picture was intensely desolate, weird, and impressive. All of the pilgrims drew in their tired ponies and stared at what was spread there before them.

CHAPTER XVI

AT THE DESERTED MINING CAMP

"Look at the buzzards sitting on that ridge of a two-story building, will you?" exclaimed Lanky, pointing as he spoke.

"There! They're off, flying," said Paul, "each starting with a queer little jump that sends the big bird up several feet before its wings begin to carry it. Always liked to watch turkey-buzzards roosting on a dead tree or dropping down to feed. Make me think of the clowns at a circus, they're so comical."

"I'd call this Camp Desolation, if you asked me," observed Frank, in an aside to his chums.

"Never did set eyes on its equal in all my life," Lanky admitted. "I reckon nobody's been around here for years, to look at the way those shacks and stores and huts have decayed."

"That's where you're away off your trolley then," chuckled Frank.

"Seen something, or you wouldn't talk that way," ventured the other, a bit annoyed because Frank had again beaten him at woodcraft, in which Lanky fancied himself a master.

"Lots of times, when we were climbing the canyon bed to top the rise," Frank told him, with a nod; "especially during the last half hour. Signs of horses coming and going—lately, too—little stones displaced, even the plain print of hoofs when there chanced to be a layer of earth to make them show. I'm a whole lot surprised that you missed them, Lanky."

"Huh! even the best scouts trip up once in a long time," grunted Lanky. "I must have been watching Jerry so closely and squinting up at the rock walls above, thinkin' about what a nice place it'd be for an old grizzly to make a den."

"There, you can see the tracks as plain as print right now," Frank at that juncture told his chums, pointing toward the ground just ahead.

Apparently fifty years back many animals and treasure-hunting prospectors must have made a well-beaten trail, coming up by way of the canyon and arriving at the open place marking the plateau.

"Easy enough," acknowledged Lanky, one of whose best qualities was frankness when owning up to being surprised in anything. "But there! Jerry's started to lead the way into the ghostly camp. Let's go!"

No one joked or laughed as thus solemnly they walked their winded ponies among those amazing wrecks of old-time life and bustle; it was too much like passing through a cemetery long since abandoned and fallen upon evil times.

"Most of them seem to have been roughly built shacks, made out of pinon trees cut on the side of the mountain, though I can see some cedar among them—yes, and oak, besides. It's the story of the 'Deserted Village' all over again, only no pestilence brought about this desolation."

"The whole bunch was wild to pick up gold nuggets," said Lanky. "Anyway, that's what Jerry told us; and when the bubble burst they cleared out bag and baggage."

"What do you suppose that largest building was for?" asked Paul.

"The only two-story one in the whole caboodle, you mean?" Lanky replied. "I'd judge it might have been used as a hotel, or tavern, where the fresh arrivals could put up and be fleeced till they found time to throw a shack together."

"There's an old faded sign over the door," Frank put in. "As near as I can make out it reads: 'El Dorado Hotel, Accommodations for Man and Beast.'"

"Lots of good eats served in that place, I'd say," ventured Lanky, who himself was hungry.

"Here's a place that looks as if it used to be one of those dance halls, where the miners gathered at night to have a lively time, what with gambling, carousing, and the like."

Frank felt certain he had struck close to the truth when he made that assertion; for surely the large room could not have been used for any other purpose.

So they quietly rode through the whole village, stopping at the farther end, while Mr. Wallace conferred with the other two men.

"Now I wonder," Paul said as he stared around, sometimes having to repress an involuntary shudder, everything was so dreadful, "what all those queer little mounds can mean—they are side by side, too, as if meant for stepping stones to some temple the miners meant to build, after they'd all gotten to be millionaires."

Lanky made an odd grimace.

"Hobble your horse, Paul, and take another look. You'll guess then what they stand for. Every mining camp started a cemetery the first thing; because, you know, the mortality ran high in those lawless days, when each man carried a big six-shooter on his hip and the one who could draw the quickest lived to see another sun rise."

Paul could not hold back the shiver that ran over him.

"Why, there must be all of a hundred graves, if there's one," he said, and then added weakly, suspicion having awakened in his mind, knowing Lanky's inveterate liking for playing jokes on innocents: "If you're not stringing me, I mean."

"Give him the air, Frank! After I vowed not even to grin while in this haunted camp. Those are what I said, and yet Jerry told us the camp didn't hold out more than one year. Life was held cheap in such crazy times, Paul, and they planted somebody every other day, I reckon."

Mr. Wallace just then turned to the three boys; the other men were dismounting, as though not meaning to use the ponies any more that day.

"I'm going off with Jerry and Zander," said the gentleman, "to scour the neighborhood for what has always been known as 'Lost Mountain,' though it's hard to understand how such a vast elevation could escape notice. Plenty of eyes have doubtless fallen on it, but without knowing that it was anything out of the ordinary. But we believe it contains the mine Kinney worked."

"And the five-fingered cave to boot," added Lanky.

"What do you want us to be doing while you're away, Mr. Wallace?" queried Frank.

"Simply amuse yourselves," replied Mr. Wallace. "But keep a bright lookout for those scamps we suspect are somewhere around this region, ready to spy on us, in the hope of snatching the prize away in case we find it. Yes, and you might take the entire bunch of ponies along that rocky trail to the right."

"Where does it lead, Dad?" asked Lanky.

"Jerry told me," replied his father, "that there is a queer little walled-in strip of land about a quarter of a mile further on, where, strangely enough, the finest of green forage could always be found, winter and summer. They used to turn their animals in there to feed and drink at the spring."

"Shall we stake them out?" asked Frank.

"No need of that," he was informed smilingly. "Nature took charge, and left only one narrow exit and entrance to this highly favored pasture. There are, it seems, several rocks that can be easily moved, and which when placed in position form an excellent barrier that the smartest cow-pony would be unable to jump."

"This sure is the land of marvels," grinned Lanky.

"We'll take all the ponies out there, and shut the gate of the corral on them," promised Frank.

"You might unload the pack-pony, boys, and put the stuff for our rations in one of these shacks, covering it all over, so that no possible curious eyes would suspect its presence."

With these words Mr. Wallace handed over the bridle of his mount, and in company with the other men made ready to go forth in a first attempt, under Jerry's reawakened memory of his surroundings, to locate the Lost Mountain of Gold Fork.

Left to themselves, the boys deposited the stores in one of the huts that seemed to have a better roof than any of the rest. This had been proved in the recent cloudburst, for some of the ruined buildings were soaked, while the earthen floor of their choice seemed quite dry. Then they set off with the bunch of weary animals.

Sure enough, after leading their four-footed charges along the still well defined if ancient trail, they presently arrived at the pasture.

"Worth coming a long way to see such a curiosity," announced Lanky, as they took saddles and bridles off the ponies and turned them into the rock-surrounded enclosure one by one, to feed and rest. "Beats any man-made corral I ever set eyes on, and so simple, too."

"All we have to do now," Frank observed, after the last cayuse had kicked up his heels and galloped off to join its mates, already eagerly nibbling at the sweet green grass, "is to work these rocks into place so they'll close the gap, and the bunch is safe from any stampede."

"That wash over there, with the low bank," ventured Lanky, "must be where some sort of stream passes through. The water would be cold as ice, for it comes down from the mountain tops, where there's always heaps of snow, summer and winter."

A short time later the boys again found themselves in the decayed mining camp, with its numerous wrecks of buildings, in which no man had laid his head for more than a score of years, perhaps twice that.

Filled with curiosity, the three boys started making the rounds.

"Might as well see everything there is while we have the chance," Lanky told his mates. "'Tisn't every day you can run across such a thrilling sight as this. See the bats whirr out of that old shack, will you? Must have picked it for a place to hang their tired old bodies, after swinging around the circle all night long."

When the lads peeped cautiously in through the opening which a rotten door, hanging by its last rusty hinge, faded to shut entirely, it was indeed a sight worth impressing on their minds.

"Gee whiz!" barked Lanky, his eyes opening unusually wide. "See the ugly things dangling there from every rafter, will you?"

"Is that the way bats sleep, hanging by their toes with their heads downward?" exclaimed Paul, intensely interested. "What strange things you often see when you haven't got a gun. I'll know now what they mean when they say a fellow has 'bats in his belfry'!"

"Let's have a peep-in at that old hotel," Lanky Wallace suggested. "That may have sheltered more millionaires—in their mind's eye—than ever any up-to-the-latest in New York City could claim."

"Second the motion," quickly added Paul.

"Lead me to it," Frank laughed, "for I was just going to put it up to both of you."

"Come on then," cried Lanky.

Led by the tall boy, the three of them were speedily inside the abandoned building, possibly once the pride of Gold Fork; but with now not a shadow of its former grandeur remaining in its skeleton walls, and the shaky stairs leading to unseen upper regions.

"Huh! a peach of a place this would be for us to camp out in," Lanky remarked, as they started to look things over.

"Wow! I hope you don't try it," Paul cried out. "I'm dead certain it's just swarming with rats!"

"Say," demanded Lanky disdainfully, "what could the sillies find to live on all these years since any meal was served in this dining room?"

"Ask me something easy, Lanky," urged Paul. "But I'm sure there are rats in plenty around, for I saw one—a monster, too, if as thin as a rail—when I said what I did."

"All I hope then," continued Lanky, with a shrug, "is that the varmints don't swarm around our grub and clean us out. We'd have to live off the country then, and eat all sorts of queer dishes—grizzly bear steaks, coyote chops, prairie-dog stews, and such delicacies."

"Let up, Lanky," urged Frank. "You know Paul's a bit squeamish about his stomach, and you'll get him off his feed. Listen! What was that?"

"Sounded like a horse neighing," said Lanky, looking startled.

"I hear hoofs beating the rocks!" Frank ejaculated. "And I'd judge it was a right big bunch of nags, to boot! We can't pass out of that door because they're coming from that direction and heading right this way!"

Paul turned his eyes on Frank, who, he realized, must solve the problem.

CHAPTER XVII

WHEN ZEKE CAME BACK

"The window at the rear!" Frank Allen instantly suggested.

"I get you, Frank!" gasped the relieved Paul.

"Great stuff!" was the energetic way Lanky agreed with the leader.

The sound of many hoofbeats was coming closer, steadily, and what the boys meant to do must be undertaken without wasting any more precious seconds.

"Follow me!" With the words the agile and energetic Lanky was already half-way through the window. This had no sash, time having relieved it of both glass and frames, leaving only an aperture in the wall.

Frank pushed Paul forward, signifying that it was his intention to be the last to quit the place, just as all captains of sinking vessels at sea make sure everybody else has left before they will consent to step into the last crowded boat that leaves before the foundering occurs.

Once outside, the boys were quick to scurry in among some old junk and scrambled rocks. This lay but a few feet away from the back of the tavern, and offered excellent hiding places for them.

Besides, what pleased Lanky considerably, they could doubtless overhear any talk that came about. Yes, and even catch fleeting glimpses of the new-comers, if so be they entered the old hotel.

Another minute—less than that, even—and the boys were able to congratulate themselves over their smartness in leaving in such a hurry. The ponies came to a halt directly before the door of the former hostelry. Throwing the lines over the heads of their mounts, cowboy fashion, so that the animals would remain at a stand under all ordinary conditions, the riders entered.

Frank and his chums could hear loud and rough voices.

"That was Nash Yesson who spoke then!" whispered Lanky in Paul's ear, for they were all bunched close together on purpose, and had their ears doing almost double duty in the endeavor to learn all they could.

"It was Lef Seller he called down, too," observed Frank, with great caution, for it would invite a ruction little short of a calamity if those angry men discovered the boys crouching there and listening to what went on.

"I just glimpsed Lef," Lanky communicated in his softest tone; "and you ought to see how bad he looks. He's had nothing but hard knocks ever since he ran up against that Yesson. The tough boys over at Double Z Ranch must have rubbed it in hard, too."

"He's only getting what he deserves," Paul muttered, half to himself, thinking of the base duplicity and deceit toward his own father Lef had been guilty of.

"'Sh! Let's listen for all we're worth, and perhaps we'll pick up some news," suggested Frank, who disapproved of all this whispering that was taking place.

He himself had taken several cautious looks, and had learned that besides Lef Seller and Nash Yesson there were four other persons in the crowd that had entered the forsaken tavern.

"That queer fish with the body of a runt and the head of a giant seems to answer to the name of Rick Muddy," Frank told himself. "The name about fits his crooked body, I'd say. Those other three tough-looking citizens must hang up their hats at the Double Z when they're at home, for they've got the make-up of cow-punchers, heavily armed, and out for business."

One of these men he heard called Malachi and another Zeke, but the third one's name was never made known.

Nash Yesson was not knuckling down to anybody, it appeared, from the way he turned from one to another with snarls and hard language. Continual disappointments while on the way to Rockspur Ranch and afterwards had roiled him unmercifully, so that, as Lanky afterwards expressed it in his customary picturesque language "the man was like a bear with a sore head."

"And as for you, Rick Muddy," the boys could hear Yesson pouring out his wrath upon the head of the pudgy chap, "even after you'd been given complete directions you had to go and fizzle the worst kind. Why, those kids got the better of you and grabbed the second chart after you'd nearly dug it up! You're a rank failure and ought to be kicked out of camp for being such a gink."

"I own up they bamboozled me some," grumbled the small man. "But other dubs livin' in glass houses oughtn't to throw stones."

"What d'you mean by that, you fool?" gritted Yesson threateningly.

"Only that you done the same stuff when you nearly had that first map," retorted the other, probably relying on the fact that the three hard-riding cow-punchers were pals of his and would not see him knocked down by Yesson. "If you'd jumped your claim then we'd be all fixed right now to walk in on that nugget cache! Ain't that so boys?"

"It sure is," replied the tallest of the wranglers in a voice that rumbled like the sound of approaching thunder. "But all bets are off, and we don't want to eat each other up for nothin'. When we grab what we've got hidden here, we'll be fixed so's to start off fresh again and locate that Lost Mountain."

"That's the stuff!" chanted the fellow answering to the name of Malachi. "What Zeke here managed to pick up from that wrinkled old Indian squaw ought to help us find the cave. And once we get our paws on the jack, we'll fight anybody to the death who tries to pry it away from us."

"You said it, Malachi!" retorted Nash Yesson grimly. "I've been stalkin' that nugget claim too long now to show the white feather to a dozen pikers who are tryin' to chase me off the trail. We're close to it right now, and if those other guys come walkin' up to close the deal, why, here's six little boys ready to say 'hands up, gents!'"

This was all heard by the eagerly listening boys, concealed so close at hand. Very interesting it all sounded, too; although Frank did not see that they were really adding to their stock of information, except that they knew now the number of those who opposed their aims and to what infamous ends Yesson and his companions were ready to go to further their schemes.

"Then let's clear out and get busy," suggested Malachi, who seemed to be an aggressive type of fellow. "Get busy, Rick Muddy, an' hustle that stock of grub along, to load on your cayuse, you bein' the lightest built in the whole bunch."

This told the story. It was these men who had visited the deserted mining camp shortly before Mr. Wallace and his prospecting party reached Gold Fork. Frank had already discounted this fact. Indeed, he had reached that decision at the time he first discovered the marks of hoofs along the upper canyon.

The small man with the big head showed no sign of disobeying orders. Undoubtedly he knew Malachi's bad qualities, and did not dare rebel.

So the peeping boys in the junk heap among the friendly rocks watched the men carry forth some packages. These undoubtedly contained their store of food to carry them over during their stay in that unalluring vicinity.

When the clatter of hoofs finally announced the men had indeed gone, every boy from Frank down breathed a sigh of relief and they came out of hiding.

"A rough crowd, take it from me!" exclaimed Lanky Wallace.

"Are you sure they're all gone?" asked nervous Paul Bird.

Lanky chuckled.

"What do you take me for, Paul—a bonehead?" he asked. "Sure, I counted 'em as they rode off, and there were six in the lot. From the way that ugly-looking Zeke turned and looked back several times, I kind of imagined he had some scheme in view that he was half tempted to pull off."