The Rambler Club
in the Mountains

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP" ETC.

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMX

COPYRIGHT
1910 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

In pursuance of his intention to write stories full of lively, wholesome adventure for boys, the author presents "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," following "The Rambler Club Afloat," and "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp."

The five boys leave their home in Wisconsin and journey to the far-away state of Oregon. There, in the mountain wilderness, among the haunts of big game, they meet with plenty of exciting adventures; and Dick Travers, the "official photographer," succeeds in making some remarkable snap-shots.

"Little Bill" Dugan and "Surly Joe" Tomlin, who are harboring fancied grievances, unintentionally bring the boys into great peril. Their thrilling experience, however, enables them to solve the mystery in the fate of Howard Fenton, who has been carried through the gorge of Canyon River.

The Ramblers find all their courage and endurance called into play, but prove again that they are made of the right stuff.

In spite of all they have gone through, the boys have not lost their love for roughing it, and they look forward with pleasure to other adventures with rifle and rod, some of which are recounted in "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."

W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.

Contents

Illustrations

The Rambler Club in the Mountains

[CHAPTER I]

UP TO THE LAKE

"Well, boys, here we are at last!"

Bob Somers, with a smile of satisfaction on his healthy, sunburned face, uttered these words, as he stood, surrounded by his fellow members of the Rambler Club, at a small railroad station in Oregon. To their left, above a line of trees, columns of brownish smoke and jets of dazzling white steam shot up, each moment changing position and showing how fast the train from which they had just alighted was speeding on its way over the iron rails.

About them was a rich and fertile valley overlooked by a range of rugged mountains, several of whose summits, crowned with snow, gleamed brightly against the sky. It was a wild and beautiful prospect that met the Ramblers' gaze, and their eyes sparkled.

"Well, here we are at last!" repeated "Captain Bob," seating himself upon a trunk. "What do you think of it, Chubby?"

Stout, good-natured Dave Brandon, fanning his face vigorously, paused for an instant, turned slowly around until his eyes had taken in the entire scene, and then replied, "Simply grand, Bob. My, but won't I make some great sketches!"

"Chub—artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."

"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em," grinned little Tom Clifton—"real exciting sport, that."

"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully. "It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle said——"

"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and——"

"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.

"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.

"Cinnamon—that's it—knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom, with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."

"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel uncommonly tired—and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a square meal."

A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the door.

"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell, jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.

Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master, reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he connected; "but he'll be here all right—don't worry yourselves—there!"

He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and apparently moving at a snail's pace.

"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.

"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I wish he would hurry."

"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some party was a-going to have the place this summer."

"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us there."

Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip came over the still air.

In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple grays, rattled briskly along.

"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave Brandon, resuming a standing posture.

To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.

"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.

"Mornin', Jed—mornin', gents!"

The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.

In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose, a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted that he wore an extremely sour expression.

"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."

"I see 'em—my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay here all your lives, ain't yer?"

"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.

"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."

But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.

"Them nags has to take a rest," he announced, calmly. "Beats me, Jed, why any one should want to come out here. Only wish I had 'nuff coin to git away."

The station-master laughed.

"'Tain't the first time you've said so, Bill," he observed, dryly.

"An' won't be the last, nuther. I ain't never had no chance. Jack Bender went off to Portland, an' I hear tell he's makin' lots of money. I'm smart as him, any day."

"Big Bill's" restless eyes fixed themselves on the other's face, and, as if expecting that his statement might be challenged, he paused.

Then, as silence ensued, Bob Somers spoke up. "How long will it take us to reach the village?" he asked.

"If the old rattleboard don't git throw'd down the precipice, about five hours."

"What precipice?" asked Tom Clifton, with an uneasy look.

"Over at Blinker's Pass—a clean drop of three hundred feet, 'most straight as the walls of this here shanty, eh, Jed?"

"Whew! Anything ever happen there?" asked Tom.

"Four year ago next June, a hoss slipped, took over his mate, an' as neat a trap as you ever laid yer eyes on was busted into a thousand pieces."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Tom, breathlessly, "wasn't that awful! Driver go over, too?"

"Jest managed to jump an' save hisself."

"Are your horses liable to stumble?" Tom's voice was slightly tremulous, and he glanced sharply at the four dapple grays.

"All hosses is," was the unsatisfactory reply, "but I cant be a-talkin' here all day—give us a hand, Jed—no, we don't want no help." He waved aside the boys, seized hold of a box, and, within a few minutes, assisted by the station-master, had stowed away the baggage upon the top of the vehicle.

"Lucky we ain't got no other passengers to-day," he grumbled, as he passed an enormous red handkerchief across his perspiring forehead. "Fetch out the mail-bag, Jed, an' we'll git. Somebody can ride up with me, if he wants to."

"I will," said Bob Somers, quickly.

In a jiffy, he had climbed up to the seat.

"Awful selfish, I know, fellows," he said, smilingly, "and——"

But his further speech was cut short by "Big Bill," who dropped heavily beside him and picked up the lines.

"Git up, there! Whoa—steady, boy, steady—so long, Jed." His long, snake-like whip twisted and writhed through the air, cracking like a volley of pistol-shots; the leaders plunged forward, and, in a moment, a cloud of dust again arose, and the little station was veiled behind the flying particles.

The dapple grays, at an even trot, pounded over the yellow road, past white farmhouses, green fields and orchards loaded with fruit, toward the tree-covered mountains which loomed up straight ahead.

"This is a dandy country," cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "Must be all kinds of game out here. Say, are there many visitors at the village?"

"Ever since people got the idea that it was a good health resort, we've had 'em—that is now an' then," responded the driver, skilfully flipping the off-horse on the ear, "but I only wish I could git away."

Bob smiled. "Any young fellows around?" he asked—"enough to make up a baseball nine? It would be jolly good fun to have a game."

"I ain't got no time for such foolishness," growled "Big Bill," flipping the other horse with equal skill. "There's young fellers around, of course. Did you ever see a place without 'em? An' I ain't a-sayin' that they're all they should be, neither."

"Some people from New York here, aren't there?"

"How did you know?" queried Dugan, with a look of surprise.

"Oh, my uncle told me something about 'em. Said they were good sort, and all that."

"Guess you're talkin' 'bout Fenton an' his son, Howard," responded Dugan, frowning until the lines on either side of his nose had deepened into ruts. "They're staying at the hotel. A good sort, you say? Well, I haven't much use for 'em. Neither one never throw'd no coin in my way. Whoa, you brute! If that little feller inside sees old 'Peggy' a-stumblin' like that, he'll be scared enough to git out—an' walk."

Dugan's sour expression relaxed, and he laughed loudly.

The road led across a rolling valley, and Bob Somers drew an involuntary breath of admiration as the ever-changing panorama opened out before him. Rugged forms on the mountains gradually grew more distinct, until the rocky sides of frowning precipices could be clearly seen.

"Pretty heavily timbered," observed Bob, with a glance aloft. "Great Scott, that mountain we're coming to is a whopper, all right."

"'Tain't nothin' to some," replied Dugan, "but I reckon when we git to Blinkers Pass you'll want to climb inside—most of 'em does."

"Not I," laughed Bob. "Only wish we were there now. Hello, Dave!" he sang out.

"Hello, Bob!" came a cheery response from within the coach.

"What do you think of this for scenery—isn't it great?"

"Oh, ho—best I ever saw. I'm getting inspirations every minute. Did you ever see anything prettier than this?"

As he spoke, the vehicle lumbered heavily over a bridge. Below, a turbulent stream foamed its way in and out among rocks and boulders, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. The trail led upward, and when an hour had passed—an hour full of delight to the boys—they were in the midst of a wild and unfrequented region. Here and there, leaves of the maple and ash shone out against the darker pines and cedars, while the dogwood in full bloom lightened the landscape with its cheerful colors. Forest perfumes filled the air, and the notes of many woodland songsters rose above the steady grind of the coach.

"Perfectly su-perb—magnificent!" floated out of the window, and Bob Somers chuckled as he listened to the delighted comments of his friends.

It was a long, toilsome ascent. The road twisted and turned, now lost in the dark, gloomy recesses of the mountain, then emerging into the clear daylight, where views of the broad valley were obtained.

"Crickets, but we are getting up in the air," called out Tom Clifton. "How much further is it to that pass?"

Dugan pulled up his panting horses. "A right smart ways, yet," he answered, "but you'll know it when we get there, young 'un."

At the next halting place, a magnificent view caused the Ramblers to almost exhaust their vocabulary of admiring expressions. A veil of bluish mist hung over the opposite mountain, while its snow-capped summit, rising clear, shone out brilliantly against the sky. Far down in the valley a silver torrent threaded its way among the rich masses of vegetation.

"Glorious!" cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "It certainly makes a chap feel small. Know how high that mountain is, Mr. Dugan?"

The driver snorted.

"Bill—plain Bill's my name," he said, sourly. "Never had no tape measure long enough to find out, but some says it's five thousand feet."

"And it looks it," was Bob's comment.

"In ten minutes we'll git to Blinker's Pass," went on "Big Bill," slowly. "Don't know but what we oughter blindfold that little feller inside—say, what's the fat boy's name?"

"Dave Brandon."

"He don't look as if he ever done a lick of work in his life. Whoa, you 'Peggy.' Too clost to the pass for any of that game;" and Bill, with a laugh, gazed into Bob Somers' face.

"Might as well give it up, Bill—you can't scare me," laughed Bob. "Guess you won't find Tom Clifton showing the white feather, either."

"We hain't came to it yet," and Bill smiled grimly.

But the pass was soon reached. The road rose steeply, then stretched ahead in a level course for a considerable distance.

Bob Somers, in spite of his assurance, felt a strange tremor run through him, as they reached the dangerous point. Below, the jagged rocks extended in a sheer descent of several hundred feet, and between them and the bottom was but a narrow strip of turf and rocks. He clutched hold of the seat in a firm grasp and gazed breathlessly at the thrilling sight.

"Something of a drop, eh?" chuckled "Big Bill." "Toss over one of them rocks an' you won't hear a sound when it strikes."

"Great Scott, it's like being in a balloon," gasped Bob.

"It's taken the nerve of many a fellow—it has. Hey, young 'un, are you too scared to take a look?"

The driver leaned around and glanced toward the window. He saw Dave Brandon's smiling face looking calmly down.

"It's deep, and no mistake," observed the stout boy; "but not quite as bad as I hoped."

"Don't expect much, Chubby, do you?" laughed Bob.

As for little Tom Clifton, he smiled faintly, but made no reply to Dugan's question, and the latter was quite sure that he breathed a sigh of relief when the precipice was hidden from view behind a ridge.

Again the coach climbed laboriously upward. Many times the panting animals were allowed to rest, and the Ramblers became impatient to reach their destination. Hunger attacked them, and Dave sighed dolefully as he thought of the long wait before their appetites could be satisfied.

But at length the road began to descend, and about two o'clock they caught a glimpse of a shining body of water with two dark spots at its western end.

"What are they?" asked Bob, with interest.

"Promontory and Hemlock Islands," replied Dugan. "That's Mountain Lake. We're gittin' there now—village is jist beyond the middle of the lake."

"And mighty glad I am to see it," said Bob. "I can make out some of the buildings. Are those white spots farmhouses?"

The driver nodded.

"This must be a great place for boating and fishing."

"'Tain't bad—but jist let me give you a word of advice—keep away from them islands."

"Why?"

"Why?" echoed Dugan, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, jist this side of 'em is the entrance to Canyon River. It runs a-racin' an' teamin' through an awful gorge, an' any feller that gits swept in is a goner."

"Whew! No one ever go through in safety?"

"None that I ever hearn tell of. The sides of the gorge rise plumb out of the water, an' even if you kin swim like a fish it wouldn't do you no good."

"Well, I guess you won't catch me trying to swim through," laughed Bob.

"The end of the lake is all right for a feller that knows the currents," went on Dugan. "That's what I told Howard Fenton."

As if glad that their journey was about over, the horses broke into a brisk trot and the coach rattled noisily along, swerving from side to side, while Bill Dugan cracked his long whip at frequent intervals.

He was a skilful but reckless driver, and the last stretch was taken at a clip which made Bob Somers hold tightly to his seat.

As they approached the lake, Captain Bob became more and more pleased with its surroundings. The forms of the two islands began to stand out clearly, and he soon saw that the nearest was scarcely more than two hundred yards from the end of the picturesque sheet of water. The lake rounded sharply at this point, being shut in by granite cliffs. It was here, immediately opposite Promontory Island, that Canyon River had its source, the water flowing into a gorge whose towering walls rose in places from five hundred to a thousand feet.

"Do people climb the mountain?" asked Bob.

"Anybody that don't mind riskin' their necks kin. But it's an awful job, an' nobody with any sense would try it," growled Dugan. "Onct, I was foolish enough ter go up with some fellers. We set out early, an'"—Dugan paused; the recollections brought out the wrinkles on his forehead again—"I'll never forgit it. After a-climbin' an' climbin', we came to a wall of rock risin' most straight up in the air."

"Well, what happened?"

"The fust thing we did arter that was to run inter a hornet's nest, an' in tryin' ter git away from the pesky bugs I fell down a bank, every blessed cent I had rolled out of me pockets, an', for all I know, they're a-rollin' yet."

Bob politely refrained from smiling at Bill Dugan's ludicrous expression of disgust.

"Not only that," went on the driver, "but I ruined me best pair of boots, an' was laid up for a week with a bad arm. An' all that jist to hear the sound of a waterfall in the distance—always did run in mean luck."

"Climb the wall of rock?" queried Bob.

"I did not," snorted Dugan. "T'other chaps wanted to, but I says, 'Not fur me.'"

"Then you never saw the waterfall?"

"No! An' don't want to, nuther. Some fellers has, but the pesky birds an' animals kin do all the lookin', as fur as I keer. As I tole you afore, anybody what gits caught in that gorge is a goner. Where the river comes out there's a current that would make you shiver to look at. No boat could git up it."

"How is the mountain on the other side?"

"Like a twin brother to this one, an' hard to tell which is the meanest. None of us around here ever keers to go up, but strangers, like as not, will be crazy 'nuff ter try it."

"That's mighty interesting—I mean the waterfall," observed Bob Somers.

"I suspicioned you'd say so, an' wouldn't s'prise me if you turned out to be one of them fellers what don't mind a-runnin' inter danger—the wuss, the better. Only hopes you git cured soon," and with this ill-natured remark the driver lapsed into silence, while Bob devoted his attention to the scenery.

The lake now stretched straight ahead, its furthest shore almost lost in a haze that enveloped the base of the mountains beyond. The road led down to the water's edge, and once there, it seemed but a few minutes before the stage-coach was rattling past the outlying farms. The individual houses of the village were now clearly distinguishable, as well as a wharf, at which several boats were moored.

At length, the vehicle drew up in front of the Resort House, a rather pretentious building which combined hotel, post-office and general store.

It seemed as if the entire male population had assembled to witness the arrival of the coach. Men and boys lolled about, exhibiting the liveliest interest in the proceedings, and gaping curiously at the five boys, as they stepped to the ground.

"Act as if they'd never seen a human being before," whispered Sam Randall. "My, but it's good to stretch one's legs again."

"Say, which of you fellows is Bob Somers?" exclaimed a cheery voice.

A BOY STEPPED FORWARD.

From among the group, a boy stepped forward, looking inquiringly from one to another.

[CHAPTER II]

HOWARD FENTON

His general appearance indicated at once that he was not a native of that region. His neat blue suit, of the latest cut, set off a slight, boyish figure to advantage, and seemed more appropriate to Fifth Avenue than to a small mountain village. A shock of chestnut hair, in defiance of comb and brush, swept across a white forehead, and his frank blue eyes were pleasant to look upon. Below them, a coat of tan told of his outdoor life.

Bob Somers held out his hand.

"I'll bet you're Howard Fenton," he said, warmly.

"You've struck it," laughed the other, accepting the proffered hand and giving it a hearty shake. "And mighty glad I am, too, that you chaps have arrived," he went on, totally ignoring the presence of many interested listeners.

"My uncle spoke to me about you," said Bob. "Fellows, this is Howard Fenton."

"Feels good to meet some one," laughed Dave. "Takes off some of the strangeness of landing in a strange place. How do you like it out here?"

"For a while, not at all," replied Fenton, lowering his voice. "You see," he added, confidentially, "I was always used to the city, and the strangeness you speak of—well"—he drew a long breath—"it hit me pretty hard, at first. Silly, I know, but the pater—he's out here with me—thought he knew what kind of a vacation I'd enjoy."

"And he wasn't mistaken, after all," interrupted Bob; "I can see that by your face."

"I should say not. A few days, and I began to like it immensely."

"See here," broke in Dugan's rough voice, as its owner stepped out of the post-office, "I'm going to take your truck over to the house. If you're goin', jump in;" and, without waiting for a reply, he mounted to his seat.

"Coming along, Fenton, aren't you?" inquired Bob, cordially.

The New York boy nodded.

"Sure," he answered. "We'll get better acquainted on the way. Maybe I can help you to get things started."

As the coach whirled along, Fenton told them that he intended taking a scientific course in Columbia University and had brought a few text-books along to study between times.

"And I haven't opened one of them yet," he added, with a laugh.

"Best plan for vacation," said Dave Brandon, lazily.

"Mr. Barton told me that you fellows have formed a club."

"That's right—and we've seen some great times, too," responded Somers.

"Go in for parliamentary procedure and all that, do you—whereas, etc., etc., be it therefore resolved that——"

"Not much," grinned Sam Randall. "Hunting, fishing, and having a good time generally is what we're after. That stout boy opposite is our poet laureate and artist in chief; Dick, here, is photographer; Bob's captain, and Tom Clifton and I are just ordinaries."

Fenton laughed.

"Do you really paint?" he asked, with interest, turning toward Dave.

"Oh, yes—a little," admitted the latter. "Just took it up last winter, though."

"Are you going to make any sketches out here?"

"It would take an awful lot to keep me from it. I have a stack of canvas that has to be daubed up. And talk about fine views, never saw anything to beat 'em."

"I met Mr. Barton several times," went on Fenton. "He sort of took to me because I came from New York."

"Yes, that's where he used to live," said Bob. "Uncle Isaac came out here a good many years ago. He has some big orchards a few miles away—grows all sorts of fruits, you know. He bought this house because it's right near the lake."

"Mighty good of him to invite us out here, wasn't it?" put in Sam Randall.

"Uncle got the idea of going to Europe," added Bob, by way of explanation, "so he suggested that the whole crowd come over. And he left a colored boy to do the cooking, too."

Fenton nodded, and Bob went on, "The Rambler Club rendered father a big service not long ago. We took a trip for him, and on the way some fellows blew up our motor boat."

"Blew it up?" gasped Fenton.

"Yes—into a thousand bits. I'll tell you about it some time. Well, dad insisted upon making up the loss in some way, and when Uncle Isaac proposed this jaunt, I didn't have any trouble in fixing it up. Uncle Isaac and his wife left a bit sooner than they expected, and hustled us out here."

"Nothing could have suited me better," declared Fenton, warmly. "I guess you won't mind my mixing in with you once in a while. Most of the visitors in town are elderly people, and the boys," he lowered his voice, "well, they're good enough chaps in their way, but not just the sort I like. Jim Havens and Tom Sanders are the two I know best."

"Why do they call Dugan 'Big Bill'?" asked Tom Clifton. "He isn't big."

Fenton grinned.

"Has a nephew of the same name," he explained. "He's smaller, so it's 'Big Bill' and 'Little Bill.' Fine pair they are, too. Hello—here we are."

This announcement interested the boys immensely. The coach was turning into a private road, which led toward a substantial two-story building. Standing some distance back of the main thoroughfare, its graceful white outlines could be seen, surrounded by beautiful trees and shrubbery. To its left was a stable.

"Not a bad looking place, eh, fellows?" observed Bob, with satisfaction.

"It's dandy," put in Dick Travers, enthusiastically. "And so close to the lake."

"Yum—yum, I can't see anything, I'm so hungry," sighed Dave. "Thank goodness—no more traveling to-day."

As Dugan brought up his horses before the entrance, a smiling colored lad rushed out.

"I 'clar' to goodness, the boys has come at last, eh? Mistah Dugan!" he exclaimed. "I certainly is glad, for suah."

"Show it then, Sam Bins, by helpin' to git this here truck off the rattleboard," growled the driver.

"So you is Mistah Somers, an' party," went on the lad. "I've been a-lookin' for yo' every day. Yo' sho must be hungry, gemmen. All right, Mistah Dugan, I'll help yo'. Step inside, Mistah Somers an' fren's, an' I'll git a meal that'll do yo' a power of good."

"Glorious words," murmured Dave, "to be followed by glorious action."

Ten minutes later, the "rattleboard" had disappeared, and the boys were busily engaged in removing the dust and stains of travel.

The rooms of Rickham House were large and furnished more for comfort than appearance. As the boys collected in the large, square dining-hall, they examined with interest the old-fashioned fireplace, substantial oak furniture and numerous engravings of hunting scenes which hung upon the walls.

Sam Bins had disappeared, but occasionally sounds from the open door indicated that something was happening in the kitchen.

"Did you ever think how much we owe to cooks?" said Dave, as he settled down in a comfortable chair. "Why——"

"Huh, cut it out, Chubby," admonished Dick Travers. "Let's talk about something worth while."

"Won't do it now, after being sat on like that," sighed the poet. "Wake me up, fellows, when dinner is ready," and he closed his eyes.

Sam Bins was a good cook and had a proper appreciation of the size of a hungry boy's appetite. The meal was therefore a bountiful one.

Between talking over their plans, relating stories and listening to Fenton's description of New York, the Ramblers passed a very pleasant time.

The meal at length having been concluded, Sam Bins took them to the stable and exhibited a pair of fine saddle-horses.

"Yo' fellahs know how to ride, ob course," he said, with a huge grin.

"Not I," responded Fenton, decidedly, as the others nodded. "Never was on a horse in my life."

Sam Bins was profoundly astonished.

"Then I wouldn't advise yo' to try either of dese," he said, rather scornfully. "Dey's got a lot ob spirit—dey has."

Fenton laughingly assured him that he wouldn't.

The rest of the day was spent in arranging their rooms. Dave and Sam took one, Tom and Dick another, while Bob Somers used a smaller one at the western end.

Since leaving their homes in Wisconsin, they had been almost constantly traveling, and the whole of the previous night was spent on the cars. This, with the journey on the stage-coach, had fatigued them greatly. But in spite of eyes that persisted in blinking, they bravely kept at work until their belongings were arranged to suit them.

Fenton, the city boy, had a wholesome respect for firearms, and the Ramblers, as they exhibited their brightly polished shotguns and rifles, filled him with apprehension.

"I'd be afraid of my life to handle one of those things," he admitted, candidly. "You see," he grinned, "I never had any occasion to use 'em in New York. But there are two things I've learned pretty well out here—sailing a boat and handling a canoe—what's the matter with taking a sail day after to-morrow?" he rattled on. "The pater has a good boat, the 'Dauntless,' and, if you like, we'll explore Promontory and Hemlock Islands. They camp out there once in a while. Tom Sanders and Jim Havens, the fellows I spoke about, are over there now."

"You can just bet we'd like it," declared Bob, enthusiastically.

"The lake is perfectly safe as far as the passage between the islands," went on Fenton. "I won't take you into any danger."

"You are not going to find us a scary crowd," laughed Bob; and the matter was arranged then and there. Fenton soon after took his departure.

"A nice chap, that," observed Dave, as his slight figure grew small in the distance.

"Awful glad we got acquainted so soon," said Tom. "Somehow or other, he doesn't seem like a stranger. A smart fellow, too."

"He's in good company, then, Tom," was Dick Travers' rejoinder.

That evening, the Ramblers sat on the wide veranda, enjoying the pleasant air.

The moon was mirrored in shining streaks on the breeze-swept waters of the lake, and its light played hide-and-seek on the mountain crags beyond. Several peaks gleamed ghostly white against a greenish sky, while the valley appeared gray and mysterious.

"Some of those mountains look like volcanoes," observed Tom.

"When did you ever see a volcano?" laughed Dick.

"In books, smarty."

"Some of them were volcanoes at one time," declared Dave Brandon, "and there must have been terrible eruptions. I've read that there's lots of lava and basaltic rock to be seen, and——"

"Basaltic rock? Excuse me, Chubby, but don't spring anything like that so suddenly. Basaltic—wow!" and Dick's companions joined in the laugh that followed.

"Oregon is a great state," went on Dave, with a twinkle in his eye. "There's a lake—Crater Lake they call it—an awful big sheet of water, right in the crater of an extinct volcano, away up in the air, with high walls all around."

"Nice place to drop in," commented Sam.

"Canyon River interests me a whole lot," observed Bob. "Of course most of the rivers here are swift-flowing, and there are many canyons—but that waterfall—great to get a look at it, eh?"

"Yes, if we could soar above it in a flying machine," drawled Dave. "Even the thought of climbing a mountain makes me tired. Fellows, I'm going to turn right in."

And the others decided to follow his example.

[CHAPTER III]

ON THE "DAUNTLESS"

Breakfast on the following morning was quite late. Only a series of wild whoops and yells, which almost scared Sam Bins out of his senses, had served to awaken Dave Brandon, and he protested vigorously.

"Why can't you let a fellow sleep?" he grumbled. "It's only eleven hours ago that I tumbled into bed."

"Nine o'clock, nine o'clock!" called Sam, laughingly. "Do you want to sleep all day?"

"Yes, Sam—you've struck it exactly. Think I will," and Dave tried to lock the door.

But three sturdy shoulders proved too much, and he capitulated.

A tour of the grounds followed their meal. To the east of Rickham House was a large, level field, and on reaching it Sam Randall uttered an exclamation.

"As I live, a regular diamond!" he said. "Crickets, isn't this fine?"

"Well, I should say so," put in Dick.

"Uncle Isaac was always great on baseball," explained Bob. "Played a good bit himself—centre field, I think. Well, I suppose he managed to have a game here, once in a while. But, come on, fellows, let's take a look at the boats."

Right across the road, which followed the course of the lake, and almost directly opposite the house, was Mr. Barton's private wharf. Besides several canoes, he owned the sailboats "Speedy" and "Spray." Both were about twenty feet long, but the former was narrow of beam and built mainly for the purpose which its name implied.

"What a grand summer we'll have," cried Tom Clifton, enthusiastically, as he stooped over to examine the trim-looking craft.

"Well, I rather guess so," said Sam. "But it's time now to get over and see Fenton."

Back to the yellow road they trudged. It led past farmhouses, and fields with growing crops, or orchards containing many kinds of fruit trees. It was a rich and fertile valley. Here and there, flowers grew in rich profusion, roses, lilac and rhododendrons mingling their color in harmonious contrasts.

The village was about half a mile from Rickham House. It had enjoyed a boom as a health resort, on account of newly-discovered springs near by, and the Resort House was one of the results which followed. Another hotel was in the near future.

The boys found a few loungers on the porch of the hotel. They stared at the Ramblers curiously. One in particular—a typical mountaineer—seemed the most interested. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply wrinkled face, scraggly brownish beard, and wore an expression which Dick Travers declared "made 'Big Bill's' face seem positively mirthful."

"Wal, wal! what's all this?" he growled. "Where did this parcel of boys drop from?"

"Not from an air-ship, that's sure," replied Dick, flippantly.

"That ain't answerin' my question, youngster. Be you a-goin' ter stay long?"

"Long enough to knock over a grizzly or two," laughed Dick. "Ever see any?"

"Did I ever see any?" snorted the tall man. "Boys—you hear that? Askin' old Joe Tomlin sich a question."

"He's makin' fun of ye, Joe," said some one, with a sly wink.

"No one kin do that," exclaimed the other, fiercely. "See here, kid——"

But the Ramblers had entered the hotel.

They soon found Howard Fenton, who introduced them to his father, a slender, grave-looking gentleman wearing a beard.

But they soon found that Mr. Fenton's cold appearance belied his nature. He entered into their talk with almost the zest of a boy, and all were really sorry when he declined an invitation to accompany them.

"Just the kind of weather for a sail," observed Howard, as they walked out upon the wharf.

The sky was partly overcast and the low clouds scudded before a breeze that deeply rippled the surface of the lake. Several boats moored to the pilings were lazily rocking or straining at their ropes. The largest was the "Dauntless," a staunch boat, built both for speed and safety.

"It's mine, boys," said Fenton, with a smile. "Jump in, and let me show you what a good sailor I've become."

The lines were cast off and the sail run up. In an instant it filled out. Careening over, under the full force of the wind, the "Dauntless" plunged her bow into the choppy water, and a cloud of spray dashed over the rail. Soon she was fairly racing toward the islands, Promontory rising grim and majestic against the lowering sky.

"Isn't this grand?" cried Bob. "See how fast we're leaving the shore. Where are you going to land us, Fenton?"

"On Promontory Island. But we have to go through the passageway and around on the other side."

It seemed but a short time before they were skirting the shore of Hemlock Island, while a little way off the more rugged sides of the other rose, in places, almost perpendicularly. Here and there, stunted growth struggled for existence, but the summit was crowned with a thick growth of trees. Hemlock Island was flat, and almost entirely wooded.

"Look alive, fellows!" warned Fenton, at length.

The boom swung around, the "Dauntless" shivered and shook, then, righting herself easily, sent the spray flying again, as she came about and headed for the passageway.

"What whopping big trees," cried Tom Clifton, admiringly, noticing the giants that rose here and there among the dark firs.

"Redwood," said Fenton. "This is a glorious country for trees and plant life generally. There are oaks in there, besides wild cherry and many other kinds. Of course some parts of the state are barren, with salt marshes and plains covered with sage-brush."

"Give me this part every time, then," said Bob. "Doesn't it look inviting in there, fellows? Imagine a nice little camp, and dinner under way."

"Wait until you see the other side of Promontory," put in Fenton; "it beats this all hollow."

At the proper time, the course of the boat was again changed slightly, and they entered a wide channel.

The passageway was almost in the shape of a letter V, with irregular sides.

In the shelter of the great crags, the speed of the "Dauntless" was considerably checked, indeed, within the channel, she was almost becalmed.

"Think of trying to climb that cliff, Chubby," exclaimed Sam Randall, glancing aloft. "Whew, wouldn't it be awful?"

"Makes me nervous to think of it, even," broke in Tommy Clifton.

"I can show you a way to reach the top without danger," laughed Fenton. "From there, you get a good view of Canyon River."

In a short time the "Dauntless" swung around a point.

On this side, the character of the island was different. In parts there were rocky cliffs, while elsewhere thickly-wooded slopes led upward. They were steep, but easily climbed.

Now and then they passed picturesque coves and wooded points, and the newcomers were thoroughly charmed.

"Hello, I see a boat!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly.

"And by the flying partridge, the smoke of a camp-fire," laughed Dave.