Читать книгу Unexplored! - Chaffee Allen - Страница 2

Ted Smith, flinging his long legs off a frisky bay, grinned delightedly as his eye caught a flag-decked touring car.

“Are you riding?” called the boy at the wheel.

“Sure AM!” drawled the ranch boy. “How about yourself?”

“Betcher life, Old Kid!” Ace King flung himself to the ground, disclosing the fact of his new leather chaps – a contrast to Ted’s overalls. Greetings followed between Ted and Senator King in the back seat, and Pedro Martinez, a black-eyed young fellow who sat a pinto pony alongside.

The slanting rays of California sunshine were fanned by a breeze from Huntington Lake, as the crowd sifted about the corral fence at Cedar Crest. The prevailing khaki of the dusty onlookers gave way at intervals to a splash of color. An Indian in a purple shirt was borrowing the orange chaps of another broncho-buster; he had drawn number two from the hat. Most of the cowmen offset their “two-quart” sombreros with brilliant-hued bandannas knotted loosely at their throats. A few wore chaparreras in stamped leather, and a few in goatskin – red or black or tan – though most let it go at plain blue overalls. One of the machines drawn up beside the soda-pop stand fluttered a flag on its nose. For the Fourth was to be marked by a reading of the Declaration of Independence before the rodeo and barbecue. (The day had begun with a Parade of Horribles, in which every last lumberman took part, chanting the marching song to an accompaniment of well-belabored frying-pans.)

Unbidden, a band of unspeakably unwashed Digger Indians, attired in gay and ill-assorted rags, appeared, and seated themselves on the opposite hill-side, beaming vacuously as the ox was put in the pit to roast (together with two smaller carcasses that the camp cook winkingly designated as wild mutton, though he was careful to bury the antlers against the possible advent of the Forest Ranger).

The rodeo master, a megaphone-voiced blond giant, in high-heeled riding boots and spurs that made him limp when he walked, careened up and down the dusty field on a high-stepping bay, while two lasso men in steel-studded belts and leather cuffs helped round the range stock into the adjoining small corral.

An unbroken two-year-old with wild, rolling eyes tried to climb the fence when the rope tightened on his throat, and a sleek mule kicked out in a way that left a red mark on the flank of a lean white mare. Then one of the bulls in a separate corral shoved his head under the lower of the two log bars that fenced him in and lifted – lifted, – but could not break through.

“Riding, old Scout?” Ted asked the young Spanish-Californian.

“’Fraid I’d ride the ground,” admitted Pedro, with a gesture of his plump, manicured hands.

“Yeh! – Saw-horse’s HIS mount!” jollied Ace, though the pinto looked by no means spiritless. (And to himself he added: “Likely promised his mother not to. Gee! I’d like to cut him loose from her apron strings for about three months and see how he’d pan out!”)

“He’s got too much sense to risk his bones,” championed the Senator, (a heavy, florid man with a leonine mass of white curly hair and Ace’s daring black eyes).

Just then a petite young woman rode up, her bobbed curly hair and sun-flushed cheeks topping a red silk blouse joined to her khaki riding breeches by a fringed sash that reached half way to her elkskin boots.

“I say, Rosa, are you riding?” greeted Ace. The girl shook her head merrily. “Dad, that’s Pierre La Coste’s sister, – you know, he’s fire-lookout on Red Top. Used to be one of our Scouts when we lived in Peach Cove.”

“Yeh, we used to call him Pur-r-r,” supplemented the ranch boy.

“And that’s the horse Ranger Radcliffe’s been trying to give her,” added Ace, sotto voce. “Isn’t he a beauty?”

“And she won’t have him?” laughed the Senator.

“Won’t have man or beast.”

Ace, now studying geology at the University of California, though he had traveled widely since the old ranch days, still counted Ted, sandy haired, thin and freckled, struggling to make his mother’s fruit ranch a go, his chum. Pedro, a neighbor of the old days, was his roommate in the fraternity house at Berkeley. All three ran to greet Norris, a young man in the uniform of the U. S. Geological Survey (son of the Forest Supervisor), who now appeared, galloping beside Ranger Radcliffe. For he was to pilot them on a camping trip into the high Sierras in a week or two.

The first entry was just being led forth to be saddled as the fifth and final member of their expedition arrived on the scene, afoot, – Long Lester, a lanky, bewhiskered old prospector in soft felt hat, clean but collarless “b’iled shirt,” vest, cartridge belt and corduroy “pants,” thrust into the tops of ordinary hob-nailed boots.

“Well, you broncho-busters, out in the center!” megaphoned the man on the big bay. “Five more riders here! – Two-fifty to ride and seven-fifty more to go up!” Three men came forward. “We want two more entries. If you pull-leather or fall off, two-fifty. If a fellow rides a bull with one hand hold, he gets seven-fifty. Ten dollars if you go up!”

Ace and Ted exchanged glances as they started forward.

“You’re sure courtin’ trouble,” called the Senator.

“I reckon I am,” grinned Ted, “but I’m broke.”

“You’ll have to pay your winnings to get your bones mended.”

“I’ll take a chance!”

King laughed. Most of the horses he recognized as having been ridden before. But he was secretly resolved if Ace drew a bad one, to exercise his parental authority.

The chums drew from the hat, Ace taking the last name. He started as he looked at his slip. “The white-faced bull,” read Ted over his shoulder.

“Gee! Don’t tell Dad!” breathed Ace. “What’s yours?”

“Spitfire!”

The older boy emitted a long-drawn whistle.

“All right, broncho boys,” megaphoned the starter.

The first entry, rearing and snorting, with two lassos about his neck, had finally been blind-folded and caparisoned.

“Johnny White from Fresno, on Old Ned from Northfork,” rang the announcement. An Indian in overalls swung himself into the saddle simultaneously with the snatching away of lassos and blinders.

The horse tucked his head almost between his knees, and leaped into the air, bowing his back and grunting with each jump, while the dust rose till no one could tell whether the rider was on or off. Then the horse galloped to the opposite side of the corral and his unwelcome incumbent was perceived picking himself sheepishly out of the dust.

“Henry Clark from Table Mountain, on the pinto from Cascada,” the next entry was shortly announced. The Indian in the purple shirt stepped forward, gorgeous in his borrowed chaps.

“Some buckaroo!” grinned Ted.

The pony, not quite so thin as most of the range stock, blinked startled eyes, and the fire-works began. The gorgeous one, barely surviving the first buck, and seeing himself riding for a fall in all his finery, leapt nimbly to the ground while the pony went on bucking. He landed right side up – with no damage to the purple shirt. A derisive jeer greeted this – fiasco.

“He sure wasn’t goin’ to dust them ice-cream pants,” laughed one of the crowd hanging over the fence. The Indian signified a desire to try again. After a couple more riders were called, he was given the same mount again.

This time he saved his finery by grabbing hold with both hands.

“Pulling leather only gets two-fifty,” adjudged the megaphone man.

“He sure had a good hand hold,” gurgled Ted. “Pretty hard on the wrists, isn’t it, Henry?”

“Wait till we get you a medal!” boomed Ace.

Next came a white rider, who won the nick-name “Easy Money” by riding a mule up with a surcingle, then another Indian, – they were mostly the youngsters working on local pack-trains, – who began by straddling the neck of his mount and ended by going over the animal’s head, landing flat on his back. A momentary hush, and the fence lizards began collecting around the limp form. The Indian’s round brown face had turned gray.

“Stand back and give ’m air,” megaphoned the starter, fanning him with his hat. Some one brought water, then the Indian opened his eyes, and presently signified a desire to get up. He was helped to his feet. “He’s all right,” was the final verdict as the little group led off the field. “Somebody give ’m a cigarette.” The Indian leaned against the corral fence nonchalantly, lighting up, though with fingers that shook the flame out of several matches.

“Gee!” nudged Ace. “Dad’s motioning us, and if he knows I’ve drawn that bull, he’ll sure–”

“You’re nineteen.”

“Aw, he’s the Gov’ner, just the same. If you had one you’d see. Let’s stick here behind this bunch till my turn comes ’round.”

“Sure you’d better try it?” Ted laid a hand on his chum’s shoulder.

“Sure thing! What’s the use of living if you never take a chance? Besides, you’ve got a reg’lar rocking-horse yourself, huh?” he scoffed.

“That’s all right, I was born ridin’,” Ted made light of it.

It was now time for the bay bull. As a saddle swings around on anything but a horse, it is easier to ride bulls and mules with a surcingle. It took three men to get the bull into the saddling pen, two with lassos and one with a pole, but the strap was finally adjusted around his chest, and the mount made.

One Shorty Somebody was the rider. And Shorty rode him, – stuck clear across the corral. But there the bull torpedoed the middle log of the fence and went straight through, scraping Shorty off.

Straight into a startled ring of spectators plowed the enraged beast, sending horses whirling and pedestrians dodging for their lives. The petite Rosa’s mount got to dancing, and finally staged a petite runaway on his own account, but Rosa kept her head and a tight rein. A small boy scrambled into a low-branching tree. But three lassos and a dozen mounted men finally headed off the bull and got him into a smaller corral.

Ted looked inquiringly at Ace, but the Senator’s son evidently had his blood up. The white-faced bull, meantime, was again trying to thrust his massive shoulders beneath the lower bar.

Two mules came next on the program, one rider bringing his mount to terms so quickly that people were laying bets it was just a pack-mule, while the other stuck when his jumped the fence.

Ranger Radcliffe, galloping back beside Rosa’s now docile mount, waved a hand to the boys. Then a murmur rippled through the loungers that encircled the corral, as the white-faced bull was called for. Ace’s nerves began to tingle.

This bull had been kept in close confinement for several days past, and it had not improved his temper. They had to throw him to put on the straps.

“Hold him! – Hold him!” at intervals percolated through the hum of voices, as the great brute lay panting in the saddling pen, his eyes ringed with infuriated white, his snorting breath – audible thirty feet away – sending spirals of dust scudding before his nose.

“Well, what do you say? Say it quick! I’m betting on the bull,” King was challenging the Ranger, little dreaming who the rider was to be.

This bull was to be ridden with a saddle and one hand hold. The gate of the saddling pen cracked as its occupant tried to rise.

“You folks around the fence, you had better look out!” megaphoned the starter. “This ’ere bull may not look where he’s a-goin’!”

The gate cracked again. A woman nearby screamed. Two men with lassos ready waited on either side, their mounts aquiver. Ace’s ruddy face had grown strangely lined, but he stood his ground.

“The fellow that rides that bull is sure foolhardy,” the Senator was remarking, pulling his hat further over his iron-gray brows against the slant of the sun. Then the Ranger rode up with Rosa, and she was invited to a seat behind the fluttering flag.

“Either that or almighty sandy,” amended Radcliffe.

Like a streak of lightning the bull arose, jaws slavering. One mighty crack and he had burst the gate, a plunge and he was plowing his way across the field, trailing a rope that still held his saddle horn. The starter raced after, his big bay holding back with all his might on the rope. The dust blew chokingly into the faces of those on the Senator’s side of the corral. Then the bull caught sight of that fluttering red, white and blue.

For one awful instant Rosa found those staring white-rimmed eyes glaring straight into her own. The bull’s next leap would carry him over the fence and into the machine. She blanched, but sat silent. Pedro, drawn up beside her on his pinto, felt paralyzed. The Senator threw his engine on as if to back away.

“Hold him! – HOLD him!” shrilled the starter, pounding back. The rope on the saddle horn – would it hold? Then a lasso was thrown, tightening neatly around the hind legs of the runaway.

“Got him stretched now!” came the triumphant shout, as the bull went down with an infuriated snort, and lay there, chest heaving, while the vaqueros made him fast.

“The ride’s off, – nobody goin’ to ride him to-day!” decided the man on the bay. The bull was relieved of his saddle and headed protestingly back into the small corral.

Ace King’s face was set in deep lines. He had been all nerved up to his ride. Now that it was off, his knees felt shaky, and he climbed to a seat on the top rail. And Pedro flushed to hide his pallor.

But Ted’s time was yet to come. One rider in between, whose horse piled him on the ground, and the announcement came: “Ted Smith from Peach Cove, rides Spitfire from Huntington Lake.”

“I’m sorry for that kid,” stated Long Lester, who leaned lankily over the gate, thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. “Want up, little miss?” and he helped a child to a vantage point beside him.

“Go to it, old pal!” Ace thumped the contestant breath-takingly.

“Spitfire! O-o-wah-hoo-o!” bellowed a group of cow-boys, in imitation of the falsetto Indian yell.

“OO-wah-hoo-oo-oo!” the Indians bettered them.

Senator King honked in joyous abandon. Pedro’s dark eyes flashed. “Spunky kid!” commented Radcliffe. “I’m betting he’ll ride him straight up!”

“He’ll be killed!” Rosa shivered.

“Not with those long legs to get a grip with,” the Ranger reassured her.

“Ain’t that hoss a dinger!” admiringly Long Lester demanded of the assemblage, as Spitfire danced forth with three lassos trying to hold him for the blinders. Again he tried to climb the fence, eyes wide, nostrils quivering.

“I’m just itchin’ to ride him,” Ted replied to Ace’s questioning gaze. Every nerve in his wiry body was keyed electrically. Then the saddle was adjusted, Ted was in the stirrups, and the blinder was jerked free. “R-r-ready! Let ’er go!” was megaphoned.

About that time things began to happen. Spitfire, as if feeling that his reputation needed demonstrating, began to double in his best bucking form.

“Ride him, Ted!” yelled Ace. “Hey, Ted rides him, eh?”

“Scratch him!” contributed Long Lester, who believed in spurs. “Say, he’s a-scratchin’ him up and down! – Ya-hooooooo!” as Ted rode him up again and again, both arms free, slapping him hip and shoulder, hip and shoulder with his sombrero. Zip! —Zip!– Zoom! – Around and around they went, the mustang snorting loudly with each bounce, lathering in his effort to unseat his rider. But Ted had grown to his back.

The broncho stopped, exhausted, flanks heaving.

“SOME riding!” gasped Pedro.

Then a shout went up. Ted was champion rider of the rodeo!

To the ranch boy’s amazement, he now found his long legs dangling from a seat on the shoulders of his two college friends, while they marched about to the tune of “A Jolly Good Fellow,” – Norris himself laughingly joining in the chorus, and Long Lester thumping him breath-takingly between the shoulder blades.

That was the day the camping trip had been planned. It was also the day Ace’s little Spanish ’plane, wirelessed from its hanger in Burlingame1, had given them all a surprise, and a trial sail. The pilot arrived shivering in leather jacket and heavy cap, woolen muffler and goggles, with similar wraps for Ace, whose leather chaps now served a purpose. For the intense cold of the upper levels it was necessary for the pilot to lend his outer apparel, as each of the prospective camp mates in turn took the observer’s seat, with Ace piloting.

Ted was used to flying with him, – had, indeed, given him the nick-name which all had now adopted, as a compliment to his exploits as a birdman. But to the other three it was a new experience. He invited Norris first. Their route lay like a map below them, as they winged their way across the sky, steering first due South till the rim of King’s River Canyon threatened to suck them down into its depths, then circling to the East till they could see Mt. Whitney rising snow-capped above the surrounding peaks, and back to the waiting boys.

Long Lester ventured next, and as he afterwards expressed it, he thought he was riding on the back of his neck as they soared into the blue deeps above them, while the ocean of the atmosphere tossed them about capriciously. This time Ace, running her into the cold strait above the river, headed her down canyon to within a hundred feet of the forest top, his grit based on sound mechanical training; his daring counterbalanced by his cool headed precision. He tried no stunts, however, as he had promised his father to indulge in no aerial acrobatics under 1,000 feet. When they finally returned to terra firma, right side up with care, the old prospector expressed himself as nowise envious of Elijah.

Pedro belted himself in with a lack of enthusiasm that Long Lester did not fail to note with sympathy, and away they soared, fearlessly on Ace’s part, whose eyes, ears and lungs were in the pink of condition. But to the Spanish boy came first a dizzy, seasick feeling, coupled with a conviction that he could not draw breath against the head wind, then a chill that penetrated even the pilot’s uniform, as he watched the earth recede beneath them. The motor purred as they gained momentum and the propellers whirred noisily, and the changing air pressures so affected the stability of the light craft that he felt half the time as if they were lying over on their side. He also reflected that, should the engine stall, their descent would be a matter of seconds only. In the dry heat they had been traveling with what seemed terrific speed. He protested once, but Ace did not hear him.

Then in the cold of the higher altitude, their speed was reduced and traveling was smoother. When at last the great white bird dropped back almost on the spot from which they had started, – the distinguishing feat of the Spanish ’plane, – he was almost a convert, though as Lester said, “a little green about the gills.” When later the opportunity came to try it again, he abdicated in favor of Ted.

Norris assured them that there is air for 50 miles above the earth, and sometimes a tidal wave of atmosphere reaching as high as 200 miles, though after it gets about 190 degrees below zero, less is known about it. Its density is reduced fully half at 18,000 feet, – half a mile above the highest peaks, like Mt. Whitney, but though the air of high altitudes is more buoyant, the cold none the less reduces the speed of the air cruiser.

While they were eating they discussed their itinerary.

Norris had the large trail maps of both Sierra and Sequoia National Forests. These he laid out and pieced together into one big sheet ten feet long. On these maps were marked out the good camp grounds, and where bears, or deer, quail or grouse, might be found, where supplies were obtainable, or pack and saddle stock, guides and packers, or Forest ranger stations (little cabins flying a flag from their peaks, to make them show up on the map).

There were the “roads passable for wagons,” “trails passable for pack stock,” and “routes passable for foot travel only.” There were areas marked with varying tiny green tufts of grass labeled “meadows where stock grazing is permitted,” and “meadows where it is not permitted,” “meadows fenced for the free use of the traveling public” and “meadows fenced for the use of Forest Rangers only.”

Diminutive green pine trees indicated forest areas particularly interesting, striped red areas signalized National Forest timber sales, cut over or in operation, black triangles denoted Forest Service fire outlook stations, and a drawing that looked like a woodshed showed where Forest Service fire fighting tools had been cached in various out-of-the-way places. “TLP” indicated the free Government telephone boxes, red doughnutty-looking circles meant good mountains to climb, with some indication of the safest routes to the top, areas marked out in red diamonds were labeled as geographically interesting, and those in green as botanically of more than ordinary interest.

A green feathery-looking line meant a canyon, a green triangle a waterfall, a plain green line a stream offering good fishing, and a broken green line a stream stocked with young fish, while an X meant a barrier impassable by fish, though what that meant, not one of them could say.

There were various other marks, such as a hub surrounded by the spokes of a wheel (whatever it was intended for), the key to which explained that from that point a good view was to be obtained.

But what most attracted their attention, all up and down the crest of the Sierra Nevada as it stretched from North, North-West to South, South-East, were the wide green areas “of special scenic interest,” most of which was marked “UNEXPLORED!” in great warning red letters.

It was this part of the map that most fascinated the little camping party. Why should they choose a route that was all cut and dried for them, as it were, – where each day they would know when they started out just about where night would find them and what they would meet with on the way? Who wanted their views labeled anyway? That was all very well, very thoughtful of the Forest Service, for inexperienced campers, who would probably never venture into the unknown. But to Ace, the airman, to Ted, with his experienced wild-craft, and to Pedro the romanticist, no less than to the young Yale man whose thirst for far places had led him into the U. S. Geological Survey, the Mystery of the Unexplored called, with a lure that was not to be denied. Long Lester, they knew, was game for anything, – for had he not prospected through these mountains all his life? There was practically no place the sure-footed burros could not go, and there was no danger they were not secretly and wickedly tingling to encounter.

It was a wild region, as rough and as little known as anything from Hawaii to Alaska, – only different. The John Muir Trail, named for the explorer, – a “way through” rather than a trail, – stretched along the crest of the range, the roughest kind of going, (absolutely a horse-back trip, it was generally pronounced), and from its glacier-capped peaks, from 14,500 foot Mt. Whitney, to the even more difficult though less lofty Lyell, ran the Kings’ River, North, Middle, and canyoned South Forks, the Kern and the Kaweah, the Merced and the San Joaquin, – to name only the largest.

Unlike the older Eastern ranges, the Sierra is laid out with remarkable regularity, the one great 12,000- to 14,000-foot divide, with its scarcely lower passes, giving off ridges on the Western slope like the teeth of a coarse granite comb. Between ridges, deep, glacier-cut canyons, “yo-semities,” (to employ the Indian name), with their swift, cascading rivers make North to South travel difficult, though one can follow one side of the openly forested canyons to the very crest of the main ridge.

Here and there was a grove of Big Trees, varying in size from the Giant Forest of Sequoia National Park to the few mediocre specimens at Dinkey Creek. But as a rule the hot, irrigated valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin gave way to patches of the small oaks and pines of the foothills, and these in turn, several thousand feet higher up the Western slopes, to yellow pine and incense cedar, Sequoias and giant sugar pines. Higher still came the silver fir belt, and after that, the twisted Tamaracks and dwarfed and storm-tossed mountain pines, reaching often in at least a decorative fringe along the rock cracks to the very peaks, all the way up to 12,000 feet. (Tree line in the White Mountains of New Hampshire comes soon after 5,000.) Above that, of course, only snow and ice could clothe the slopes.

Hell-for-Sure Pass was one name that attracted Ace’s eye on the map. He judged that it must mean stiff going, – but even had they actually planned to climb that way, he would have preferred to wait and discover for himself the reason for its nomenclature. There was also Deadman Pass, (another name to tickle the imagination), Electra Peak, Thousand Island Lake, The Devil’s Post Pile, Volcanic Ridge, Crater Creek, Stairway Creek, Fawn Meadow, – and dangerously near, Bear Meadow, – Vermilion Cliffs, Piute Pass, Disappearing Creek, Lost Canyon, Table Mountain, (reminiscent of the Bret Harte days), Deadman Canyon, (flavoring more strongly of the gold days of ’49), and Rattlesnake Creek, (doubtless deserving the title.) – To say nothing of such ordinary features as 13,500 foot University Peak, (a mere wave of the sea of peaks surrounding champions Lyell and Whitney), Diamond Peak, 13,000 feet, Mt. Baxter, likewise around 13,000, Mt. Pinchot, and a score of others (occurring at short intervals in a solid phalanx). Whoever wants to climb a mountain everybody climbs, seemed to be the final verdict of the party. There are other peaks almost as high as Whitney, (certainly quite high enough to suit the most fastidious sportsman), and probably even more difficult of ascent. Why not discover something new under the sun? In other words, why not strike off at random into the Unexplored? They would head right into the thick of the thickest green patch on the map, and wander as fancy dictated. If they felt like climbing, they would climb. If they felt like lazing, (as Pedro put it), they would laze. If they came to a river they could cross, all right. If they could not cross, why, all right, who cared?

There was rumor of vast caves that riddled the back country. There were hot springs, soda springs, – who knew what? Good pasturage was never hard to find. The verdant meadows left by the glacier lakes could be counted on up to the very backs of the 9,000 foot ridges. Most of them were half to a mile wide, and at the head waters of the big rivers, they had heard, were meadows nearer ten miles in length.

With one exception, every lake in the Sierras is a glacier lake (that exception being Huntington, a “made” lake four miles long that falls three thousand feet through a flume to add power to an electric plant). These lakes lie all the way up to as high as 8,000 feet above sea-level, Norris’s theory being that in time they will be found higher still. The glaciers left by the last ice age naturally melted first in the lower reaches, and as those that now cap the peaks and flow down between ridges like the arms of a starfish, melt in their turn, they will leave their icy, green-blue crystal pools higher and higher up the mountainsides. Just North of Mt. Ritter, Norris told them, lies a glacier lake at an altitude of 12,000 feet, while the glaciers still to be found are slowly, slowly grinding out the basins of the lakes that will one day, (possibly centuries hence), lie where now linger these evidences of the last glacier epoch.

Where these lakes have in their turn disappeared they have left these rich-soiled meadows. Where these level-lying meadows failed them pasturage for their burros, Norris guaranteed that there would be plenty of hanging meadows, – long, narrow, bowldery strips of weed enameled verdure slanting up and down the moraine-covered canyon sides, beginning away up at timber line, where springs the source of their life-giving moisture.

Before the group broke up that day, word came that Rosa’s brother had broken his leg, there at the fire outlook on Red Top. (A pack-mule had crowded his horse off the trail on the steep slope of an arroyo, and the horse had fallen, though breaking his otherwise sure descent into the creek below by coming sharply up against a tree trunk.)

“The worst of it is,” worried Radcliffe, “with men so scarce, I don’t know who to send in his place. Besides, it’s a week’s horseback trip from here, – and fires breaking every day, – and he needs a doctor.”

It was not till the deed was done that Ace returned to announce, with the smile of the cat who has licked the cream, that Rosa had insisted on taking her brother’s place. He, Ace, had found the spot from her sure knowledge of the topography of the place. (She had kept house there for her brother the summer before, in the wee, wind-swept cabin.) And leaving Rosa there, as she pluckily insisted, Ace brought her brother back, covering in minutes, as the bird flies, what it would have taken a week to traverse on horseback. Those mountain trails corkscrew up and down the canyon sides till instead of calling a certain distance a hundred miles according to the map, one states it, “a week into the back-country,” – or in the case of the trailless peaks, (among which Long Lester felt most at home), the same distance might be a matter of a four-weeks’ camping trip, with no human habitation, and the likelihood of not even a ranch at which to purchase supplies, in between.

Then the Senator sent the ’plane back to San Francisco, and its hangar in Burlingame, before – as he said – his young hopeful could start anything more. He himself was to spend the next month fishing around Kings” River Canyon, putting up at the canvas hotel. But he took as much interest in the camping trip as if he had been a member of it, – as, indeed, did Ranger Radcliffe, though word of a fresh forest fire breaking cut short his part in the powwow.

The question now arose, should they go horseback, or afoot with pack-burros, – a string of which Long Lester yearned to pilot.

True, a mountain-bred pony will hop and slide up and down mountain ledges that would make an Eastern horse’s hair literally stand on end. They have been born and bred to it, physically and mentally. They have been known to sit back almost on their haunches and slide when they could get down no other way. Some of them will walk a log twenty feet above the surface of a stream. (The Eastern rider will find that hard to believe, until he recalls the feats of circus horses.) But not all horses are alike, any more than people. Why should the plains horse and the park horse and good old Dobbin, the farm horse, be equine mountaineers and prospectors?

“Shank’s horses” and the pack-burros won the final ballot, – to Pedro’s open dismay. But they would first ride the well-defined two-days’ horseback trail from Giant Forest to the Kings’ River Canyon, and Giant Forest is an automobile stage ride from Fresno, which is another short day’s ride from Huntington Lake.

(Strange are the threads of destiny! Not one of that group so much as dreamed that they were embarking on anything but a five weeks’ camping trip.)