The Boy Scouts
Through the Big Timber

OR

The Search for the Lost Tenderfoot

By HERBERT CARTER

Author of “The Boy Scouts First Camp Fire,” “The Boy Scouts
in the Blue Ridge,” “The Boy Scouts on the Trail,”
“The Boy Scouts in the Maine Woods,”
“The Boy Scouts In the Rockies”

Copyright, 1913
By A. L. Burt Company

“Look out for it, Davy, and grab the noose when it comes near,” shouted Thad.
The Boy Scouts through the Big Timber. [Page 17]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [I. The Camp.] 3 [II. What Frightened the Pack Mules.] 13 [III. When the Foxes Took to the Trees.] 26 [IV. Bumpus Takes a Chance.] 38 [V. The Missing Tenderfoot.] 50 [VI. Forced to Think for Himself.] 62 [VII. Turning the Tables.] 78 [VIII. A Scout Should Always be on the Alert.] 87 [IX. The Mean Trick Of The Timber Cruisers.] 96 [X. The Bob-Cat.] 106 [XI. Bumpus’ Stock Above Par.] 115 [XII. The Swoop of the Storm.] 123 [XIII. The Bolt of Lightning.] 131 [XIV. Step Hen Looks Out for the Provisions.] 139 [XV. through the Big Timber Again.] 147 [XVI. the Snake Bite.] 155 [XVII. More Trouble Ahead.] 164 [XVIII. Still in Pursuit, with the Trail Growing Warmer.] 172 [XIX. another Shock.] 181 [XX. finding Out How Bumpus Did It.] 189 [XXI. Caught in a Trap.] 198 [XXII. The Cripple Business Seems to be Contagious.] 206 [XXIII. the Way Blocked.] 219 [XXIV. the “Little Lightning.”] 227 [XXV. “Catching a Tartar;” and a Fat One at That.] 235 [XXVI. “Tenderfoot? Well, Hardly, After This.”] 243 [XXVII. Well-Earned Rest—Conclusion.] 250

THE BOY SCOUTS
THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER

CHAPTER I.
THE CAMP.

“Call the roll, Mr. Secretary,” said the acting scoutmaster.

Of course this was a mere matter of form, because everybody knew that the entire membership of the Silver Fox Patrol, connected with the Cranford Troop of Boy Scouts, was present. But nevertheless Bob White gravely took out his little book, and made each boy answer to his name.

“Thad Brewster.”

“Present,” said the patrol leader, and assistant scoutmaster.

“Allan Hollister.”

“Here,” replied the second in command, a Maine boy, now living in Cranford, the New York town from whence these boys had journeyed to this far-off region along the foothills of the great Rocky Mountains.

“Bumpus Hawtree.”

“Ditto,” sang out the fat youth, looking up with a wide grin; for he was about as good-natured as he was ponderous.

“Giraffe Stedman.”

“More ditto,” answered the tall lad, with the long neck, and the quick movements, who was busying himself over the fire, being never so happy as when he could feed wood to the crackling blaze.

“Step Hen Bingham.”

“On deck,” replied the boy mentioned, who was busy with the supper arrangements.

“Davy Jones.”

“O. K.” came from the fellow who was walking on his hands at the moment, his waving feet being high in the air, where his head was supposed to appear; because Davy was a gymnast, and worked off his superfluous energy in doing all manner of queer stunts.

“Smithy.”

“Present,” and the speaker, a very natty chap, brushed off an imaginary insect from the sleeve of his coat; because it happened that Edmund Maurice Travers Smith, as he was known in his home circle, had been born with a horror for dirt: and it was taking his comrades a long time to bring him down to the ordinary level of a happy-go-lucky, care-free boy like themselves.

“Robert White Quail.”

And the last named being the secretary himself, he merely put a cross down, to indicate the fact of his being in the line of duty on that occasion.

“You neglected two other important members of the party!” called out Giraffe, who, of course had gained his peculiar name on account of the habit he had of often stretching that unusually long neck of his, until the boys likened him to an ostrich, and then a giraffe.

“Who are they?” demanded Bob White, scenting some sort of joke.

“Mike, and Molly, the honest, hard-working mules here that we have for pack animals,” replied the tall scout, with a chuckle.

“Oh! I reckon, suh, they don’t count on the roll call,” remarked Bob White, who was a Southern boy, as his soft manner of speech, as well as certain phrases he often used, betrayed.

“Well,” protested Giraffe, sturdily, “if you think now, that our pack mules ain’t going to make an impression on our camping through the big timber, and the foothills of the Rockies, you’ve got another guess coming, let me tell you.”

“Mike strikes me as particularly worthy of mention in the log book of the trip. He made a distinct impression on me, right in the start; and left a black and blue record of it that hurts yet,” with which remark, fat Bumpus—whose real name chanced to be Jasper Cornelius, began to ruefully rub a certain portion of his generous anatomy.

A general shout went up at this.

“Well, what could you expect, Bumpus?” demanded Davy Jones. “When Mike, out of the corner of his wicked eye, saw you stooping over that way, and offering such a wide target, the temptation was more than any respectable, well-educated mule could resist.”

“Yes,” put in Step Hen, who had divided his name in that queer fashion as a lad first attending school, and it had clung to him ever since; “you didn’t know the strong points of pack mules, Bumpus, or you would never have gone so close to his heels.”

“And,” continued Davy, humorously, “you turned over in the air three times, before you struck that dirty pool of water. And that time, Bumpus, I own up you beat me fairly at gymnastics; for try as I will, so far I’ve only been able to do two turns backward in the air, myself.”

Bumpus, being so good-natured, only chuckled and kept on rubbing, as in imagination he saw the “cartwheels” he made in the air on that memorable occasion.

“Only thing I deeply regret,” continued Davy, “was that I didn’t have my camera focussed at the time. That picture would sure have been the gem of our collection.”

Bumpus presently sat himself down again, to watch those who were serving as cooks for that occasion, get supper ready.

And while it is preparing, with the fragrant odor of coffee in the air, making the hungry boys almost frantic with suspense, perhaps, for the benefit of the reader who has not made the acquaintance of these lively, wide-awake boys in earlier stories of this series, a brief explanation of who and what they were, may be deemed appropriate at this point.

The Silver Fox Patrol had been organized for quite some time now, and the boys who made up the membership had been fortunate enough to take two long trips, with the idea of adding to their knowledge of woodcraft, and such qualities as all good scouts are supposed to desire to possess.

The first one had been to the region of the Land of the sky. Robert Quail had come from the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, and it was mostly through his influence and persuasion that the scouts had gone thence. And while there, they had met with many adventures that have been faithfully chronicled in their log book, and portrayed in a previous story.

Their next trip came in very fortunately. An epidemic breaking out in Cranford, the school trustees closed the doors of the places of education until after the Christmas holidays. This gave the boys the chance they had long wanted to take a run up into Maine, and do a little camping, and hunting of big game; several of their number being very fond of handling a gun; and Allan having told them thrilling stories of the sport to be found in his native State after the law had been lifted.

And while enjoying themselves hugely, the scouts had had the good fortune to recover some stolen bonds and other valuables belonging to a bank that had been robbed. The reward offered for their restoration was paid over into their treasury, and was of such a size as to admit of their taking this long-desired journey into the mountain region of the Great Northwest, when vacation time came around.

During the balance of the winter, after their return from Maine, the story of the wonderfully good times they enjoyed there had so enthused other boys of Cranford, that a second full patrol, called the Eagle, had been organized; and a third addition to the troop, to be called the Gray Wolf, was in process of forming.

But of course none of these lads had any share in the reward that had come to the members of the first patrol; so that accounted for their not being present on his occasion.

Bumpus was a musician, and had a fine mellow voice, which he often used to entertain his mates while sitting around the roaring camp-fire. He could play on any instrument; indeed, with merely his doubled-up hands, and his melodious voice, he often imitated various calls on the bugle. And of course he had been elected as bugler to the troop, though on the present occasion they had induced him to leave his instrument at home, not thinking a hunting camp the place for such noisy demonstrations.

The boys carried guns of various sorts, though until lately Bumpus had never bothered himself about such a thing. But while in Maine the fever seized him, and he had purchased a big ten-bore Marlin double-barreled shotgun; because he always admired the twelve gauge of the same make which Thad owned.

Step Hen had a little beauty of a thirty-thirty six-shot repeating rifle, that had been given to him by his father on a recent birthday. Thad sometimes borrowed it, and could use the same with considerable skill. It carried those soft-nosed bullets that mushroom when striking, and thus do all the work of a ball several times the size. If big game must be killed, the quicker the thing is over with the better. Besides, that little fire-arm was “just as light as a feather,” as Step Hen always declared, when disputing with Giraffe, who carried the large rifle owned by his respected dad, also fond of the woods and game.

Davy managed to get along with a shotgun, while Allan had a rifle. Smithy and Bob White had brought no weapons along, deeming the number on hand amply sufficient to clean out most of the wild beasts inhabiting the Rocky Mountain region. In fact, Smithy had never shot a gun in his life, and was timid about trying; but on the other hand Bob was quite used to working with a good retriever in the grain fields, where the bird he was named after fattened, away down in the Old Tarheel State.

Davy seemed to be unusually full of animal spirits on this occasion. He just could not keep quiet, but kept up his tumbling, and standing on his head, even though no one paid much attention to what wonderful stunts the athletic lad was carrying on.

Close by them ran a noisy stream. It came out from the foothills of the great uplifts near by, and went brawling on its way. Indeed, it made so much music that the scouts had to call out to each other at times; but somehow the prospect of passing a night near such a rollicking stream pleased them all. Besides, they were sure it must contain trout, and several promised to get up at break of day to try for the speckled beauties, so that they might have a mess for breakfast, before continuing on their way.

“Say, has anybody seen my sweater around?” called out Step Hen, who was busily engaged looking over the contents of his pack, having turned over the control of the cooking meal to Allan and Thad. “I’m just sure I stowed it away in this knapsack I carry, but it ain’t there now. I’m the unluckiest feller you ever did see, about having my things taken. Everybody just thinks they’re general property, and grabs ’em up. Please hand it over, whoever’s got it. I might want it to-night, if it gets cool.”

Step Hen was careless. He had a long-standing habit of never knowing where he put his things, and hence, when he missed some object, loud were his wails about being pursued by a “little evil genius,” that was taking the greatest delight in misplacing his possessions. Even when one of the other scouts, taking pity on Step Hen, would show him where he had himself left the article, he would pass it off as easily as a duck shakes the water from its back.

The tents had been raised, and everything looked cozy and comfortable. Several of the scouts lay around, being footsore and weary; only that never-tired Davy was still exercising himself in all sorts of ways. In due time he would work off his superfluous energy, and behave. They were so accustomed to seeing Davy hang by his toes from the high limb of a tree, or doing some similar act better fitted for the circus than a camp of Boy Scouts, that little attention was ordinarily paid to his actions.

It came as a shock, then, when all of a sudden Thad started up with a shout, and started on a run toward the edge of the high river bank, where one could look down on the tumbling waters of the churning yeasty rapids.

“Hurry, boys!” the scoutmaster was calling at the top of his voice, as he covered the dozen yards separating the camp from the edge of the little bluff; “Davy went too near the edge, and took a header right over into the river!”

Every one of the other six lads hurried as fast as possible to join their leader on the brink of the bluff; and when they reached there, they saw a sight that for the moment seemed to freeze the very blood in their veins.

CHAPTER II.
WHAT FRIGHTENED THE PACK MULES.

“Hold on to the rock, Davy! We’ll get you out!” whooped Giraffe, greatly excited, so that Thad, believing the tall scout meditated jumping after the boy who was already at the mercy of that swift current, dropped a restraining hand on his arm.

“He must a hit his head when he fell; you c’n see he looks dazed!” cried Bumpus.

“Just what he did, I reckon!” added Bob White, as he clenched his hands, and stared at the figure out in the midst of that rushing, boiling water.

Davy looked far from nimble just then. He was clinging desperately to a slippery moss-covered rock that just projected above the foamy water. If he allowed his grip to slacken he would be instantly carried into a pocket that had all the appearance of a whirlpool; and once lost in that gap, where the water whirled around and around, Davy might never come out alive again.

Under ordinary conditions the agile lad might have had a fair chance to work out his own salvation, for he was a good swimmer; but just as Bumpus said, possibly he had struck his head when falling, and this dazed him. He could only hang on there, and look appealingly toward his comrades, high up on the bank.

Thad saw immediately that the task of rescuing their comrade would prove to be not a little one, even though Davy could hold on for a few minutes longer, which was uncertain, since the current was very strong, and seemed to drag at him with a dozen eager hands.

“A rope! We must have a rope!” he cried.

“Where’s Bumpus? Take this rope!” came from Giraffe.

“That’s so; here, get your coat off, Bumpus, in a big hurry!” exclaimed Thad, whirling upon the fat boy, who was even then starting to obey.

Strange to say, as soon as he had undone his loose coat, one of the reasons for his apparent great size through the body became apparent. Bumpus had a small but stout clothes-line wound around his body many times.

While up in Maine he had taken a fancy for having a rope close to his hand. On many occasions he had seen the great value of such a thing; and it had by degrees become almost a mania with Bumpus; who secured just such a rope as he thought best adapted for the purpose, and carefully wound it around his body every morning.

And as the possession of such a thing caused the scoffing scouts to call it a lariat, of course Bumpus was privately and publicly doing his level best to throw the rope, as he had once seen some cowboys connected with a traveling circus do; but with rather poor success thus far, for his build rather unfitted him for doing such strenuous work.

Bumpus was so clumsy about most things that it could not be expected that on the present occasion, when there was so much need of haste he could satisfy the nervous demands of his camp-mates.

He started to unwind the rope, but twice the end fell from his shaking fingers, when he heard Giraffe call out that Davy seemed to be about to let go his hold.

Unable to stand such dilly-dallying tactics, Allan and Giraffe presently took hold of the fat boy, and began to whirl him around as though he were a teetotum, while Thad pulled at the rope.

“Here, quit that!” roared Bumpus, throwing out his hands in an effort to catch hold of something, for he was rapidly growing very dizzy under this treatment; “what d’ye think I am, a top that wants spinning? Hi! ketch me somebody, I’m going to tumble over!” and as the last remnant of the clothes-line slipped from his rotating form, the fat scout did reel around like a drunken man, though quickly recovering from the dizzy sensation.

Meanwhile Thad was busy. Fortunately Bumpus always kept a nice noose at the end of the rope, with a running knot. Thad knew this, for he had many a time thrown the lariat with considerable skill, when showing the owner just how it should be done.

Hastily he gathered the coils of rope in his hand, and rushed again to the edge of the little bluff looking out on the rapids.

He drew a breath of relief when he saw that the unfortunate gymnast was still there, clinging desperately to that slippery rock, and yet apparently well-nigh exhausted.

“[Look out for it, Davy, and grab the noose when it comes near! Here goes!]”

With that the scoutmaster gave the rope several whirls about his head, and then launched it forward. The others watched the result, with hearts that seemed to actually stand still with suspense.

“Missed him!” cried Giraffe, in despair, as the rope struck the surface of the swift water about five feet or more above the imperiled scout.

“Thad wanted to send it there; see!” exclaimed Allan.

Just as the one who had thrown the rope expected, the noose was instantly seized by the foaming waters, and swept downward, straight at the clinging boy. Although Davy may have been partly dazed, he had known enough to hang on with might and main. And right then and there he seemed to understand what Thad meant to do; for as the rope was borne up against the partly submerged rock to which he clung, the boy made a quick snatch at it.

“He lost it!” shrieked Bumpus, who had recovered enough now to crawl near the edge in order to see what was going on; though not daring to trust his weight too near the brink, lest the earth crumble under him, and let him drop into the rapids where Davy was already fighting for his life.

“Not much he did!” echoed Giraffe; “he’s got it all right! Good boy, Davy! Slip it under your arms, and we’ll yank you out in a jiffy! That’s the ticket! Hurrah!”

Davy seemed to understand what he must do. It was not enough that he gripped the noose at the end of the saving rope; for once in the power of the tossing current of the whirlpool he might lose his hold.

And so he managed to put his arm right through, after which he held on with might and main with that hand while he got the second one through the loop.

It was the last straw that broke the camel’s back; Davy was so completely exhausted by this effort that he just had to let go, and trust to his comrades to do the rest.

Thad began to pull with all his strength, and others laid hold on the line, to add their mite to the work of rescue. Fortunately Bumpus had selected a splendid braided window-sash cord when he picked out his rope, capable of standing an enormous strain; and it held, despite the drag of the savage whirlpool, and the rush of the rapids.

Through the white foaming waters Davy was dragged in great style. One of them managed to get down the little bluff, and helped the almost drowned scout to clamber up. But hardly had Davy reached the camp than he fell in a faint, utterly exhausted. Excitement had more or less to do with it, perhaps fright as well; for he had really been facing death during those few minutes when he held on with such splendid grit.

Thad soon brought him to; and upon examining the boy’s head he did discover a pretty good-sized lump, showing that what they suspected must have taken place; and that Davy had struck against a rock in falling.

Davy was unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon, and pretty serious for one of his animal spirits. He realized that he had had a close call; and never more would he make fun of poor Bumpus for such a silly fad as carrying a rope around with him wherever he went. Only for that Davy might have had a much more serious time of it, even if he were rescued at all.

They were having an early supper for many reasons. The tramp had been rather tiresome on this day; and besides, that location on the side of the noisy mountain stream had taken their fancy.

When the meal was ready Bumpus made a bugle of his hands, and blew the “assembly” in fairly good style. But none of the hungry scouts waited for him to get through; for they were hard at it as soon as he started. Indeed, Bumpus himself cut his “call” short, as he saw the tremendous inroads being made on the visible supply of food; and hastened to take his place, fearful lest he be left mourning, with a scant ration.

Had Davy been half drowned by his submersion in the water, the scoutmaster knew just what to do in order to restore him. He would have placed the boy on his stomach, with his arms elevated; and while two of the others worked these back and forth like pump handles, Thad would have knelt astride Davy, pressing regularly downward with his hands or knees; the idea being to produce an artificial respiration, and encourage the heart to take up its suspended functions.

It still lacked half an hour of sunset when they finished supper; and Bob White was even thinking of getting out some fishing tackle, in order to see if he could coax a few trout from the stream, at the foot of the rapids below.

The two mules, Mike and Molly, had been staked out at the end of their ropes, and were cropping the green grass that grew abundantly near by.

“Don’t things look just fine and dandy around here, though?” remarked Step Hen, as they lay there, feeling too full of supper to do anything.

“Yes; and so far we haven’t missed those two guides who gave us the cold shake,” Giraffe added. “One of ’em had to go and get sick; and the other broke his contract, and went off with those two Eastern sportsmen who came out here to shoot mountain sheep, just like they do chamois over in Switzerland. But we’re going to get on all right without ’em; though I hope we manage to run across that Toby Smathers they told us about, and who’s up here somewhere on his own hook doin’ something, nobody seemed to know just what.”

“Yes,” remarked Thad, “they told us he was just the right kind of a guide to get. He’s been through the whole mill—lumber-jack, trapper, hunter, timber cruiser; and forest ranger employed to look out for fires, and watch some of those thieves of timber pirates sent in here by the big lumber concerns to steal millions of millions of feet of valuable lumber every winter.”

“Hello! now Mike’s gone and caught it!” cried Giraffe.

This caused all of them to sit up, and take notice that one of the mules was dancing at a lively clip at the end of his rope. He would stand up on his hind legs, and strain at his stake; then turning, he would kick as far as he could; and carry on in a most remarkable manner.

“What in the dickens ails the beast?” asked Step Hen. “Has a bumble bee stung him on the nose?”

“Why, don’t you see, it’s catching,” retorted Giraffe, grinning. “He saw the way Davy here was walking around on his hands, with his feet in the air; and Mike wants us to see if he can do better than that. I reckon he’ll stand on one foot after a bit, and show Davy stunts he dassent try to follow.”

“Now, there goes Molly trying the same dodge,” shouted Bumpus.

“Well, I declare, if that don’t beat the Dutch!” ejaculated Giraffe. “As sure as I live, fellers, they mean to make it a double harness affair, a team of educated mule gymnasts. Go it, Mike! Hey, show us what you can do, Molly! I’m believing she c’n beat her pardner all hollow. Look at that jump, would you? Say, they must a been eating some of that loco weed we heard about, fellers!”

“They’re frightened, that’s what!” exclaimed Thad, as he started to cast his eyes around in search of any unusual object, but failing to discover such; from which fact he judged that the mules depended on their sense of smell to tell them there was danger near by.

“Frightened; what at?” echoed Davy Jones.

“I don’t know; but if ever I saw a scared mule, that Mike is one,” Thad went on.

“Look at him jerk, would you?” cried Giraffe. “Unless that stake gives way soon, he’ll sure break his old stubborn neck. Whoa! there, you silly; nothing’s going to hurt you. Wow! there he goes awhoopin’, Thad! The stake did give way, before he dislocated his spine. And there’s Molly bound to follow after him, whoop! see her tear, would you?”

“She’s broke away too, and is trailing the rope after her!” cried Step Hen.

“And now, won’t we just have a dandy old time hunting our pack mules again; unless by some accident that stake and rope get caught in the rocks, and holds ’em up; which I’m hoping will be the case,” remarked Giraffe, looking blankly after the two disappearing animals, that, when last seen, were still acting in the most remarkable manner, and giving every evidence of a severe fright.

“Now, what d’ye suppose, scared the fools that way?” demanded Bob White.

“P’raps they just felt frisky, and wanted to show us their heels. I told you they’d be mad, if you didn’t include them on the roll call,” Giraffe remarked; though in truth, he was feeling anything but funny just then, as he contemplated the possibility of their being stranded away out there under the shadow of the great Rockies, without a single pack animal to “tote” their camp luggage either way.

“Look around, and see if you can spy anything moving,” advised the scoutmaster, making use of his own sharp eyes at the same moment.

Immediately Bumpus called out:

“What’s that lumbering along over yonder, Thad? Looks to me like an old, cinnamon-colored cow.”

Thad took one look.

“You’re away off there, Bumpus,” he remarked, in a thrilling tone; “because those two wise mules knew what was coming. That is anything but a cow or even a bull. It’s a bear!”

“A bear!” almost shrieked Bumpus, making a dive for the nearest tent, in which lay his nice ten-bore Marlin, loaded with buckshot shells.

“Yes,” Thad went on, “and a great big grizzly bear at that. Let’s hope he’ll give us the go-by, and walk on about his own business!”

CHAPTER III.
WHEN THE FOXES TOOK TO THE TREES.

“Bang!”

“Hold on there, Bumpus, you’re crazy!” shouted Thad.

“Bang!” went the other barrel of the new ten-bore gun, with which the fat scout was determined he would sooner or later get a bear.

“Oh! he knocked him over!” shrieked Step Hen, who had managed in some mysterious way to get possession of his own gun, and was visibly disappointed because it began to look as though he could not make use of it.

“Bumpus has killed a grizzly!” shouted Giraffe; and then, quick on the heels of this exultant cry he added: “no he ain’t, either! Look at him gettin’ up on all fours again! Now he’s sighted us, fellers! Here he comes, licketty-split! A tree for mine! They told us grizzlies couldn’t climb trees, you know.”

Giraffe was as good as his word. He seemed to fairly fly over to the nearest tree, and the way those supple long legs wrapped around the slender trunk was a sight worth seeing.

A panic broke out among the rest, especially when Thad shouted:

“Get up a tree, everybody! Quick, now, he’s coming right along!”

Now, Step Hen had his rifle, and knew that it could be depended on to do its work, provided the marksman himself was there with the good aim. Step Hen did not have full confidence in his ability to plant a bullet where it would do the most execution. Besides, the sight of that savage monster lumbering along, and looking so very fierce, gave poor Step Hen an attack of the “rattles.”

When he heard the scoutmaster call out for every one to hunt a tree, Step Hen felt that he must be included in that order. If all the others climbed to safety, it would be the height of folly for him to remain below.

And not wanting to play the part of Casibianca, the boy who “stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled,” Step Hen, dropping his gun as he ran, made for a tree that seemed to offer all the advantages of home.

Just ahead of him was Bumpus, gripping a limb with a desperation born of despair, and struggling furiously to get one of his fat legs entwined above, when he might hope to pull himself up.

Step Hen had no trouble in mounting on his side of the tree.

“Give Bumpus a hand, Step Hen!” shouted the scoutmaster, already settled in a nest of his choosing.

As one scout is expected to help another whenever the chance arises, doubtless Step Hen would have rendered this “first aid to the clumsy” even though Thad had not seen fit to call out.

There was really need of haste. The wounded bear was perilously near, and seemed to be heading straight for the tree where Bumpus was, unable, in his excitement and fright to draw his body up on the limb to which he clung.

His fat face was white, and his eyes seemed almost ready to pop out of his head, as Step Hen, bending down, caught hold of his coat collar. It looked as though the angry bear just knew which of these campers had inflicted this pain upon him, and was bent upon revenge.

But Step Hen was strong, moreover, the necessity of moving the unwieldy body of Bumpus was great. Exerting himself as the fat scout commenced to strain again, Step Hen managed to get Bumpus up alongside him.

Even then there was more or less danger that the grizzly might stand erect on his hind legs, and be able to claw them, so the boys hastened to put more distance between their precious bodies and the furious beast.

When the bear found that he could not reach any of the scouts, he spent some little time rolling from one tree to another, and looking up at the boys in the branches and sending forth loud growls.

“Scat! get out!” shouted Giraffe. “Say, he’s a goin’ to try and climb up my thin tree. Here, quit that, you old scamp! Look what he’s doin’, Thad! Wow! he wants to shake me down like a big persimmon.”

The bear did actually shake the slender tree to and fro, by exerting his tremendous strength. Giraffe had a few anxious minutes. He had to hold on with all his might to keep from being dislodged. And then again, there was always a chance that the furious grizzly might actually snap the tree off.

After a short time the animal seemed to tire of this sport. Greatly to the relief of Giraffe he ambled away.

“Good-bye, old feller! Come again when you can’t stay so long!” cried Giraffe, whose courage returned when he realized that his safety was assured.

But the bear did not have the remotest idea of abandoning his game.

“He smells our grub, that’s what!” called out Bumpus. “See him sniffing, would you? And there he goes, right at our stock of things. Oh! what if he gobbles it all up, whatever will we do, stranded away up here?”

“We’ve got to do something, boys, to chase him off,” declared Allan.

“If I had some powder up here, I’d show him,” declared Giraffe.

“What would you do?” demanded Smithy, who for once had not waited to pick out a clean tree, when he started to “elevate.”

“Why, I’d wet some powder, and make those sputtering ‘devils’ you remember I used to carry around with me. Then I’d get the old bear right under, put a match to a bunch of the powder, and when it took to sending out sparks to beat the band, I’d drop it on his back. Wow! but take my word for it, boys, he’d make tracks out of this in a cloud of smoke.”

“Well, suh, why don’t you do that, and help us out of a bad scrape?” demanded Bob White, whose hot Southern blood fairly boiled at the ridiculous idea of eight wide-awake scouts being made prisoners, by just one old bear.

“For several reasons,” replied Giraffe, calmly. “In the first place I don’t happen to possess a single match, even if I had the powder, which is not the case. And then again, I want to see how our sagacious and resourceful scoutmaster works his little game.”

This caused all the others to turn their attention toward Thad. For the first time they discovered that he was lowering a long piece of cord, with an open loop a few inches in diameter at the end.

“Oh! I know what he’s hoping to do,” sang out Bumpus. “He wants to fish up Step Hen’s gun, that lies just below him, where Step Hen dropped it.”

“That’s the stuff!” declared Davy Jones, excitedly, as he watched the operation.

“But look at the bear, fellers!” cried Giraffe. “He’s right at it now, chawin’ up our grub as if he could store away the lot of it. Guess he’s forgot all about us.”

“Don’t you believe it,” declared Allan. “Watch me prove it.”

With that he made as if to descend his tree. No sooner had his swinging legs attracted the attention of the bear, than uttering savage growls he abandoned his feast, and came hurriedly over, to look up at Allan with those cruel little eyes, as if inviting him to just try it.

So Thad had to suspend operations until Bruin, overtaken by a desire to once more revel in the camp-stores, shuffled back again to the neighborhood of the twin tents.

“Don’t coax him over here again, please, Allan,” remarked the scoutmaster, who was now busily engaged “fishing” with that looped cord, trying to drop the noose over the end of the little rifle, which, by a rare chance, was raised a few inches from the ground.

The other scouts were all watching his labor, being deeply interested in the result.

“Now you’ve got a bite, Thad!” called out Giraffe.

“Give it to him, Thad!” advised Step Hen.

But the fisherman was too cautious to risk so much. He wanted to slip the noose a little further along, before he made a final jerk, in order to try and tighten it.

“He’s got his eye on you, Thad!” warned Smithy, whose tree happened to be better located for observation than any of the other ones appropriated by his comrades.

“Yes, and there he’s coming over to see what you mean by that string hanging down,” asserted Giraffe.

“Somebody draw his attention!” called out Thad. “Make him think you’re meaning to drop down. It will give me the chance I need to finish my job.”

“Yes, throw Bumpus down, Step Hen!” called out Giraffe. “He was the cause of all this trouble and he ought to sacrifice himself now, in order to create a diversion.”

“Keep away from me! Don’t you dare touch me, Step Hen! I’ll pull you down along with me, if you try to do that,” cried Bumpus, really alarmed.

But Allan caught the idea Thad advanced. Besides, it just happened that he was well situated for carrying it out. By going through some extravagant motions, as though about to descend, he caught the attention of the bear, which immediately shuffled over to his tree, and looked up expectantly.

Meanwhile Thad was not idle.

He saw what he had to do in order to make a sure thing of his work. Moving to one side a little, as the nature of his hold in the branches of the tree permitted, he jerked at his line until the loop actually closed tightly on the barrel of Step Hen’s rifle. After that it should not be a difficult task to pull the weapon up.

“Quick! Thad, he’s coming!” shouted the excited Giraffe.

In spite of all Allan’s cutting-up the bear seemed to think that he had better be paying more attention to what was going on elsewhere.

Thad had raised the gun from the ground. It was slowly ascending through space, and turning around as it came.

The grizzly hurried underneath, while Thad hastened to pass the cord through his fingers and when the wise old bear, seeming to understand the case, reared up to strike at the dangling rifle, he just managed to give it a tap that started it to spinning around at a lively clip.

“Oh!” gasped Giraffe, under the belief that all was lost.

But Thad had made one last drag, and even as the other uttered that exclamation the scoutmaster snatched the gun out of the air; for with that very last pull, the noose seemed to have slipped.

“Hurrah! Thad wins!” burst out from Step Hen.

“Good-bye, old Charlie!” mocked Bumpus. “Better skip out while there is time, if you know what’s good for you.”

But the bear did not seem to be that wise. He remained there, winking those wicked little eyes up at Thad, as if daring him to do his worst.

“Give it to him, Thad!” begged Giraffe, so impatient that he could hardly understand why the more careful boy should wait.

But although Thad had never up to now encountered a wild grizzly, he had heard and read a great deal about them. And thus he knew that at times such an animal can be shot full of bullets, so to speak, without killing him, so tenacious of life is the grizzly bear of the Rocky Mountains.

On this account, therefore, Thad wished to make all the capital possible out of the six bullets that were contained in Step Hen’s gun.

Waiting until a good opportunity presented itself, he took a quick aim, and then pulled the trigger. With the report there came a tremendous roar, so savage, so full of pent-up animal rage, that Bumpus immediately proceeded to climb up to a still higher limb of the tree in which he had found shelter.

“He’s down! No, he’s up again! Give him another, Thad! Oh! don’t I wish I had my Old Reliable here, though,” cried Giraffe.

Thad was awake to the necessity for prompt action. The bear, even though desperately wounded, was still full of fight. And there could be no telling what the maddened animal might not attempt, if given time.

Thad taking careful aim fired again.

He really felt an admiration for the hard-fighting grizzly, such as all hunters worthy of the name experience toward the four-footed enemy that puts up a game battle for its life.

There were four more bullets in the repeating rifle, and Thad had to make use of them all before he could really feel he had caused the last vital spark to flee from its abiding-place in the body of the shaggy monster.

But after the sixth and last shot had been fired, there was silence on the part of the terror of the mountain gulches. The grizzly’s last convulsive movement had taken place. No longer would his savage roar, echoing from cliff to cliff, cause all other wild animals to flee.

“Hurrah!” shouted Giraffe, as he dropped to the ground.

“Is he surely dead?” asked Smithy, from his perch aloft.

For answer the reckless Giraffe ran up, and placed a foot on the motionless body of the bear.

CHAPTER IV.
BUMPUS TAKES A CHANCE.

“Everybody’s getting bears but me,” Bumpus was saying on the following day, when, a new camp having been selected, further removed from the noise of the rapids, the boys decided to stay over for a little while, and try their luck hunting through the big timber lands around them.

The two runaway pack mules had been recovered. Just as the boys expected, the trailing stakes had become caught fast in the rocks that lay up the stream, and in which direction the panic-stricken pack animals had gone. Both were found before darkness set in, and escorted back in triumph to the camp.

The boys had also discovered that hungry trout lay in schools below the foaming rapids, just anxious to grace the frying-pan of the scouts. And the savory mess they had secured for breakfast that morning was one of the reasons why, upon putting the question to a vote, it was decided to stay over a while.

And after they had located the new camp, with the tents erected, and things looking fairly comfortable, the complaining voice of Bumpus was heard in the land, as he rubbed diligently at the shining barrels of his Marlin with an oiled rag.

“Well, you had your chance, didn’t you?” demanded Step Hen, with a wink and a nod in the direction of Thad, who had paused to listen, while stretching the great skin of the grizzly on a big frame, to start drying.

“I s’pose I did; but he was too far away for my buckshot to bring him down,” declared Bumpus; “but I hit him, didn’t I, Thad?”

“In eight different places by actual count,” replied the other. “Altogether this pelt is shot so full of holes it won’t make the finest rug going; but whenever we look at it on the floor of our armory we’ll all remember the queer kind of fruit the trees out here bear.”

“There is Giraffe, now,” went on Bumpus, still hugging his grievance to his heart; “he got a black bear when we were up in Maine, but I call that just a snap. The old thief was astealin’ honey from the tree we cut down, when Giraffe, he just plunked him. Why, my dandy gun would have knocked that bear over at such close range, the easiest ever.”

“I guess it would, Bumpus,” said Thad, consolingly, “and sometime, perhaps you’ll have your chance. We all hope you will, anyhow.”

“I’m going to see to it that I do,” grumbled the fat scout; and from his manner one would be apt to think that really life was becoming very tame, and hardly worth having, unless he might find his one great wish gratified.

Bumpus really felt his failure of the preceding night very keenly. It was not often that any of the boys had seen him so sober and sour.

He felt as though a cruel fate had taken pleasure in cheating him out of honors he should have claimed. That ought to have been his bear, by right of first discovery; and also because he had fired both barrels of his Marlin at the beast, and actually knocked him over.

The trouble was, old Charlie did not know enough to stay down; but had persisted in giving them further trouble, until Thad engineered that clever scheme for getting possession of a gun, when immediately the game was up.

Had Thad ever dreamed of what a tenacious hold this newly-acquired desire to shine as a mighty Nimrod, had taken upon the mind of Bumpus, he would certainly have been more careful about leaving the tenderfoot to his own devices.

The morning was still young when Giraffe proposed that they make up a party, to take a look around.

“Who knows but what we might run across a deer; or one of those Rocky Mountain big-horn sheep?” he added, as a clincher to his argument.

“That sounds good to me,” declared Step Hen.

“I’ll go along to help tote your game,” remarked Bob White.

“And I’m in the ring,” remarked Step Hen. “Why, my mouth’s just watering for some prime mutton chops.”

Thad smiled. He knew that if ever they did secure a big-horn, the flesh of that high jumping animal would probably be as tough as leather, unless fortunately they chanced upon a young one.

It was finally arranged that besides Thad and Allan, Step Hen, Giraffe and Bob White should make up the hunting party.

This would leave three in camp—Smithy who had no gun, Davy Jones, whose head still felt sore from the effect of his accident on the previous afternoon; and the despondent Bumpus, who was acting very strangely, for one of his cheery disposition.

No one dreamed that any trouble could come upon the camp while part of the scouts were away. Two of those who remained owned guns, though at the last moment Davy Jones forced Bob White to carry his “pump” shot gun. But then, what was there to fear? If the mate of the slain grizzly came around, looking for the absent one, the boys had been instructed to take to the trees; and Thad had even gone to the trouble of picking out the best fortress available in this line, one that even the clumsy Bumpus could readily climb.

“Think you could shin up that tree, in case the other old Mountain Charlie came prowling around?” Thad asked Bumpus.

“Oh! I guess I could,” replied the other, rather indifferently, Thad thought.

“Tell you what, Bumpus,” called out Step Hen, “if I was you I’d fix it so’s to have my ammunition up in that tree. Then, you see, if he sat down at the butt here, to wait till you got ripe and dropped, why, you could just keep banging away till you loaded him so full of little bullets he couldn’t get up off the ground. Great stunt, ain’t it boys?”

The others readily declared that it was making things easy for Bumpus. They were even kind enough to express a wish that another bear would take a notion to come around, just to please Bumpus, for it pained them exceedingly to see him looking so miserable.

But the fat boy did not grow at all enthusiastic over Step Hen’s proposal. He just watched all the preparations being made for the hunt; and sitting there on the log, kept polishing his gun, although it certainly showed no speck of rust or grime.

Presently all of them were ready to start.

“It would be nice now,” said Thad, before departing, “if some of you camp-keepers gave those trout another try. We may not get a shot at a deer all the time we’re gone; and if we fail on fresh meat, another mess of trout would taste pretty fine.”

“I should say they would, whether we strike game or not,” declared Giraffe.

“Haven’t tasted anything so good since we were up in Maine last fall, and had just one mess before the trout season closed,” Allan observed.

“I’ll try and accommodate you as far as I’m able,” Smithy agreed.

“Same here,” echoed Davy Jones.

But as for Bumpus, good-natured, jolly Bumpus, he seemed to have lost his tongue, for he failed to add his promise to that of the other two scouts.

Thad looked at him as he turned away. He had never dreamed that the fat scout would take anything so much to heart. Bumpus was not cut out for a good hunter, either by instinct or bodily favor. Some of his enemies in Cranford, like Brose Griffin and Eli Bangs, were wont to say that Bumpus was not only ponderous of body, but “fat-witted” as well, by which they probably meant his mind was slow to act.

Still, there have been successful fat hunters. Bumpus knew, for he had made it a point to investigate in every way possible, and he was resolved that he would shine as a successful Nimrod, despite the disadvantages under which he labored. So much the more credit to him when he finally proved his right to boast that proud title.

After the five hunters went away, Smithy found some bait, and wandered down to the base of the rapids to fish. The gentle art of angling was more in the line of the dude of the patrol than tramping through the big timber after elusive game.

Here Davy Jones presently joined him, saying that Bumpus had urged him to add a second rod and line to that Smithy already had out.

“Couldn’t get him to try it, though,” said Davy. “Told me he was no fisherman, and nearly always fell in, he was that clumsy. And between us, Smithy, that’s pretty near the truth.”

“Well, I can remember several occasions when Bumpus made a splash that he didn’t calculate on,” remarked Smithy, who was usually just as careful of his language as he was of his clothes, and no one could ever remember ever hearing him utter any slang phrase.

Meanwhile the five hunters had gone off in high spirits. The day was glorious, and a whole month of this sort of thing stared them in the face. That was enough to make any bunch of boys happy, especially when they cared as much for the Great Outdoors as Thad and his chums did.

Allan was a born hunter. What he did not know about stalking game and all such things that a successful hunter must be up in, the boys had not as yet learned.

He had noted the passing clouds, and observed the direction in which the prevailing wind blew. It was of considerable moment for the success of their fresh meat hunt, that they go up the breeze. In this way they would avoid having their presence in the timber made known in advance to the wary game, through the medium of the wonderful sense of smell which most animals possess.

The five scouts spread out at times in the shape of a fan, so as to cover as much ground as possible.

Again they would come together for a little consultation, when they could compare notes; and those who were not very much experienced in still hunting, pick up more or less valuable pointers.

Noon came, but as yet they had not met with any success. Around them the tall trees grew thickly, and some of them had trunks of such girth that the scouts easily understood why this region was always referred to as the “big timber.”

As they ascended higher up the slopes of the foothills that bordered the Rockies, they would find the trees growing smaller all the while, until far up the heights the stunted mesquite or the dwarfed cedar alone remained.

Not at all dismayed, after they had refreshed themselves with the lunch brought for that purpose, the young hunters again started out.

The wind had veered somewhat, and with this fresh start they changed their own course, so as to keep it coming toward them. Thad was just as well pleased, for this new direction would serve to keep them within a few miles of camp; and in case they did manage to secure meat, they would not have so far to transport it.

Still the time kept slipping away, and the sun could hardly have been more than two hours above the western horizon when suddenly a buck was started. Every one was so eager to get in a shot, that a regular volley rang out immediately.

There was positively no chance for the poor deer. He went down in a heap, and was so near dead when he reached the ground that he did not even give a last expiring kick.

Of course the boys were delighted, especially when Allan declared their united quarry was a nice young buck, and that his flesh ought by all rights be tender.

Using the greatest dispatch the deer was soon cut up. And when the various packages of meat had been judiciously distributed, the five scouts started on their return to camp.

Thanks to the knowledge of woodcraft possessed by Allan and Thad, they managed to make the camp on a line as straight as an arrow, almost. Indeed, Thad declared that a bee laden with honey, could make no more direct drive for the hive than Allan had in leading them toward the region of the camp.

It was just beginning to get a little dusk when they sighted the crackling fire, and hurrying along, entered camp. Thad looked around. Davy was busy over the fire, and the delightful smell of frying trout told what his occupation must be. Smithy was cutting up some small wood with the camp-hatchet. Both looked up as the hunters came in.

“Where’s Bumpus?” asked Thad, quickly scenting trouble.

Davy and Smithy exchanged glances.

“We hoped he’d found you, and come back,” observed the former.

“Found us? What do you mean by that?” demanded the scoutmaster.

“We went down to the foot of the pool to fish,” explained Davy. “An hour later I came back to get another hook, and I found that Bumpus had disappeared, taking his gun with him.”

Thad and Allan exchanged worried glances. With night at hand and that clumsy tenderfoot lost somewhere in the big timber, it was no wonder that a sense of impending trouble, that might yet end in tragedy, oppressed them.

CHAPTER V.
THE MISSING TENDERFOOT.

“It looks like poor old Bumpus is lost,” said Allan, presently, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them all.

“Lost—whew!” muttered Giraffe, with a suggestive whistle, and an elevation of the eyebrows that stood for a great deal.

“That big booby lost!” said Step Hen.

“What on earth can we do?” Smithy asked.

Again they looked at each other.

Consternation had undoubtedly fallen upon the camp of the scouts, just as though a wet blanket had suddenly been thrown on some pet project. It would have been a matter of more or less concern had Davy Jones failed to turn up after a day’s hunt in the big timber, or Giraffe, or Step Hen; but Bumpus, why, no one save himself had ever seriously contemplated the possibility of the fat boy going astray.

And yet, now that they thought of it, how many times had they heard him prophesying that if ever he did find himself wandering about alone, he would know how to take care of himself? Bumpus had for a long time been making preparations looking to such a happening. The remembrance of this seemed to cheer the others up a little, after the first shock had passed.

“He was always dreading just this same thing,” said Davy Jones.

“And getting ready against the evil day,” remarked Allan.

“That was why he bought his little compass,” put in Giraffe.

“Ditto his camp hatchet,” added Step Hen.

“And I reckon, suh,” observed the Southern boy, “that Bumpus had it in mind more than anything else when he took to carrying that piece of window sash cord around with him.”

“Sure thing,” Giraffe went on. “I’ve heard him say it was apt to come in handy lots of times.”

“And it did,” broke in Davy Jones, earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for that same handy rope, fellows, there’s no telling what would have happened to me; or what gloom might be ahangin’ over this here camp right now.”

“Good old Bumpus!” murmured Smithy, quite affected.

“Always willing to do his share of the work. You never knew him to shirk, or get a cramp in the stomach,” and as Giraffe said this he cast a severe look over in the direction of Davy Jones, who turned red in the face, gave a little uneasy laugh, and hastened to exclaim:

“Oh! that joke is ancient history now, Giraffe, I’ve reformed since I joined the patrol.”

Some years before, the Jones boy had really been subject to violent cramps that gave him great pain, and doubled him up like a jack-knife, or a closed hinge. He was always an object of pity at such times, and had frequently been allowed to go home from school because of his affliction.

But the time came when the teacher observed that these convenient “cramps” never arrived on a rainy day; and also that Davy recovered in a miraculous fashion, once he reached the open air. And when Davy was simply allowed to retire to a cloak room, to let the “spasm” pass, instead of being started homeward, it was noticed that his complaint quickly disappeared.

So on joining the scouts, Davy, whose dislike for exerting himself had been his weakness, began to have those strange “cramps” whenever some hard work was to be done.

But trust boys for noticing that the pains never, never attacked him when a meal was awaiting attention. And Davy was soon made so ashamed of himself that he did actually “reform,” as he now declared.

“Well,” Smithy went on to say, “it’s some satisfaction, anyhow, to know the poor old elephant is so well fixed, if he does have to pass a night or two in the woods alone.”

“He evidently took a lot of grub and matches along,” said Davy.

“And if he has a fire, he can do without his blanket,” Allan observed.

“While we’re pitying him in this way, how do we know but what it may be the best thing in the world for Bumpus,” suggested Thad.

“Yes, he needs something like this to give him self-reliance. Bumpus was always ready to follow at the heels of some one who led; but who ever knew him to start out on his own hook?” said Allan.

“If only we could be sure of finding him again, after a couple of days had gone by, it wouldn’t be so bad,” declared Smithy.

“Who’ll tell his folks?” asked Davy Jones, dejectedly.

Thad turned on him like a flash.

“Here, we don’t want any of that sort of talk,” he said, severely. “We’re going to find our missing comrade again, all right. Get that fixed in your mind, Davy. It may be to-morrow, or the day after, or even a week from now, but we’ll find him sooner or later, and he’ll know more than he ever did before, too.”

“You just bet he will,” chuckled Giraffe, as he mentally pictured the fat boy stalking through that great tract of timber, solemnly consulting his compass from time to time, and yet utterly unable to say whether the camp lay to the north, south, east or west.

“It’ll just be the making of Bumpus, fellers,” ventured Step Hen.

“But see here,” remarked Thad, “if he disappeared this morning, how is it you two, Davy and Smithy, let the whole afternoon go by without trying to communicate with us?”

Davy Jones took it upon himself to answer.

“You see, Thad,” he began, “in the first place we didn’t know for sure the poor old silly was lost, till late in the afternoon. We just kinder felt a bit uneasy, but every time I came to camp after fishin’ an hour or so, I expected to see him sitting here.”