Westy Martin on the Santa Fe Trail

He pulled again, and as he did so he felt his own person jerked roughly and his eyes dilated with horror as he saw what had happened.

Rip’s head had gone under!

CHAPTER XXIV—A THOUGHT FOR TO-MORROW

Westy never knew what great strength he had been given in that crucial moment. He only remembered afterward that every muscle in his body was strained to the utmost in being equal to that almost superhuman task.

It was enough to know that he finally pulled Rip out of the torrential current—unconscious; almost gone, but still a little life-giving breath left in the cold body.

A difficult thing to pull himself and his heavy burden over that slippery trunk. He thought he would never get to the cliff, so slow was his progress. But he made it and laid the still form face downward on the broad base.

Working tirelessly over the limp form to restore respiration, Westy noted some dark clouds gathering in the sky and partly obscuring the sun from view. He worked diligently, waiting to see the poor purpled lips utter a human sound.

After a short time elapsed and still he did not seem to respond, Westy became thoroughly alarmed, for a storm was coming on and it was getting darker overhead every minute.

He worked over him harder than ever, pleading, praying and asking for Divine intercession before the storm would break. Watching so intently, he really imagined that Rip was moving his body and his lips were moving in speech. But when he’d hold his face close to the unconscious boy he knew it was just hysteria that made him think he was moving and speaking when he wasn’t. So taking hold of himself, he started in again and had just grasped Rip’s arms to move him when the boy opened his eyes.

Westy’s thankfulness knew no bounds.

“Say, Wes,” he said a trifle weakly, “there’s no dirt in your eyes at all. I’ll take it all back right now!”

“Forget it, Rip!” Westy was wiping away the tears, unashamed, that were clouding his eyes. “I’m only glad that you’re K. O. How d’ye feel?”

“O. K. Not so bad, huh?”

“I should say not. Do you think you’d be able to get up with some help in a few minutes?”

“Sure, I’m no cripple. Any hurry?”

“No, only I want to get you up in the shelter of the cliff before the storm breaks.”

“Storm? Gee, that’s so! We’re on the base now, aren’t we? How’d you ever do it, Wes? I thought I was a goner sure. Would have been if I hadn’t lost my way getting up here. Went in the other direction, but got here eventually. Lucky I lost that much time. The water was like a merry-go-round where I was stuck. Couldn’t get my legs out at all. Don’t know how long I held on, but it seemed like hours.”

“Well, we won’t talk of it any more. You’re tiptop now and that’s that! Think you can make it now if I give you a lift?”

The storm was gathering in earnest and as the thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed in frenzied streaks across the black horizon, the boys ascended the cliff slowly but surely.

Beginning a short distance back, the stunted cliff was topped by a thick jungle of trees and rank undergrowth, but at that Westy was thankful for the protection it afforded in the fury of the storm that followed.

They walked in the forest quite a ways with the wind and rain beating all around them and came to a spot where some trees had fallen in some storm of long ago and which time had cemented together, forming a perfect shelter beneath their giant trunks.

Westy and Rip crawled under and in.

It was dry and warm, but didn’t allow them any more room than they needed to lie down in.

Rip took his wet bathing suit off and spread it out to dry and Westy also removed his wet garments and then they both crawled under the dry dead leaves to keep warm.

“I’m pretty hungry, Wes, aren’t you?”

“Don’t speak of it now! It’s a very delicate subject. Neither of us have had anything since breakfast. My gosh!”

“I’m so tired and sleepy, though,” Rip said. “I guess I can close my eyes and forget it. We’ll think of it to-morrow, eh?”

“Sure, ’s time enough!”

But Westy wondered and was worried. He knew that any attempt to swim back across the lake would be foolhardy. The whole place was probably a series of the whirlpools. And it was senseless to take the chance. The forest was their only means of escape. They’d have to trust to luck to get out of it and around over the mountain. That was the question now uppermost in his mind. How and where?

As if reading his thoughts, Rip faced him, half-asleep, and smiled:

“I guess the question for to-morrow is: Where do we go from here?”

CHAPTER XXV—LOST

The desire to sleep soon overcame the desire to think and wonder more, and it made Westy powerless to do anything but just shut his eyes. It lulled his tired nerves like a powerful opiate after the day’s events and soon he and Rip were breathing quietly and restfully through the long night.

A faint chink of light shining through the aperture told Westy that it was daylight. But he was disheartened when he heard the steady patter of rain upon the dead leaves outside. Rip was still sleeping peacefully as yet and Westy hadn’t the heart to disturb him.

There was an awful gnawing sensation in his stomach and he felt mighty uncomfortable and stretched out a bit. With that Rip stirred and sat up quickly.

“Jiminy, I didn’t know where I was for the moment! Some little hiding place, eh? I wonder what Unk thinks, though?”

“I’ve been thinking of that, too.” Westy was thinking of a little tell-tale pile of clothes that would be discovered along with his own discarded shoes.

“After I locate something to chew on why we’ll go and keep watch for them from the cliff, so they’ll at least know we are still alive.”

“That’s right, I didn’t think of it Unk will be relieved—but peeved at me!”

They were putting on their dried things—that is, Westy was, but Rip had only his bathing suit. Then they crawled out, viewing the desolate scene around them, for it was raining harder than they thought.

“We’ll have to look up some eats somewhere, Rip. Feel all right to mosey around with me?”

“Sure.”

“All right then. You better take my socks. I’ve more on than you.”

“Naw, I don’t feel cold yet. We’re a hot-looking team, though, to be walking around in the jungle and half undressed at that in all this rain. Let’s go!”

The quest in search of food was exceedingly arduous as they walked further and further into the thick forest. In the end, as the fruits of their labors in beating down underbrush and tall weeds, all they found was some wild berries here and there. It sufficed a little, but they hadn’t so far found a stream anywhere in which to quench their thirst.

“We’ll have to make the best of it for now, Rip. There’s no telling what time it is a day like this without the sun, so we better make the same tracks for the cliff and signal your Uncle and Billy some way. Lola’s sure to come, too.”

They started back. Rip’s bare feet were getting uncomfortably sore from the stone bruises and cuts he was continually receiving and Westy’s socks were horribly soggy and cold. He took them off and threw them away.

It seemed that they had been walking a long time and Westy looked frankly puzzled.

“Do I imagine it, or are the trees thicker than when we came this way hunting for the berries? It looks different to me somehow, don’t you think so?”

“Sure it does, Wes. This isn’t the way we came at all—I can’t see our tracks now at all!”

“You’re right! Let’s go back a bit.”

They went back, but looking for their footprints became a decided search.

“We might as well go right on until we find them,” Westy said, as puzzled as ever.

“Yeh, let’s keep strict watch this time!”

On they went, eyes fixed on the ground and at the same time victims to the overhanging branches and thick thorny brush. Their faces and arms were scratched almost beyond recognition.

Hour after hour passed.

They were getting hungry again; in fact, they had been that way for a long while and their thirst was acute. No water had they spied yet, and after devouring some more berries in resignation, they rested a little and then went on.

Hardly a word had been spoken between them, for they were keenly aware of their serious situation and the rain was falling as bad as ever with night coming on apace.

Westy thought that the cliff must have fallen prey to some supernatural power and had been swallowed up in the forest’s depths also.

Hungry, tired and thirsty, they watched the gray shadows of twilight steal through the closely grown trees, and where even in broad daylight it was a place of gloom.

Now it seemed more depressing than ever and the echoes of their voices came back to them like mocking ghosts of days long past.

It was awfully eerie, and as they sat down on a bowlder to rest, huddled close together to keep warm, the tall trees stood out like gaunt shadows in a sepulchral world.

“Do you realize, Rip? Here we are—two scouts——”

“Yep!”

“And we’re lost!”

CHAPTER XXVI—THEY MEET A LOWLY STRANGER

All through that long night Westy and Rip took turns trying to get some sleep on the hard bowlder. Tired and sleepy though they were, they couldn’t rest any more than a few moments at a time and were more than glad to give up their uncomfortable berth to one another.

It was Westy’s turn to sit up and he thought it must be way past midnight. How they would welcome the coming dawn! He was so cold and as he sat there shivering in the pouring rain, he wondered if they would ever find their way out. He shivered more when he thought of Lola’s verdict about those who had been trapped there before.

Surely, there must be some mysterious force at work there! What else was it that made them lose their tracks so easily? He wondered if Rip had overcome his skepticism and accepted Lola’s story as true. No matter what name people gave it, Westy was convinced that something supernatural had invaded that dark dank place and reigned supreme.

There wasn’t a sound but the falling rain and it seemed to be growing more silent all the time. He thought that every breathing thing but they in that vast jungle must be dry and sheltered.

He was trying to shield Rip’s face with his hands and had covered his legs with his blouse. His head continually sagged forward, while his whole body felt cramped from the unnatural position he was in, but he thought as he exercised a little to relieve the tension, they had to stick close together in a case like that, no matter how it hurt.

It never occurred to Westy to feel any resentment toward the younger boy and that Rip’s perversity was responsible for their precarious situation. He just simply took things as they came along and whether purposely or not, forgot the root of the evil entirely.

Westy was that kind of a scout.

Finally he came out of his chilly reverie with a start. Rip was actually sleeping. He grinned as he thought of the saying of being tired enough to sleep on a rock. Rip certainly must have an iron-bound back to sleep all that time. Well, let him; it would do him good!

The continual downpour made Westy wonder again what they were going to do about drinking water. He was beginning to feel a little feverish already. They’d have to drink the rain water if they could find something to catch it in—but there wasn’t much likelihood of finding anything.

Their last resort would be the stagnant pools that were gradually deepening and widening all over from the incessant rain. Perhaps the dawn would bring the sunshine, he thought hopefully.

Rip moved suddenly and cried, as in fright.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Westy thought he was dreaming.

“There’s something heavy on my hand—I can’t move it.”

He reached out and felt around in the darkness to where Rip’s hand had dangled on the ground in his sleep.

Even in the dark as his own hand came in contact with the cold, slimy object Westy knew instinctively what it was.

Huge and heavy, it had rested its whole weight on the sleeping boy’s hand, and quickly seizing it in both of his own, Westy flung it as far as his strength permitted.

“What was it, Wes?” Rip was relieved as he heard the thud of the falling thing.

“Nothing—just a nice big snake!”

CHAPTER XXVII—A LITTLE HOPE

“I don’t think I care about lying down again,” Rip sighed. “The next one that happened to come along would be liable to park on my chest.”

“You’re darn lucky it wasn’t a rattler or you wouldn’t be here to give a hang where the next one parked!”

“What kind of a snake was it?”

“How in the name of Johanna do I know! Do you think I’ve got eyes like a cat or do you think I stopped to affectionately examine it?”

“Tut! I feel as though I’m wet clear to my heart and I’m getting thirstier by the minute.”

“Don’t mention it, Rip. I only hope it gets light soon so we can get the lay of the land again and feed on some more berries. They’re individualists when it comes to the food line here—no competition.

“The bushes ought to be good and wet from all this rain and that’ll be a little moisture, anyway. Gee, I’ll never use the word berries in slang any more, Wes. They’ve certainly been a life-saver, but we’ll be getting fed up on them after another day. Suppose we haven’t found our way out by to-morrow night?”

“Well, we haven’t then. What’s the use of worrying about it until then?”

“I suppose that’s the best way to look at it. You’ve ten times more nerve than I’ll ever have!”

Westy liked that frankness in Rip. Despite his sullen stubbornness at times, he’d at least admit when he was beaten.

Morning came again—raining, and they started to walk on, Westy, the keen edge of his hopes dulled a little, but still outwardly cheerful and Rip silent in his disappointment.

After devouring more berries they went on, trying not to think of the imperious demand of their thirst, and as the morning wore on they became tired and stopped to rest again.

“Doesn’t seem to be many berries around here, Rip! I’m getting hungry again. Shall we go ahead?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you say; but for my part, I’m kind of sick of them. I’ve got to have water, Wes, that’s all there is to it!”

“I know, Rip, but that is stagnant water—it’s dangerous and vile!”

But Rip had come to the point where Nature was forcing him and made him fearless of the danger of anything, for before Westy had finished warning him he was down on his knees, taking draught after draught of the green-looking water in his small cupped hands.

Westy shuddered as he watched the stuff drip through Rip’s fingers and hoped he would be given the strength to refrain from drinking it for a while at least.

They trudged on again, hardly caring now where they went, and Rip stopping at intervals to consume more and more of the putrid water in spite of Westy cautioning him to stop.

Shivering though they both were, in their wet garments, Westy noticed a decided hectic flush upon Rip’s face and it worried him.

It was getting dark again, and still no lull in the storm, but Westy’s weary-looking eyes brightened as he caught sight of something ahead.

“Look, Rip, old top! On the ground!”

“What is it?”

“Our tracks—from yesterday!”

CHAPTER XXVIII—WATER

Hope sprung anew! Their hearts fairly sang.

“Guess we better stay right here for the night. Rip. We’re likely to lose them again if we try to follow them in this dingy light.”

“Whatever you say. I could stretch out on the soaking ground, I’m so tired!”

“Same here, but on the other hand that wouldn’t pay. We’ve been soaked long enough as it is.”

Looking around, Westy spied a huge tree, with big broad limbs, wide enough for them to recline on. The tree next to it was growing so close that its branches also added further protection from the rain and provided more space for their bodies.

They clambered up and by Westy doubling his knees under him it enabled Rip to lay his head back, but kept his knees upright. The branches of the other tree supported Westy’s back nicely.

All he was able to do was catnap in his stiff, rigid position, for he felt duty bound to keep a watchful eye on Rip, who was likely to fall out should he try to turn suddenly. It was terribly uncomfortable, but better than the wet ground, and their close quarters afforded more warmth.

Hour after hour seemed to have passed and no murmur or word had emanated from Rip’s lips. Just the steady laborious breathing—unusually heavy, Westy thought, but probably from the discomfort. Still, he slept!

After quite a lapse of time Rip moved slightly and Westy immediately leaned forward.

“Westy?” Rip’s voice had a strange sound.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I’ve just got to have some more of that water!”

“Rip, old kid, I’d gladly go and get it, but there isn’t a thing to carry it in and I dare say I’d never find even a pool in this darkness.”

“Never thought of that, Wes! ’S all right——”

His voice trailed away drowsily and the next moment his steady breathing was resumed.

“Just dreaming, I guess,” Westy said.

And so he sat on until he thought that night was a thing made up of terrifying silence; an abyss of blackness wherein the hours hid and disported playfully about, instead of going quickly by as all good daytime hours did. The hours of that night simply plunged Westy into the very depths of despair.

“Ah, but the tracks!” He had forgotten them for the moment. Dawn would bring them something at that, so he must not give up.

Rip was mumbling again, talking jumbled in his sleep and let his legs fall over the limb.

“Wes, you there?”

“Of course. What now?”

“S’more of that water ’s all I want!”

“You that thirsty, Rip?”

“Yeh, can’t help it. S’more of that water ’s all——.”

“Gosh, I can’t get it now. Can’t you wait a little longer until it brightens a little? I don’t want to lose my way in the darkness and leave you here alone. We’d both be alone in this infernal place then!”

“’S all right. Can’t be ’lone, huh? Must have water, though, ’s all. Water!”

His voice was not the voice of Rip, Westy thought. It sounded like some strange being whom he did not know. He mumbled again.

“Been dreamin’, Wes—that Unk was hitting me on the head with a hammer for going in the lake. Hit me so hard—still hurts. My head! Let me lay my head in your lap, Wes, won’t you? No sissy—only tree’s so hard and it hurts.”

“Sure thing!” Westy pulled him gently by the arms, meanwhile thinking deep thoughts. Rip’s head sank in his lap and it gave Westy a chance to stretch his legs a bit over on the next limb.

“’S soft snap,” Rip continued in the strange voice. “Tell Unk to bring ’s more that water—nice green water!”

Westy’s hand touched his forehead and face lightly and then felt his burning body. There was no doubt of it, he realized.

Rip was delirious.

CHAPTER XXIX—DESPAIR

Three nights and two days! What was this dawn bringing to them? Rain, hunger and thirst again? Westy wondered.

Where there had been nothing but blackness above and beneath them there were now little faint touches of light in the dark void above the trees.

It grew lighter with Rip’s every second breath. He was turning and twisting his head in Westy’s lap and mumbling incoherently.

Poor Westy was aching in every muscle, feverish from thirst and sickeningly hungry. Also greater than his wants was the despair he felt over Rip’s alarming condition.

He listened as he thought he heard a lull in the falling of the rain. Then it gradually lessened and stopped as the dawn broke clear and promising overhead.

The next thing to do was awaken Rip and Westy hated doing it in his condition. He talked to him and the sick boy opened his eyes and stared.

“We have to get down, Rip, do you understand?”

Rip nodded and sat up and Westy slid to the ground and helped him down.

He obeyed just like a child, but said nothing and immediately laid down on the earth again and closed his eyes. He was asleep within a very few minutes.

Westy turned and watched the sun peeping through the curtain of dawn, so warm and friendly. It made him feel warm and partially dry for the first time in three days, but his spirits sank as he saw that the tracks were leading further into the forest and not where they had hoped. And his hunger and thirst were distracting him.

He noted that Rip’s breathing was easier and his temperature seemed to have dropped. But fever acted that way, Westy thought, and got bad at night. Still, if it wasn’t so bad during the day he could go on a little with help. He’d see how he felt, but meanwhile he must get something to eat first.

There wasn’t a berry bush in sight and as he looked at the stagnant pool a little distance from him he shook his head and reached up in one of the limbs of the tree.

Pulling the leaves off one after the other, he sucked the moisture out of them greedily, but with delight. It took the worst of the parched feeling away and then he gave some to Rip, who chewed leaf and all.

Looking at his eyes, Westy saw that Rip was so bad as to be incognizant of his surroundings and stared blankly ahead.

It was deplorable, but they would have to go on whether the boy was in his right mind or not, but Westy was sure of one thing and that was that he wouldn’t leave Rip alone for any length of time. Better not to leave him at all—still he had to have something to eat....

Just then he saw a large bird!

CHAPTER XXX—A SCOUT WITH WINGS

It was perched low on a near-by tree and its plumage was of the most gorgeous coloring that Westy had ever seen. Its body was plump and quite long, and its tail was dotted like some exquisite jeweled fan.

He sat down on a bowlder and watched it as it warbled a deep-throated trill. Ostensibly, it was doing this for Westy’s sole benefit, for when it got through it would look to him as though awaiting applause and start off again, sweeter than before.

Westy wondered if it would be wrong to kill this beautiful thing and satisfy his own terrible hunger or take the chance of finding something and go on?

The bird fascinated him! The sweet notes pouring out of its tiny throat, the eyes seeming to look his way, as if to say it was lonely also and enjoyed the chance meeting. And the lovely plumage! It was made for a paradise and sunshine, not the dank, dark forest.

Its tameness and beauty tempted Westy to whistle low and sweet as he had heard Lola do that day so long ago when they first saw the lake. She had said that a bird would eventually come to you if you would sit quietly and whistle long enough.

At first the bird just looked and listened, never moving. But as Westy kept on, it flew to the ground about five feet away, then came nearer and nearer until it hopped on his bare foot.

Westy reached down carefully and stroked its glossy, well-shaped head. Very gently he put his hand over it and raised it up to his lap. To his surprise, the bird nestled against him comfortably and relaxed.

“I couldn’t cook it,” Westy thought as he watched it, “but I’m desperate for something and it would be some sort of food at that. But how——”

Instinctively his hand clasped the bird tighter. He couldn’t bear to look at this beautiful creature he intended to destroy. But something made him look again and he succumbed to the desire to glance at it once more before its life would be extinct.

As he glanced down the bird looked up at him, implicit trust in its expression. Westy tried to drown the tenderness welling up within him and forced a stern look upon his countenance, and as he faced it for the last time the bird chirped and hopped upon his arm and he grasped it quickly with his free hand.

But the mute appeal in those eyes was too much for Westy. He turned his head away and then back again, smiling:

“All right, old man,” he said. “You want to live just the same as I do, isn’t that so?”

It almost seemed to understand.

“Well,” Westy continued aloud, “you’re going to go right on living now, as far as I’m concerned. If I can’t find anything else to eat to-day I’ll start digging for worms the same as you do.”

With that he released the bird and it flew over his head. He couldn’t see where it went, but he heard it warbling again—the sweet, deep-throated trill.

It kept up so insistently that Westy pushed through the damp brush a little way to see where it had gone. As he parted the tall weeds he beheld the little golden throat perched on the limb of a walnut tree, abounding with its ripened fruit.

He rushed forward with eagerness and as he climbed up on the lower limb the bird looked at him almost significantly and took to one of the top branches.

Westy jammed and crammed his pockets full meaning to crack them on the bowlder. After he had filled every available space in his trousers, he clambered down. Then he looked up at his benefactor and smiled.

“Thanks, old man, for the find! You’re a better scout than I am any day!”

In answer the bird trilled again and then flew—up, up into the sunshine and away.

Westy watched him enviously.

“Still,” he mused, “I guess after all it’s a case of Even Stephen. God gave me hands and feet and you—your wings!”

CHAPTER XXXI—THE TRAIL ONCE AGAIN

Westy made up his mind he’d get out of that forest before another night imprisoned them. With the help of the sun they could go directly east, then northeast. They’d be bound to strike the trail some time.

But there was Rip! Getting worse and worse all the time. How he would manage it he didn’t know; hadn’t any idea, except that his mind had been made up to find a way!

It was discouraging and unbearably tedious trying to help the sick boy walk through the thorny underbrush, unhindered in its growth throughout the summers of many long centuries. Not only that, but he had to keep constantly on the alert for snakes, for they had had many narrow escapes from them so far.

Much time was lost in stopping to rest, but it had to be done in order to go on again. He didn’t dare overtax Rip any more than could be avoided and his own strength was being tried to the very limits of endurance.

There were odd moments when Rip was partly rational and at such times Westy would reason it out with him that he was trying to get him back to his Uncle and for him to do his part and keep up until they got there. In his half-dazed condition he seemed to understand, and when they started on again it was incredible to Westy almost to see his indomitable will overrule his physical weakness.

The sun was at their back now and still no sign of a trail—nothing. Nothing but trees! Westy began to hate the sight of them.

They were both pretty near exhaustion again and, while Rip rested on a pile of dead leaves, Westy went ahead a little to beat down the brush that grew thicker in that region than anywhere they had struck so far.

In appearance both of the boys had changed pitifully. The sunken eyes and wan look about the face, so white and drawn, and the parched lips. Even about the body the flesh had fallen away terribly. But Westy looked the worst and he doubted whether his own mother would have recognized him then.

It seemed to him that there wasn’t a whole piece of flesh on his arms and hands. His face and legs and feet were also swollen from the poisonous weeds he had trampled down. His feet weren’t so painful as on the first day or two; they had now become calloused, but that didn’t alleviate the pain of the infected cuts and scratches.

Rip, though not so horribly scratched and cut, looked pitiful enough with his fever-ridden eyes and face. His continual calls for water gave Westy little peace of mind. He had given him the rain-soaked leaves that he found, but now they were scarce as the sun had dried all the available ones. And he was determined not to give the sick boy another drop of that death-infested water.

His own thirst and hunger was like some terrible disease gnawing first at his body and then at his brain. He couldn’t even think clear thoughts. The dread of losing his mind—but then he knew he must keep up for Rip’s sake and he would. So he was satisfied to devour some dry leaves and swallowed them whole.

Ah, he saw something! A tree just ahead of him he noticed shaded nicely by the rest was still dripping from the rains. It made him think of Rip’s thirst and it looked easy to climb.

He ran back to where Rip was sleeping peacefully and carefully removed the tattered blouse he had put on him. Then running back to the tree again he got up on the first few limbs when he noticed some peculiar-looking berries hanging from the upper branches. So he filled the blouse with as many wet leaves as it would hold and decided to go higher and sample some of the fruit.

Reaching the top limb, he leaned over to grasp some, but his hand was retarded in the movement by the sight that met and dazzled his hollowed eyes.

Within a stone’s throw of him was the trail!

CHAPTER XXXII—DREAMING

Hap Westy been a medieval knight in quest of the Holy Grail and had at last beheld the object of his search before his very eyes, he couldn’t have been happier.

Tears of unrestrained emotion stained his gaunt face as he looked down upon this veritable land of promise. Away to the northwest his eyes followed its winding course and his heart leaped to see a tiny spiral of smoke curling its way upward with such a restful, comfortable look.

It was entirely unconscious—that simile. But he felt ever after that it suited the purpose. Curling smoke meant warmth and food, comfort and rest. And how Rip needed them now! Typical of Westy that he should forget his own needs at such a time.

He helped himself to the berries and put some in the blouse, hoping it would tide them over until—— He was afraid to let the thought form itself completely for fear that perhaps after all it was nothing more than a visionary trend his starvation was taking. But then he was sure he was feeling better after consuming the berries and his head didn’t swim quite as badly as before. No, it was real and so near!

He hurried back to Rip.

As he looked at the sleeping boy he wished he could only make him comprehend that his sufferings would soon be ministered to and that his tortured body would rest in a nice soft bunk.

The fever was beginning to mount again with the advent of sunset and he was babbling meaningless phrases. Westy took the wet leaves and moistened his parched lips. He opened his eyes, but there wasn’t a sign of recognition in them.

Westy didn’t know whether it was harmful or not in his condition, but he fed Rip some of the berries. After a few mouthsful, however, he refused any more.

Just as the sun was setting they came out on the trail. Near them was a large rock high and dry, and he decided it would be just the place for them that night. It was large enough to allow them to lay full length and side by side for the first time in three nights. He could make it a little softer with some dry leaves, even if he had to make many trips back and forth in getting them. Westy’s thoughts were getting breathless, too.

He figured that he and Rip could make it the next day and reach the shack by mid-afternoon even considering the stop-overs with Rip, so he set to work fixing their rocky berth. The leaves were nice and warm and dry, and Rip sank back in them with a sigh.

That at least was a hopeful sign Westy thought as he watched him and wondered if he’d hold out the rest of the way. He didn’t even ask for water now—nothing but sleep. Was it a good or bad sign? He didn’t know, but Mrs. Redmond would probably know what to do for him to-morrow. He repeated the word to-morrow again and he thought it fairly lilted as he uttered it and laid down contentedly in the warm leaves.

His anxiety about Rip kept him awake and he watched the stars overhead. Cool though it was, he was thankful for the clear windless night of the open in preference to the damp dark forest. Then he piled more leaves on Rip, fearful of him taking more cold along with the fever and left himself uncovered.

He wished, oh, how he wished as he lay there, to have just one drink of water before his eyes closed in sleep. That thought had a distressing effect upon him ever since his thirst began. His throat immediately began to ache and he had all sorts of unpleasant sensations until he overcame them by force of will.

Sleep came to him mercifully, though, and he dreamed that he was drinking large buckets of water out of an old well. Presently Lola and her grandmother came along and Mrs. Redmond called excitedly for him to stop drinking it, that the well was poisoned. Lola screamed a loud piercing shriek and it was so shrill that it awakened him.

He raised his head to look, so realistic was the scream.

There on the edge of the rock were two green eyes, gleaming like darts of flame in the darkness.

CHAPTER XXXIII—JUST A FEW HOURS TO GO

It was too dark to distinguish who the owner of the eyes happened to be. All Westy could see was the outline of a head, shoulders and paws resting on the rock’s edge.

He realized after the first shock passed that whatever kind of an animal it was, it wouldn’t do for him to betray fear.

He stayed perfectly rigid in the same position as when he had raised slightly on his elbow and first saw the eyes. The animal sniffed the air but never moved—keeping an attitude of being ready to spring in a second.

Westy could see by the head and shoulders that the animal was a good size; possibly a puma whose lair was in the haunted forest. What luck they escaped him there.

While these thoughts flashed through his mind he returned the stare, never letting his eyes stray an inch from that pair of veritable live coals. He concentrated every nerve and muscle, his own large dark eyes accentuated by their hollowness set in the thin white haggard face.

His arm was asleep and his body shook from the pressure on the nerve in his elbow, but still he stuck bravely. He was thankful that Rip was sleeping so quietly—his breathing could hardly be detected and Westy prayed that he wouldn’t move.

Finally the animal sniffed the air again and moved its head. It withdrew one paw—then the other and the head disappeared under the rock.

It wasn’t until Westy heard the heavy body on its thick padded feet plodding toward the forest that he finally relaxed—exhausted. He didn’t have the strength to look and make sure. The events of the last few days had used up too much vitality—he wanted sleep and didn’t care where the animal went.

When he awakened the sun was shining in his face and Rip’s old familiar cry was ringing in his ears.

“Water! Just—drop—water!”

It fairly made his heart ache to hear him and he sprang up. Rip was still warmly covered by the leaves, but his eyes looked without seeing anything.

“We’ll get water now, very soon! Do you hear? We have to go on a bit first.”

He steadied Rip as they got down off the rock, but he staggered and stumbled along in spite of Westy’s help.

But they went on fairly well until noontime, when Rip’s fever got worse. Even with Westy’s arm around him he seemed not to be able to manipulate his legs any more.

They would go a few steps and his knees would bend under and his head sink forward on his chest. Westy felt it was really cruel to make him go on in that condition—but they were so near and neither of them could stand another night without water. The heat also was getting unbearable as the day wore on.

Westy’s hunger by now was so terrible that his body seemed to have become numb from the continual suppression. His arm instinctively tightened about Rip as he thought of it, but the younger boy roughly pushed him aside and with an almost maniacal expression on his face, leaped ahead for twenty feet or more and then fell face downward.

Westy ran forward. Kneeling beside him, he raised his head up to his lap.

Rip was unconscious.

CHAPTER XXXIV—WHEN IGNORANCE WAS BLISS

The evening of the day that Rip had gone to the lake with Westy following in his wake, Mr. Wilde and Billy returned to the cabin, thoroughly tired and their clothes dripping wet.

“Guess the kids won’t be coming along to-night,” Mr. Wilde remarked to Billy, who was kindling some logs in the fireplace.

“I should say not! Mrs. Redmond wouldn’t let them, I guess. Hospitality is served with a capital H there.”

After supper with the wind howling all about and the rain pouring off the roof, they sat down to read. Ten o’clock found Billy yawning.

“That means we’ll hope for a better day to-morrow,” said Mr. Wilde.

But when morning brought nothing more than the doleful swish of wind and storm above their heads, they turned over with a sigh and slept until almost noon.

“Well, no sign of those little tramps yet,” Mr. Wilde said, a cup of hot coffee balanced in one hand and a two-weeks’-old copy of the Saturday Evening Post in the other.

“Thought you read that all.” Billy pointed to the Post.

“I did. And I know all the ‘ads’ by heart, too!”

“What’s the idea then?”

“Only that I can never read at breakfast time home. When I’m away like this I take a malicious delight in reading while I’m eating just because my wife tells me it’s bad for the digestion and also a serious breach of etiquette. Even though I’ve read these things over fifty times I enjoy them as much as though I’d never laid eyes on them before. Only at breakfast, though.”

“Why specify breakfast?”

“Because that’s when my wife don’t approve of me doing it.”

“Why, you’re no more grown up than Westy or Rip at that rate!”

“I know it! Show me any man who is—in his heart!”

With the night coming on and the rain still swirling about the cabin, Mr. Wilde began to get a little anxious about the boys.

“Even as bad as it’s been to-day, I shouldn’t think those kids would impose on the Redmonds’ good nature any longer. My heavens, a little soaking won’t hurt them. They’re supposed to be scouts, not ninnies.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s the reason at all. I’ve an idea it’s just been a treat for those people to have them as guests for these two desolate nights and days. They’ve probably urged them, knowing we wouldn’t be anxious.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Billy. They are old enough to take care of themselves and know what’s the right thing to do. I guess we will see them in the morning all right.”

It was almost noontime of the next day before Mr. Wilde and Billy were all prepared to leave for the eastern end of the range.

Billy was inside getting the rest of his stuff together, while the older man stood outside, waiting. He caught sight of Lola coming up the path from the brook. She smiled sweetly as she came toward him.

“Do you feel like a bird to-day after all the rain?” she asked him.

“Indeed I do.”

“It isn’t possible that the boys aren’t up yet?”

“What? What did you say—not up?” He couldn’t seem to quite comprehend.

Billy came out after hearing her question and interrupted.

“Haven’t they been at your place these two nights past?”

“Why, no!” Her face went dead white as she remembered.

She told them the incident of the haunted region and about Westy’s departure for the lake after Rip.

“I never dreamed but what they came back safely, Mr. Wilde, or I’d have come here and told you.” Her voice was quivering and a tear slid down her frightened face.

Mr. Wilde patted her shoulder comfortingly.

“There now, it isn’t your fault. They aren’t babies—but yet—they’ve been gone since the day before yesterday....”

CHAPTER XXXV—WESTY RUNS TRUE TO FORM

“My theory is,” broke in Billy, “that you’re all crossing your bridges too soon. We don’t know until we find out. Come on!”

Lola ran ahead to tell her grandmother and promised to join them along the trail.

There was little talk between them. Even the optimistic Billy was silent and when Lola caught up with them her face was so grave that it tended to make them more alarmed than ever.

“It seems longer than when we came here the other day,” Mr. Wilde said to relieve the tension.

“Yes,” said Lola, “and I didn’t think then I’d be the cause——”

“Now, my dear child!” Mr. Wilde was touched by her self-indictment. “No one is to blame but Rip and at that I couldn’t call him down for having been born with a stubborn disposition, could I?”

“Of course not,” Lola agreed.

“But Westy,” Mr. Wilde continued, “that boy is a jewel. He has more sense than Rip’ll ever have. Likes adventure, but uses discretion.”

“What’s the use of talking about it?” Billy interposed. “We are as we are!”

“No doubt. I hate to think of the two mothers and fathers who are going to accuse me of wanton laxity in my care of their sons if we don’t find them. I shouldn’t have taken the responsibility at all. It’s my fault!”

“Say, for the love of goodness,” Billy pleaded, “you’re like the fellow who ordered his mother-in-law’s flowers two weeks before she died!”

“Well, he had a reason,” Mr. Wilde said, his humorous squint coming to the fore.

“Well, so have you,” Billy answered, “a reason to cheer up. I’ve more faith in Westy’s gameness than Rip’s bragging. If we don’t see any signs of them up there we still shouldn’t feel discouraged.”

“Why?” questioned Lola.

“But,” Mr. Wilde said, “Lola says herself that if they were lucky enough to get out of the lake and land on the cliff they’d have less chance than ever trying to get out of the forest. No one ever has yet, so what chance have two kids? Why, she says there’s absolutely no way of getting any nourishment or water and the place is filled with snakes. Nothing but a dense jungle of trees and stagnant pools. Plenty of malaria I bet. Three days they’ve been gone—think of it!”

“Now come on,” Billy said. “I feel as anxious as you, but I’m not going to give up so easy. Here we are now!”

Turning away from the broad terrace, they could see at first glance what they knew they would see—nothing. Not a sign nor sound of human life but their own, and as they stood looking out over the placid-looking water three minds were all of one thought.

It was so terribly silent that the humming sounded louder than ever. It would almost seem that the heinous spirit of the lake was mocking these humans in their fears and anxiety and challenging their puny bodies to combat this terrific force that Nature gave it as its birthright.

Lola wasn’t the crying kind of a girl. She felt so keenly that it wouldn’t have happened but for her recital of the legend that she was angry with herself and from anger she felt fear and pity for the boys. Then she cried and turned toward the trees that Mr. Wilde and Billy might not see her emotion.

As her eyes were gradually clearing again she saw through the blur—two pair of scout shoes on the ground, right at her feet.

“Look!” she exclaimed, and as the two men turned she picked them up.

It was the last straw as far as Mr. Wilde was concerned; he couldn’t even bear to look and turned away, walking toward the terrace. Billy and Lola followed him heavy-hearted and almost without hope.

“We’ll go right away,” Billy said, “and get around into the forest.”

“I’m going with you then,” Lola said determinedly, “but I’ll run home first and get food and water. They’ll need it and so will we! Wait for me there!”

She was gone and had disappeared on the narrow path winding above the ravine. After just about time enough to have reached the trail, they heard her scream.

“Mr. Wilde! Billy! Quick—oh, quick!”

They came running out of the narrow path and reached her side almost breathless. She was waving her hands with great excitement and her face was a picture of convulsive terror and pity.

Along the upper part of the trail they saw!

It was Westy, his clothes now just a few rags covering his raw swollen flesh and his face puffed and deathly white. With great effort he was carrying Rip, whose inert body hung over his shoulder.

As he stumbled toward them, his feet pitifully cut and bleeding, they could hear him babbling unintelligible words to the unconscious boy.

Hurrying to relieve him of his burden, he pushed them aside—holding fast to Rip as a mother would her child in great danger. His brain, sick as it was, could not crush the spirit that was Westy Martin nor deter him from keeping trust.

His ague-stricken form straightened up as if to defy them to bar his way. A look of inanity filled his usual bright expressive eyes and when he spoke his voice had been reduced to almost a whisper from his weakened state.

“Must—get—him—back! Not ’nother night without water!”

CHAPTER XXXVI—BILLY DOES SOME REMINDING

As a result of Lola’s insistence, the two emaciated boys lay that night in the cottage, still very sick, but in competent hands.

The Redmonds had to learn everything in life by experience and their knowledge of all human ills was derived from that same source.

All through that night Mr. Wilde, Billy and the two emergency nurses waited anxiously for the delirious chatter to stop—to hear the gratifying sound of slow yet steady breathing that means normal sleep. And their waiting was not in vain.

Many days passed before Westy and Rip were able to recognize their surroundings and friends. And then their recovery was rapid.

Then came the day when Mrs. Redmond propped them up a little on their cots to watch the sunset. Their open windows overlooked the ledge and deep ravine below.

There once again Westy watched the huge red ball slowly disintegrate until the blue background and fleecy clouds became obliterated as it dropped behind the mountain opposite, leaving the vast ethereal spaces a mass of crimson-purple fire and the western heavens a sphere apart.

Even this, thought Westy, cannot last. This rainbow spectacle so vast and commanding in its great beauty must also pay homage to the law of gravitation, withdrawing its place in the scheme of things and making way for the somber shadows of twilight.

Everything was silent in this quiet hour but the brook. It sounded loudest in the twilight and tinkled its silvery way over the rocks and into the chasm below.

“Rip, that mountain over there—”

“Yes?”

“The world. Reality! It’s horrible and real. I’d rather live in my imagination here—after facing those real things again, wouldn’t you?”

“You bet!”

“To be drowning, to be hungry and thirsty and cold—that’s real! It’s then we know what life really is, eh? No make-believe about that. You almost hate everything you’ve loved before. I mean the sun when you’re thirsty, the night and the rain that keep you back from finding your way and the barren earth that won’t yield you nourishment. That’s real and it won’t do a thing for you. You’re just left to make or break with two hands and two feet, no matter how helpless Nature has made you. Am I right?”

“What? You ask me that? After this, Wes, I’m willing to learn from you—not give my paltry opinion on anything.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Wilde said as he and Billy came into the room. “You’ve learned a pretty dear lesson, I guess.”

“Oh, we all make mistakes,” Westy defended him.

“I can’t see that you have, Westy. If you have they’ve been good ones,” Mr. Wilde reminded.

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” Rip said, hoping the matter would forthwith be a closed incident. “Westy got me back all right, so that’s all there is to it!”

“Yes, thanks to Westy,” his uncle said. “But I failed to see how you intended making we modern pikers sit up and take notice!”

Billy laughed. “Not from what I saw of him on Westy’s shoulder that day. He wasn’t even able to sit up and take notice himself!”

CHAPTER XXXVII—OLD SCOUT AND THE LEGEND

A week later Westy and Rip were back again in the cabin, looking none the worse for having gone through such an ordeal—thanks to the kindness of Mrs. Redmond and Lola.

It was Saturday; they were alone, the two older members being out on the trail making up for lost time, as they were due in Santa Fe the next week.

Lola had invited them for supper Sunday evening and they had planned to leave Monday morning.

“You know, Rip,” Westy said impulsively, “I’d risk my neck again if I thought I could help Lola and her grandmother. They’ve certainly been the best!”

“I kinda think so,” Rip answered, and added: “You like Lola pretty well, don’t you?”

Westy reddened and laughed.

“Go on, Rip! Try something else!”

They heard voices and presently the door opened, admitting Educational Films. Billy put his stuff down and Mr. Wilde sank wearily into a chair.

“Well, I guess that’s all for this Range. The only thing we missed taking was the fleas. I’m satisfied to pull out of here now.”

“Yet,” Billy said, “it’s been nice knowing those fine people!”

“Indeed it has,” Mr. Wilde agreed, “and that reminds me——”

“Oh, yes,” Billy interrupted, “the guide and that party of roughnecks. Go on, tell them!”

“We met some people this morning just as we stepped out in the trail. An old man—pioneer type, called himself Old Scout, and a bunch of newly rich—you know the kind. He’s a guide and was taking them up to the haunted lake to camp over to-night and are coming back to-morrow.

“They were babbling so, talking a lot of stuff, that Billy and I got way ahead of them with Old Scout. We got up to Redmond’s trail and he excused himself to his party; said he wanted to make a call on them. They sat down and had a bite to eat and we went along with him.

“We were welcome as always and so was he. It seems he has known them all—even the first John Redmond. Lived in this cabin we’ve been using for thirty years. Says he got to be too old to live alone (he’s a man about seventy-five now, but splendid physique), and lives with a married daughter somewhere in the foothills. Earns a little now and then by guiding some of these would-be’s, but never could-be’s.

“However, they chatted awhile and Mrs. Redmond insisted upon him having a little snack. A perfect hostess, that lady! She made him promise to stop with his party on their way back to-morrow. Incidentally, she reminded us that we are expected also.

“We promised and left and resumed our talk with him. We told him how fine the Redmonds had been to us and the affair at the lake and forest.

“He said to escape from that place of torment was considered a miracle and he commented upon Westy’s ability to have stayed up the way he did.

“Then I asked him what he thought of the lake legend and the cliff. He took a chew of tobacco and wagged his head.

“‘Wa’al, I allus believed in it, same’s everybody roun’ here, I reckon, but here in the late spring one of them government scientists come ’long to look it over. He brought a powerful lot o’ loafers with him, too.

“‘They hired me to guide ’em up to the lake fust. Wa’al, after they monkeyed aroun’ with all sorts of queer-lookin’ appliances ’n’ brought up buckets full of dirt out o’ the side o’ the lake, we started on ’roun’ to the forest.

“‘I put my foot down flat when we got there and told ’em I’d camp outside on the trail until—they got out—if they ever did. They laughed at me, but in all my time a pusson was considered right crazy if they went in there.

“‘Along in four days they came out again and the scientist said to me, “Well, Old Scout, we got out all right, didn’t we?” I said, Yes, I reckon he did. Now what was it all about I asked him. He told me.

“‘It seems the forest must have been really the camping ground of some tribe long ago, sure enough. He knew the legend, but he said he didn’t take any stock in the cliff dwellers. Anyway, these Indians wanted to pertect themselves from enemies, he said, so they moved out on the cliff facing the lake and planted that forest. He says it must o’ took two generations and more to perfect this natural fortress. Nothin’ but tree after tree, some hardly five feet apart, and they planted them in a puffect circle. It took them scientists four hull days to go around it and he said they couldn’t a-done it in that time if they hadn’t known about the circle.

“‘He sez it’s the trees make it so damp; they’re so big around and so high, no sun ever gits in. Becuz o’ the swampy groun’ the snakes love it. ’N’ with no stream anywheres about, it makes it wuss. Them days Injuns must ’a’ been hard-hearted critters.

“‘And the lake?’” I reminded him.

“‘“Yes, that’s so,” he said. Nothin’ ter thet either, accordin’ to the scientist. He sez the lake has an almost bottomless depth ’n’ becuz of its narrer basin and something ’bout an unknown source is what makes them whirlpools, ’specially when a storm’s comin’ it’s wuss. ’N’ about it bein’ hot water, he sez thet water is rich in mineral substances underneath thet throw out treemenjus heat ’n’ with the water churlin’ so crazy it’s twice as bad.

“‘So, I don’t believe in the legend no more. I miss it, too! It was a right nice little story.’”

CHAPTER XXXVIII—SOME LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT

“Do you consider yourself squelched, Westy?” Mr. Wilde teased him. “About the haunted topic, I mean?”

“No, I don’t,” Westy said and meant it. “Any lake and forest that could make a fellow feel like that is supernatural and I don’t care what any hard-boiled scientist says.”

“Tell Westy what Old Scout said about the Redmond affair, too,” Billy reminded him.

“Yes. He knew all about that story, too, from John Redmond the first. He said that he was a fine fellow, but he liked adventure and was always getting into some innocent scrape when he was a boy in England. Then he ran away from home when he heard about the first cry of gold in this country. His father was a baronet or something and his mother, the countess, was prostrated after her son went away. She almost died and it so enraged his father to see his wife go on so that he sent word to his son never to bring disgrace upon them in any way. If he did, the father wrote him, the next shock would kill his mother and he, the son, would be responsible and as good as guilty of her murder.

“They must have been awful prudes that family, because John Redmond knew what would happen if they found out about Lone Star. Probably they were so snobbish they would never understand that in her way the Indian girl was as noble and gentle as they. And of course at that time all Europe thought American Indians were a lot of drunkards, thieves and murderers. At any rate, the fear of causing his mother any more anguish kept him back from writing to them after he married Lone Star.

“This Paul Mitchell was a rascal and had had Redmond’s confidence about his family affairs. Also, Mitchell, as we have already been told, hated the Indians fiercely and also Lone Star, whom he thought just roped his partner into the whole business to get his money. And he hated his partner for caring for her. Thought he was just spineless and said he’d never give any gold that he had helped to find to an Indian.

“After Mitchell had escaped no one heard of him for a long while, and Redmond had too much family pride and was too much of a gentleman to hunt his former friend down as a culprit. And when he did hear it was Mitchell himself who wrote to him and warned him that if Redmond tried to make any trouble for him he’d reveal everything to his family. Now it seems that Redmond had a first cousin in England who had great sympathy and understanding for him. They corresponded as often as it was possible for people to correspond in those times and out of the way places. Eventually the cousin’s daughter came here, who is the present Mrs. Redmond. She is a high-born woman.

“Mitchell and Redmond were equal partners and they struck it rich. Redmond alone was worth over two million when he died if Mitchell had given it to him.

“One fine day Mitchell moved to Santa Fe along about the time that John Redmond the second was born. So after a short time they met and Mitchell laughed in Redmond’s face and told him about never sharing his money with a man who had married an Indian. Besides, Redmond’s parents were still both alive and very old, and this he held as a sword over the Englishman’s head.

“When Redmond returned he swore he would never go near Mitchell again and in later years he extracted promises from his son and grandson that they wouldn’t either in deference to Lone Star whose race Mitchell had insulted.

“Then the present Mrs. Redmond came into a little money from her mother’s estate and this she shared with all and they’ve been living on it ever since.

“With nothing coming in and all going out, they’re about down to the last cent, Old Scout said, but they’re too proud to go to the present generation of Mitchells and tell them their plight.”

“Where are the present Mitchells?” Westy asked eagerly.

“Living in gilded splendor in Santa Fe, Old Scout told me,” Mr. Wilde answered.

“But how can they prove their claim now?” Westy was all interest. “Mitchell stole the paper that was all the witness Redmond had, didn’t he?”

“That’s the interesting thing. Mitchell with all his antagonism and prejudice against the Indians and which he took out on John Redmond all his life must have had a troubled conscience.

“At all events, it is whispered around Santa Fe and, in fact, some one said it was in the Santa Fe paper at the time, that when old Paul Mitchell died he willed a certain sealed envelope to his son.

“In it was a document and the envelope was never to be opened during his son’s life nor his son’s lifetime. But the first son or daughter of his grandson was to open the sealed envelope on the event of their twenty-first birthday, and it hasn’t been opened yet. They know nothing of the Redmonds at all, I believe.”

“He must have been crazy!” Rip piped up shrilly.

“Not crazy, Rip,” his uncle answered. “Just an eccentric, prejudiced, old man who let hate grow like a weed in his life, obliterating honor and everything else that’s worth while.”

“Why,” asked Billy, perplexed, “didn’t he want that envelope opened until his great-grandson’s maturity? And what makes you think it has something to do with Redmond?”

“Because I think the ingenious old scoundrel figured that the Indian strain would be about faded out in this generation. You see? He wanted his hate to live after him until the Indian was almost forgotten and the race was deteriorating. I may be wrong, but I don’t think so.”

“Where,” Westy asked Mr. Wilde, “do they keep the envelope?”

“In their home, I believe.”