“Out of a joke-book published just before the Flood,” giggled Dorothy. “And you certainly must have a copy that you read on the sly.”
Just then the two girls, who had been all this time descending the hill, burst through a screen of bushes into an opening.
“Here we are!” cried Dorothy, with satisfaction.
“Hi! is this the place?” queried Tavia. “Of course it is!” she added, answering her own question. “There’s that scarred tree,” pointing to a lightning-riven pine across the glade.
“Oh, that is so,” admitted Dorothy. Then she suddenly screamed: “Tavia Travers! where are the ponies?”
“Dorothy!” shrieked Tavia, in return. “They’ve gone.”
“Goodness!” said Dorothy Dale. “Have they run away—or been stolen?”
“It’s plain to be seen they are not to be seen,” said Tavia. “It’s—it’s dreadfully unfortunate, Doro.”
“And we can’t walk home!” wailed Dorothy.
“All right, Miss. We’ll fly.”
“We’ll find the ponies,” declared the practical Dorothy, recovering to a degree from her panic. “Come on.”
But the two girls from the East were not familiar with the wilds. As for trailing horses through the woods, they did not know one single thing about that business. They could not even find the spot where the ponies had been tied, side by side.
“My goodness me, Doro,” asked Tavia, at length, “whatever shall we do? The ponies are lost. What will your Aunt Winnie say to that?”
“I guess she won’t trouble much about the loss of the ponies—and I’m not going to,” declared Dorothy. “But we don’t want to get lost.”
“Why! we can’t. We know our way back—perfectly.”
“Do we?”
“Right down the hill to the brink of that gorge where we saw the surveyors; then south to that water-fall. From that point there is a regular trail—you know there is, Doro!”
“Ye—es,” admitted Dorothy, doubtfully. “It sounds simple enough.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” declared Tavia, again. “Come on.”
“Well, dear, I’ll let you lead,” said Dorothy, quietly.
While they had searched about the dell, and discussed the situation, time had been flying. Already the red globe of the sun was disappearing behind a western peak.
All the sky there was shrouded in rolling clouds. The sun plunging into these wreaths of mist turned them all to gold and crimson. Such a gorgeous sunset would have transfixed the girls with delight at another time.
But, as Tavia said, this was no moment to “worship at the shrine of beauty.” “Oh, Doro! I’m thinking of Mrs. Ledger’s hot biscuit, and ham, and potato chips. Goodness! how hungry I am. Never mind the sunset.”
“I am not minding it,” Dorothy said, quietly. “But you suggested leading the way down this ‘bad eminence’ to which we were reckless enough to climb. Go on.”
Tavia started, and stared about the opening in the trees. It would seem to be a simple matter to leave this place, descend through the woods to the plateau, and so down the riverside.
But there was not a landmark to guide them. They had not thought to take note of the trees and rocks, in relation to each other, while they made the ascent. Their knowledge of the points of the compass were somewhat vague, despite the view they had of the setting sun.
“Oh, Doro!” wailed Tavia, suddenly. “I’m afraid! I’m afraid of these woods. I’m afraid we’ll get down into that deep gorge where those men were. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! let’s not move from this spot.”
Tavia was almost hysterical. That was the way it was with her—always. If she was startled she lost her self-possession entirely.
But with Dorothy it was different. A situation like this brought her better sense to the surface. She was determined to keep cool—especially when her chum showed the white feather.
“Now, Tavia! do be sensible,” begged Dorothy Dale. “We’ve got to face the thing squarely. Of course, without the horses we could not get home to-night. And to wander around in the dark, seeking a way that is none too clear by daylight, would be a perfectly ridiculous thing to do, under any circumstances.”
“Well, Doro! do you mean to stay here?”
“Why not?”
“The bears—wolves—cat-o’-mountains——”
“Are probably creations of Nat’s vivid imagination,” interposed Dorothy, with decision.
“Well, there was a snake,” murmured Tavia.
“We’ll build a fire. That will keep away snakes, at least,” Dorothy said, cheerfully.
“Oh, Doro!” shrieked Tavia. “You don’t mean to stay in this awful place all night?”
“Do you know a better? It is open. There is shelter beside that big boulder. There’s a little rill that must be sweet water—— By the way! I didn’t notice that stream when we came here first. Did you, Tavia?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” wailed Tavia.
“Do you suppose we have found the place where we left the ponies tied?” asked Dorothy, anxiously.
“Of course. And the nasty things have run away. I’ll never trust one of those broncs again.”
“Don’t be foolish, dear. It must have been our own fault. We did not tie them properly.”
“I know I tied mine tight enough,” grumbled Tavia. “And say! how you going to build a fire?”
“Just the same as anybody else would build one,” Dorothy declared.
“But you can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Dorothy, in surprise.
“By rubbing two sticks together?” scoffed Tavia.
“By rubbing one stick upon a stone,” chuckled Dorothy. “I have matches.”
“I’m glad you find it such a joke, Dorothy Dale.”
“You talk as though you had never been out in the open all night before.”
“But it wasn’t like this, you know very well. This isn’t like our woods at home. This is the West——”
“The wild and woolly West, eh?” laughed Dorothy. “Come! don’t be a goose, dear. Let’s gather plenty of fuel before it grows too dark.”
They did this, breaking off the dead branches of the trees which skirted the glade and gathering sticks already fallen on the ground. But Tavia cast fearful glances into the now darkening forest and would not venture beneath the trees at all.
“We don’t know what’s in there,” she said.
“Well! we haven’t got to know,” her chum said, cheerfully. “We’ll keep out of the woods to-night.”
“Maybe something will come out of them after us.”
“Not if we keep a fire burning. And in the morning, as soon as it’s light, we’ll start for home. We can walk it by noon.”
“If we are alive,” sighed Tavia.
Dorothy refused to be depressed by her friend’s melancholy. She proposed making a couch of leaves and branches, and they did this. When it really grew dark and the stars came out, she produced matches and lit the fire.
She did not make a big blaze. Really, there was no need of it at all, for the evening was warm enough and a spark of light on this hillside would never be seen by any party looking for them.
By this time, of course, word had gone over the ranch that the girls were lost. Aunt Winnie would be worried. Ned and Nat would be out after them with all the men who could be spared.
“And in all probability,” Dorothy said, gravely, “nobody—not even Flores—noticed in which direction we headed on leaving the corral.”
“Well! We should worry about their worries. It’s our worries that worry me.”
Dorothy laughed. “You speak quite as intelligibly,” she said, “as the old catch question and answer: ‘What sort of a noise annoys an oyster? Why, a noisy noise annoys an oyster!’”
“My goodness! I wouldn’t mind being an oyster right now.”
“Mercy! What for?”
“’Cause I could close my shell tight and nothing could get at me. Oh, Doro! what i
s that?”
A belated bird flew overhead and its cry had startled Tavia. Dorothy laughed at her again.
“Let’s be brave, Tavia.”
“What for? There’s nobody to see us. It’s other folks looking on that makes people brave. I know you so well, Doro, that I don’t care if you do know I’m afraid.”
The sky arched them like a dome of dark blue velvet on which silver spangles had been sewn. The woods were filled with deep shadows.
A breathless silence seemed to have fallen over the hillside. The girls, huddled together on their rude couch, could distinguish the faint tinkle of the little rill at which they had quenched their thirst.
“But our appetites!” groaned Tavia. “There’s nothing to quench them. Oh, Doro! you are so nice and plump. I’d like to bite you.”
“You are the most savage animal in all this forest, I do believe, Tavia,” laughed Dorothy.
Dorothy’s cheerfulness had its limits. As they huddled there in the shelter of the overhanging boulder, the night seemed to drop down upon them, and Tavia hid her eyes against Dorothy’s shoulder. With their arms about each other they remained speechless for a while, and then both girls must have dozed.
Suddenly Tavia tightened her grip upon her chum and uttered a terrified gasp. It awoke Dorothy—her eyes opened wide. Tavia was pointing straight out into the darkness before them, and she was trembling hysterically.
The fire had died down to a little bed of embers, but one stick laid across the coals suddenly snapped in two and the ends burst into flame.
The flickering light glittered upon two bright spots which were seemingly across the glade, just at the edge of the forest.
Without a word passing between them the terrified girls knew what those sparkling objects were. The firelight was reflected in the eyes of some beast which was staring fixedly at them!
CHAPTER XXI
DOROTHY’S COURAGE
Not a sound did the prowling animal make, but its very silence seemed to add to the terrifying effect it had upon Dorothy Dale and her chum.
As the feeble flames rose and fell, so the reflected glare of the eyes increased and decreased. The pitiless, unwinking orbs displayed the savage intent of the beast.
For half a minute Dorothy was helpless, as was her chum. She had not partaken of Tavia’s panic before; she had really scouted the idea that savage animals roamed these woods. But she must believe now!
However, to faint—to give up hope of escape—to helplessly await the closer approach of the beast whose eyes they saw, did not once enter Dorothy Dale’s mind.
She threw off Tavia’s clutching hands quickly, reached for some fuel, and threw it on the flickering campfire. Almost at once the flames burst out and mounted higher. Their glare revealed the immediate surroundings of the rude encampment, but nothing of the strange marauder but the glittering eyes was visible to the girls.
Dorothy was quite sure that while the fire burned brightly no wild animal would throw itself upon them. Wolves, she knew, were cowardly alone; only in the pack were they courageous enough to attack man. As for its being a bear—those eyes never belonged to Bruin. He would not remain still so long.
The unwinking nature of their observation forced Dorothy to determine that the eyes belonged to a member of the cat tribe. A panther? No more terrible beast, she was sure, roamed the Colorado wilderness.
Somewhere, when she was much younger, Dorothy had seen a picture in a book of African adventure, in which a huge lion was shown leaping over a line of fires around a hunter’s camp to get at the cattle. Ordinarily, she was sure, the cat tribe was much afraid of the flames, but suppose this individual that was watching her and Tavia was particularly hungry?
Would the miserable little blaze prevent the beast from leaping upon them? The same thought seemed to unlock the chains of Tavia’s speech, for she whispered:
“Throw on more wood, Dorothy. Make a big blaze.”
“But we haven’t so much wood,” objected Dorothy.
“Oh, do! Perhaps a big fire will drive it off.”
Dorothy recklessly heaped on more fuel. The flames leaped and crackled. But their light did not show the outlines of the enemy. It seemed to be crouching in the deep shadow at the edge of the forest. Nothing showed of the creature but those terrible eyes.
“If we only had a gun,” whispered Dorothy, with longing.
“We’d be afraid to shoot at it,” gasped Tavia.
“Not I! I’d try to make a bullseye.”
“Can’t we try to scare it off in some way?”
“Let’s scream—both together!” cried Dorothy Dale. “Now!”
If fear-inspired shrieks ever issued from feminine throats, the abandoned yell of Tavia was a triumphant specimen. Nor was Dorothy far behind in the piercing quality of her cry.
It is doubtful if any mountain lion in all the wild places of the West could have equalled the quality of the girls’ yells. And——
“The nasty beast never so much as winked an eye!” Tavia gasped, horrified.
Dorothy was fully as much amazed as her chum. There was something uncanny about the twinkling, glistening spots. She had never heard of any creature with such unwinking eyes—save a serpent. And surely these eyes did not belong to any reptile.
She threw more fuel on the fire. Again the flames leaped up. The heap of wood they had gathered was fast being diminished. Dorothy looked at her watch. Only half-past ten! The beast had been watching them—she was sure—for an hour.
Suppose it remained all night? They had not fuel enough to last until midnight at the reckless rate they were using it.
When it was all gone, and the fire died down—what then? The thought was really terrifying. If the blaze was what kept the beast at bay, once the fire was dead, the girls would be at the animal’s mercy.
Dorothy Dale did not lose her head and become hysterical, like Tavia. She knew something must be done. Tavia was absolutely helpless. After they had so uselessly screamed, she just sat hiding her eyes, and trembling.
Dorothy knew that if anything was to be done to scare away the beast, it devolved upon her to do it. Now! should she try to gather more fuel, or should she rise up and attack the watchful brute?
The latter was the more desperate expediency, yet the wiser. A quick dash might drive the animal away.
Without a word to Tavia of her intention, Dorothy gathered her feet under her, reached for a blazing branch on the fire, and suddenly sprang erect.
With a scream she leaped past the fire and, holding the flaming branch straight out before her, ran across the glade toward the staring eyes!
Had she stopped to contemplate the desperate venture, she never would have started. Almost as she determined on making the attack, she had sprung into action.
She was half way to the edge of the woods ere she realized that her charge did not seem to startle the enemy at all. The eyes did not even blink.
If ever in her life, Dorothy Dale showed desperate courage at this moment. She kept straight on—whirling the burning branch to make the sparks fly—and dashed up to the bulky object which had so terrified her and her chum.
It was a good sized boulder imbedded in the earth at the edge of the forest. Its face was split and scarred; two bits of mica in its front had caught and reflected the firelight, and so looked like a pair of staring eyes. This was the dreadful beast of prey that had held them in durance for an hour and a half!
The reaction of her discovery deprived Dorothy Dale’s limbs of their strength. She fell to the ground, and the flaming branch sputtered before her and flickered out. Tavia screamed again, but Dorothy was laughing weakly—almost hysterically.
“Oh, Tavia Travers! What a perfect pair of dunces we are,” gasped Dorothy. “It’s nothing—nothing, I tell you! Just some bright specks in a rock. If the boys ever hear of this they will tease us to death about it.”
“Let them,” cried Tavia, with recovered bravado. “I shall tell. You’re just the very bravest girl
I ever saw, Dorothy Dale! You believed that was an awful, ravenous beast when you started for it with the torch. I consider that you have saved me from being devoured by the most savage creature that ever happened!”
“What shall we name it?” giggled Dorothy, climbing slowly to her feet and coming back with Tavia to the fire.
“Oh, a Bhronosaurus—or a Dynosaura—or—or something. Maybe a Pteryodactyl. Didn’t they all live in the Stone Age?”
“And you just from the scholastic halls of old Glenwood!” cried Dorothy. “I am astounded, Tavia Travers.”
“You needn’t be,” said her chum, coolly. “There are a whole lot of things I had to learn that I hope I have already forgotten. I guess the history of a million years, or so, ago, is fading fast from my overburdened mind. And I’ll certainly feel better when it is all wiped out.”
The incident served to bring Tavia to a better condition of mind. She shook off her foolish fears, and even assisted Dorothy in gathering a larger supply of firewood.
“For although those eyes were those of a bogey,” said Dorothy, wisely, “there may be creatures who would trouble us before morning if we had no fire.”
“Who’s going to keep awake to feed the fire?” yawned Tavia.
“I’ll keep first watch,” agreed Dorothy.
“All right. Ow—yow! I can’t keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. If a whole herd of bears ringed us, I should just have to sleep! Call me when it’s time for my watch, Doro. Ow- yow!”
And the next moment her breathing showed that she slumbered.
Dorothy fell asleep herself after a time, trusting to the chill of the night air to awaken her when the fire died down.
But what really woke her up was a shrill cry that echoed through the forest in a most weird way, and startled both girls into an upright position before their eyes were even open.
Again the strange cry rang out. Tavia broke off in a mighty yawn and seized Dorothy’s hand.
“More trouble!” she gasped.
CHAPTER XXII
DOROTHY HEARS SOMETHING IMPORTANT
“And just to think!” Tavia groaned, as the two girls rode slowly down the riverside an hour after sunrise. “We hadn’t any business having an adventure at all.”
Dorothy Dale in the West Page 13