CHAPTER XI.
RALPH’S VOLCANO.
Mountain Jim’s examination of the trails left by the errant poniesshowed that they had scattered in three distinct directions. Thisconfirmed him, he said, in a belief he had previously formed that theanimals had been frightened during the night by a bear or mountainlion, the latter called, in that part of the country, a cougar.
No tracks of either wild beast was to be seen, but that by no meansproved that they had not been in the vicinity. Horses can scent eithera cougar or a bear at a considerable distance when the wind is towardthem, and there are few things that more terrify a pony than the nearpresence of one of these denizens of the northern wilds.
Jim assigned himself to one trail, Persimmons and Hardware to anotherand Ralph to a third. The professor and Jimmie were to remain in campand wash dishes and set things to rights, and then Jimmie was to assistthe professor in gathering specimens of rock from the cliffs in thevicinity.
It was odd to see how, in an emergency, a man like Mountain Jim, whoprobably had little more scholarship than would suffice to write hisown name, took absolute leadership over the party. The professor, whosename was known to a score of scientific bodies all over the countryas a savant of unusual attainments, obeyed the son of the Rockiesimplicitly. Such men as Jim are natural leaders, and in situations thatcall for action automatically assume the supremacy over men of theoryand book learning.
Jim explained his reason for assigning Ralph to follow a lone trailwhile the other two lads had been ordered to accompany each other.Ralph had plainly shown his skill as a ranger and had the experience ofhis life on the Border behind him. The other two, while self-reliantand plucky, had not had the same experience, and therefore the guidedeemed it best not to send either out alone.
With hearty “So-longs” the three searching parties set out, strikingoff in a different direction up the mountain side. It was roughcountry, with beetling masses of gray rock cropping out now and thenamidst the somber green of the Douglas firs and great pines. Here andthere cliffs of great height and as smooth as the side of a wall,towered sharply above the forest, and beyond lay a “hog-back” ridge ofconsiderable height. Beyond this, although they could not see them fromthe valley, the boys knew that mountain range after mountain range waspiled up like the billows of an angry sea, with the higher peaks ofthe Rockies raising their crests like snow-crowned monarchs beyond andabove all.
Each boy carried a canteen of water, his rifle, and a supply of breadand chocolates. Of course they also carried their small axes, slungin canvas cases at their belts, and matches in waterproof boxes. Thesesame waterproof match safes were, in fact, among the few “Dingbats”approved by Mountain Jim.
“Dry matches have saved many a man’s life,” he was wont to say.
It was lonesome in the deep woods into which Ralph plunged, afterbidding adieu to his comrades. The trail, too, was hard to follow, andkept the lad on the alert, which was as well perhaps, for it kept himfrom thinking of the solitude of the mountain side. No one who has notpenetrated the vast solitudes of the Canadian Rockies can picture justwhat the boding silence, the utter solitude of the untrodden woods islike. And yet the life in the wilds grows upon men till they love it,as witness the solitary prospectors, packers and trappers to be met inall the wilder parts of the American continent.
As he trudged along toilsomely, Ralph kept a look out for game aswell as for the trail, for the camp larder needed replenishing withfresh meat, and he was anxious to bring home his share. In this way hecovered some three or four miles, now losing the elusive trail, nowpicking it up again. The mountain side was steep and rocky and strewnwith the fallen trunks of forest giants. But Ralph’s muscles weretough, and clean living and athletics had given him sinew and stayingpower, so that he was conscious of but little fatigue after a longstretch of such traveling.
Almost as skillfully as Coyote Pete might have done in those days inthe southwest, the boy read the trail. Here the ponies had galloped.There they had paused and nibbled grass; in other places, broken boughsor abrasions on a fallen tree trunk marked their path. There were twoof the ponies; but just which pair they were, Ralph had, of course, nomeans of determining.
One thing was plain, they must have been badly frightened; for as hasbeen said in the mountain solitudes, as a rule, ponies will stick closeto camp. They appear to dread being separated from human companionship,and few packers or trailers ever find it necessary to tether theiranimals.
At last the ridge was topped and beyond him, by clambering on a rock,Ralph looked into a deep valley with ridge on ridge of mountains risingbeyond it, and beyond them again some snow-capped peaks of considerableheight. He scanned the valley as closely as he could, but big timbergrew thickly on its sides and bottom and he was not able to see much.There were some open spaces, it is true, but in none of these could hesee anything of the missing ponies.
Ralph sat himself down on the flat-topped rock he had climbed, andpulling a bit of chocolate out of his pocket, began to nibble it. Hewas munching away on his lunch when he saw an odd-looking gray bird,not unlike a partridge, sitting in a hemlock not far from him. Thebird did not appear to be scared and regarded the boy with its headcocked inquisitively on one side.
“Well, here goes Number One for the pot,” thought Ralph to himself.
He raised his rifle, and taking careful aim fired at the gray bird. Buthis hand was shaking somewhat from the exertions of his climb, duringwhich he had had to haul himself over many rough places by grabbingbranches, and his bullet flew wide.
“Bother it all,” exclaimed the boy impatiently. “I am a muff for fair.”
But to his astonishment, although the bullet had nicked off some leavesand showered them over the bird’s head, it had not moved. It stillsat there giving from time to time an odd sort of croaking sound, notunlike the clucking of a barnyard “biddy.”
“I know what you are now,” chuckled Ralph to himself, for the factthat the bird did not stir helped him to recognize its species froma description given the night before by Mountain Jim, “you’re a‘fool-hen,’ and you are certainly living up to your name.”
He fired again, and this time the “fool-hen” paid the penalty of itsstupidity, for it fell out of the tree dead. Ralph ran forward, pickedit up and thrust it into the hunting pocket of his khaki coat.
“It was a shame to shoot you,” he muttered to himself; “too easy. Ibelieve the stories that Jim told about knocking fool-hens out of treeswith stones, now that I’ve seen what dumb birds they are. But thisisn’t finding those ponies,” he went on to himself. “Guess I’ll strikeoff down in the valley. There may be some sort of pasture there wherethey’ll have stopped to feed.”
Suddenly he stopped and sniffed the air suspiciously. An odd, rank odorwas borne to him on the light wind.
“Sulphur spring!” he exclaimed half aloud. “Reckon I’ll take a look atit. It can’t be far off; it’s strong enough to be right under my feet.At any rate I shan’t need any other guide than my nose to find it.”
Sniffing the tainted air like a hound on the trail, Ralph set out downthe mountain side. As he went the odor grew more pronounced. A fewminutes later he came upon a pile of rocks heaped in an untidy mass onthe mountain side. From the midst of them a stream of yellowish whitefluid was flowing.
“Phew!” exclaimed the boy, “here’s my sulphur spring, sure enough. Iguess if it was near to civilization there’d be a big health resorthere. Smells bad enough to be good for anything that ails you; but--notfor me, thank you.--Hullo! What in the world was that?”
Ralph paused and listened intently. Through the forest came a dullbooming sound, and the earth appeared to shake as if agitated by asmall earthquake. The boy looked about him apprehensively.
“Well, what in the world!” he began. And then, “It can’t be anybodyblasting. Mountain Jim said there was no mining hereabouts. What can itbe?”
For some odd reason the recollection of the man on the rock recurred tohim. His heart b
egan to pound rather faster than was comfortable.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, to quiet his nerves, “I’ve got nothing to fear.I’ve got my rifle and--Great Scott! It’s raining!”
That was the boy’s first thought as a gentle pattering resounded amidstthe trees about where he stood.
He looked upward; but the sky was clear; the sun shining brightly.Clearly the pattering was not caused by rain.
“What in the world can it be?” he exclaimed, considerably startled.“Sounds as if somebody was throwing stones or gravel at me.”
The next minute a large globule of mud struck him in his upturned face.Apparently it had fallen from the sky. It was followed by a perfectstorm of the mud dobs. They pattered about him in a shower, spatteringhis clothes and hands.
“It’s raining mud!” gasped the astonished boy, completely at a loss toaccount for the phenomenon.
The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies Page 12