The second time Bennie saw him, he said, “I don’t believe that dog’s got a master. He’s looking for a kind home. Come here, Towser.”
He whistled to the pup, and the dog came bounding up to him, tail wagging madly, and crouched puppy fashion at his feet. When Bennie stooped to pat him, he sprang up, put his forepaws on the scout’s chest, and tried to lick his face.
“Gosh, you nice little mutt!” Bennie exclaimed. “I sure like dogs, and you’re a regular dog.”
To this the dog replied with a whine of joy, and from that moment he clung to Bennie like a brother.
“Now you got him, what you going to do with him?” Spider asked, as the pup bounded along beside them, fairly shaking with delight, as his tail switched back and forth.
“Dunno. Get him some grub first, I guess. He looks awful thin.”
Bennie went around to the hotel kitchen and begged some meat scraps, which the pup devoured greedily. After that, he tried to follow Bennie into the hotel. No dogs were allowed inside, however.
“I guess he’ll go away now,” Bennie said, shutting the door in the poor dog’s face.
But when they came out from dinner the dog was still lying in front of the door, and as Bennie went out to the sidewalk he leaped upon him, trying to lick his face. He settled down on the door-mat when the boys went in for the night, and the last thing they saw was his face looking in at them through the screen, his eyes reproachful and sad at being left out.
And when they came down at six in the morning, he was still there! At sight of Bennie, he emitted a glad yelp and began scratching at the door.
“Say, that pup is certainly fond of me,” Bennie said, going out and petting it. “Can’t I take him along, Uncle Billy?”
“Not a chance,” the doctor answered. “We’ve got troubles enough. Besides, he probably belongs to somebody here in Bend. He’ll go home when we’ve gone.”
When they were putting the last of the baggage into the cars in front of the hotel the dog leaped into the doctor’s car and sat on the driver’s seat, wagging his tail furiously, as much as to say, “Well, well, I’m all ready to start; hurry up!”
He had to be put out three times before the cars were ready. When the order came to start, Bennie hugged him hard, while the pup licked at his face.
“Good-bye, you little mutt, you,” said he. “If my uncle wasn’t a flinty-hearted old thing, we’d take you along.”
Then Bennie climbed over into the car, and they were off for Mount Jefferson. They ran north out of Bend, and then turned west, toward the distant mountains. In the early morning light, clear as a bell, they could see the snow-clad peaks rising against the sky, all the way from the Three Sisters in front of them to Mount Hood, a hundred miles to the north. More than fifty miles away, northwestward, rose the sharp, glittering white pyramid of Mount Jefferson, their objective. It was their first sight of it, and the doctor slowed down the car so they could have a good look.
And as he did so, they heard a little yip beside the car—and there was the pup, his tongue hanging out, his chest heaving, but his eyes fixed on Bennie in triumph!
“Oh, Uncle Billy, the poor little mutt!” Bennie cried. “Some speed, I’ll say. He’s going to follow us till he runs his head off. Can’t I take him in?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, and the doctor had no time to reply, before the pup, with one spring, landed in Bennie’s lap.
“Looks as if you had taken him in,” the doctor grinned. “Well, let him stay now. But you’ll have to feed him out of your own rations. We can’t pack food for a dog.”
The dog, with wiggles of his tail and body that expressed his joy as plainly as any words could, snuggled down in Bennie’s lap and tried to lick him.
“What are you going to name him?” Dumplin’ called out from the other car.
“I guess his name is Mutt,” Bennie laughed.
“Seeing’s how we are going to Jefferson, better call him Jeff,” Dumplin’ retorted.
“Jeff it is,” Bennie answered, grinning at the joke. “Good old Jeff! I bet he’s a good dog. I bet he can round up a flock of sheep. I’m going to take him home when we go.”
“How pleased your mother will be,” said his uncle.
The cars started up again now, and they rode for almost fifty miles northwestward, getting presently into the yellow pine forests and then the foot-hills, so that Jefferson disappeared entirely from view. At last the doctor turned his car down a side road, and stopped in front of a small house, all by itself in a forest clearing beside a lovely little river. Opposite this house was a barn, and in the barnyard was a herd of horses.
“Allingham Ranger Station! All out! Far as we go!” cried the doctor. “Hello, Norman!”
This last he shouted to a stocky young man, in khaki riding breeches and leather leggings, who was standing by the barn.
Norman was to be their guide. The horses were his. With him he had two more men, one to take care of the horses and one to cook. That made eight saddle horses needed for the party. There were eight more pack horses to carry the luggage. Although it was only 9:30 o’clock, it took them till almost one to get the cars unloaded, and the tents, dunnage bags, sleeping bags, provisions, cameras, alpenstocks, and so on, packed on the eight horses. Bennie and Spider were of little use in this packing process, because they knew nothing about it. They brought the stuff to be packed to Norman and his two helpers, and watched them stow it across the pack saddles, stretch a canvas over, and then throw a long rope over the heap and under the horse’s belly, back and forth several times, till, when it was finally hauled taut and tied, it made a large diamond-shaped design of the load, and held it firmly on.
“Say, that’s a complicated process,” said Spider. “I can tie most knots after I’ve seen somebody do it, but I couldn’t do that.”
“It takes some practice to throw a diamond hitch,” Norman laughed. “Well, let’s saddle our old cayuses now.”
The eight riding horses were saddled, the boys each attending to his own nag. But Norman inspected the saddles before they mounted, and tightened the girths.
“Now, adjust your stirrups,” he said. “Don’t have them too short. Two fingers between you and the saddle when you stand up is enough. We’re not going to ride in Central Park this afternoon.”
“Where are we going to ride, by the way?” the doctor asked. “Any chance of getting into Jefferson Park?”
“Not a chance,” said Norman. “We can’t even get in to Hunt’s Cove direct, as I ’phoned you. We’ve got to detour around by Marion Lake. Too much snow.”
“Hope he knows where all those places are,” whispered Bennie.
“But can we climb Jefferson from Hunt’s Cove?” the doctor asked. “Has anybody ever done it?”
“Never heard of anybody. But we can have a look.”
“Why can’t you climb it from Hunt’s Cove—wherever that is?” Bennie asked.
“Maybe you can,” Norman replied. “But it’s no picnic. Wait till you see.”
“Well, I’ve been hearing about all this snow,” Bennie grinned, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “for two days. I’d like to see some right now.”
“Give us time,” Norman smiled. “And now we’re off. We’ve got fifteen miles to make before dark.”
“But how about lunch?” Dumplin’ suddenly demanded.
“Marion Lake before dark!” Norman answered. “No lunch.”
Dumplin’ groaned.
“It’ll help you reduce, Dump,” Bennie taunted. “Gidup, Dobbin! Oh, gee, where’s poor little Jeff?” And he began to whistle.
Jeff appeared with a loud yelp from the side of the stream, where he had evidently been cooling himself. Shaking off the water, he dashed ahead of the procession of sixteen horses, barking madly, and the march for Jefferson began.
The trail lay through a thick yellow pine forest. This was a United States government forest, so that the fire had been kept out and the little pines were everywhere coming up under the old ones, much to Spider’s delight. But the trail itself was dry and dusty, and their noses soon smarted, their throats were dry. With the loaded pack horses, they could not trot, but plodded on in single file, the dust rising in clouds behind them.
They had been traveling perhaps an hour when Norman, riding ahead, suddenly pulled up his horse, and Bennie, just behind him, saw him sniff.
“What’s the matter?” the scout asked.
“I smell smoke,” Norman answered. Then he looked at the dust cloud behind to see which way it was moving.
“We are going into the wind. Must be ahead,” he said. “You come on with me. Let your uncle lead the train.”
He kicked his horse and dashed up the trail. Bennie kicked his horse, and dashed after him, not at all sure that he could keep his saddle. Strangely enough, though, he found it easier to gallop than to trot, and found himself falling into the motion of the horse.
A quarter of a mile up the trail the smell of smoke was plain. Over a knoll they dashed, and they saw smoke in the forest ahead. A moment later they heard the crackle, and then they were on the fire. It was a small one as yet, evidently just under way, but it was licking savagely into the small trees and the dead stuff, all dry as tinder or else full of inflammable pitch. And the flames were moving toward them!
Norman wheeled. “Go back!” he yelled. “Stop the train where it is, and tell Joe to stay with the horses while the rest bring up all the axes, and that camp spade in my pack. Then you go back as fast as you can to the Ranger Station and tell the ranger. If he isn’t there, find him!”
Bennie wheeled his horse, and dashed back. He gave the message to the rest, and kept on. Both he and his horse were panting, drenched with sweat and thick with dust, when he reached the Ranger Station again. The ranger was there, as good luck would have it. While Bennie watered his horse, he telephoned for help; then he saddled and galloped up the trail, with Bennie behind him, but some way behind, for Bennie’s horse was getting weary.
When Bennie reached the pack train, Joe, the cook, had all the horses lined up facing back toward the station, ready to retreat if the fire came nearer. Everybody else had gone to fight the flames. So Bennie left his horse, too, and with stiff, aching legs, ran up the trail. As he drew near the scene, he could see, between him and the flames that were still confined to the smaller trees and the stuff on the forest floor, five men and two boys working like mad. Norman was digging a little ditch, while the rest, with axes and scout hatchets, were chopping down the small trees to make an open lane several feet wide. They had this lane and ditch cut across the direct path of the fire, and were swinging it around on each end, as if they were going to enclose the flames in a big ring. Bennie grabbed a hatchet, and went madly to work with the rest.
Nobody was wasting any breath talking. The fire was coming nearer all the time, and the nearer it came the hotter they grew. But when, in the centre, it reached the lane and ditch—and stopped, they gave a loud cheer, and worked all the harder to get around the two sides before it could spread out.
“If only the wind won’t change!” the ranger did say, breathlessly, and then stooped to his work.
It is doubtful if they could have outflanked the fire, however, with only eight pairs of hands, if help had not arrived. Half a dozen men came galloping up, their horses rearing and snorting at sight of the flames, and leaped off with spades and axes. With this new, fresh help, the fire was outflanked on the two sides, and as it moved more slowly back against the slight wind, they were able to get it under control.
When the danger was over, they paused, wiped their hot, dripping, dirty faces, and looked at the burned area.
It was hardly more than an acre in extent, but an acre, as Bennie said, is quite enough to dig a ditch around in a hurry, without proper tools.
“Thank the Lord it’s no more,” the ranger declared. “If you hadn’t spotted it when you did, it would have worked down into those thicker pines over the knoll, and then we’d have been in for a real overhead fire, and no mistake. Once in there it would jump up into the big fellows.”
“What I want to know is, what started it?” said Mr. Stone.
“Party went in ahead of you this morning, to fish at Marion Lake,” said the ranger. “Cigarette, probably. Idiots! Snoop around there, Norman, and see what you can discover tonight. I’ll be over in the morning myself. I want to stick by here tonight and make sure this doesn’t blow up again. Well, boys, Uncle Sam is grateful to you, all right!”
They went back to the pack train, and then resumed their journey, crossing the black, smoking patch of the fire, and waving good-bye to the ranger and his helpers.
“Well, there are two precious hours gone,” Norman growled. “We’ll have to make camp in the dark.”
“But we stopped a bad fire,” said Bennie. “Aren’t you glad?”
“Sure, I’m glad. But I hate to camp in the dark. Get up!”
He kicked his horse, and all the train behind picked up to a faster pace. They didn’t hold it long, though, for the trail began to go up-hill presently, and the character of the forest to change. Instead of the big yellow pines, the path rose into a forest of smaller trees of many kinds, and shrubs, too. Spider did his best to pull off specimens of the foliage or needles as he rode past, so he could identify them. The guide would not let them stop.
Even at the top of the pass they were still in the forest, and could get no outlook. But as the trail grew level again, on the pass, they ran into snow-drifts and pools of water just melted. It was the first sign of anything cool that day. Over the pass the trail began to descend into a wild forest of big evergreens, and for the next few weary miles Bennie, for one, had little idea of where they went. He was dizzy from lack of food and his exertions in the heat, and he was so saddle sore that he had to keep shifting his weight to try to ease the stiffness. His bones and his head both ached. It was getting dark in the forest, too, whenever they had to go down into the bottom of a ravine. Nobody was saying a word, except, the horse rustler, who kept yelling at the pack horses to make them hurry.
At last, when it seemed as if he couldn’t stand his saddle another minute, and when it was so dark in the deep, damp woods that Norman was almost invisible at the head of the train, they heard him call, “Turn left,” and followed him down a side trail, so dim they would never have detected it in the dark.
A moment later there was light ahead, and they were on the shore of Marion Lake! The woods went right down to the water. There was no beach. The lake itself was a good-sized pond, perhaps a mile long, and across it rose up the snow-draped, needle-pointed spires of Three Fingered Jack, nearly 8,000 feet high. Nobody looked at the view, however; there was no time. The boys got out the tents and sleeping bags, the cook set up the stove and prepared food by lantern light. The doctor and Mr. Stone rustled wood. Norman and the helper took the horses off in the darkness to find a bit of open pasturage if they could. For half an hour, weary as they were, everybody worked like mad. And then, dirty as they were, they all rushed to the stove at the cry of “Come and get it!”
“I was never so hungry in my life,” Bennie said.
“I ain’t hungry any more,” Dumplin’ replied. “I was three hours ago, but now I’m past caring. I’m just a vacuum.”
“Stomach or head?” his father asked.
The food had been cooked in a hurry, but nobody cared. Eating by lantern light and the glow from the stove door, they gobbled the bacon and swallowed the coffee in eager gulps.
“Glad Ma can’t see my table manners now!” Spider remarked, his mouth full.
When the meal was over Norman went off again through the trees to see if he could find the camp of the fishermen who possibly set the fire, and the rest lay on their backs by the water, discussing the exciting day. Norman came back to report that three men were camping around a headland, and he suspected one of them must have thrown away a cigarette, though they denied it.
“And to think,” said the doctor, “that if we hadn’t come along, the fire might have got a headway and burned thousands of acres, just because one man didn’t have sense enough not to throw a cigarette butt into the brush! Some folks ought not to be allowed in the woods.”
“Well, me for a bath and bed,” said Mr. Stone. “I don’t know which I need more.”
The full moon was rising behind Three Fingered Jack when they all jumped into the lake, which was surprisingly shallow near shore, and had a good bath. Then they climbed wearily into their tents, and in two minutes they were in bed. But no sooner had they got snuggled down in the dark than there came a yell from the doctor.
“Here, get up, Bennie, and take that pup out of here! He’s licking my face!”
“Oh, gee, he’s all wet, and he’s shaking himself on me,” from Spider.
“Aw, let him sleep at my feet, Uncle Billy,” from Bennie.
“No, sir; he’ll hunt fleas in the night. I want a good sleep. You get up and take him outside!”
So poor Bennie got stiffly up again, and led Jeff out of the tent, making him a little bed out of a canvas pack cover by the flap. Jeff curled up contentedly, with a good-night lick and whimper, and Bennie went back.
Already he could hear Spider breathing hard, and in one minute he, too, had dropped off like a soldier after a battle.
The next morning Bennie expected to be sore and stiff, but somehow he wasn’t. He felt fine. The day began at sun-up with a plunge in the lake, and then an early start, because the horses hadn’t had enough to eat, and Norman wanted to get to pasturage. It was a wonderful day for Spider. They were now on the western side of the Cascade Divide, the side on which the rain and snow falls all winter, so that the woods, instead of being dry, were as rich and dark and damp as an Adirondack forest. The yellow pines had vanished, but in their place were great cedars, and stands of Douglas fir trees bigger even than those on the way to Crater Lake. About the middle of the morning they picked their way down a steep, broken, rocky trail into a cañon, and at the bottom they rode for a long way through a forest of fir trees so big that when anybody rode around one, both horse and rider vanished from sight! These trees rose 150 feet without a limb, straight as masts, and they were over 200 feet tall.
“Some shrubs!” cried Bennie. “My neck’s nearly broken trying to see the tops of ’em.”
“How’d you like to shin up one, Bennie?” Mr. Stone called.
“I’d rather shin up it than saw it into wood for the stove,” Bennie answered.
“Who owns these trees?” asked Spider.
“Your Uncle Sam,” Norman called back.
“I’m glad of that. I hope they’re never cut down. I wish everybody in America could see them, and know what trees are!”
“A lot of people in America would think they were dead before they could get here,” Uncle Billy laughed. “We are some ways from civilization, Spider.”
At noon they came to a natural meadow, and pastured the horses for two hours, while they themselves ate lunch. Then they pushed on. Late in the afternoon, when the boys were getting saddle sore and weary again, and everybody was hot and sweaty, Norman suddenly turned up the side of the cañon, by a dim trail through the bushes (there were few trees on this slope, due to an old fire). The trail was very steep, the horses sweated and panted, the pack horses had to be tugged and driven. For an hour they climbed, with frequent rests for breath, until the forests lay below them and the tumbled cañons, and they came into an open pasture near sunset time, a pasture full of glorious red and blue wild flowers and rich grass. They crossed this toward the east, still climbing, and suddenly came up over a crest into a second pasture, which was even fuller of flowers, and was the top of the mountain they had been climbing. But that wasn’t what made them pull up their horses and shout.
What made them do that was what they saw apparently only two or three miles eastward—the great white pyramid of Mount Jefferson, covered with cold, glittering snow, rising up and up against the sky, its summit needle flushed pink with sunset! It was a beautiful sight, but it was a tremendous sight, too. The mountain looked immense, terrific.
Bennie sobered after his first shout.
“Do you mean to say we are going to climb that?” he demanded.
“Surely,” his uncle smiled.
Bennie, for once, made no reply whatever.
They went into camp immediately, above a big, fine spring on a slope of the meadow, which is called Minto Pasture. The horses were unsaddled and unloaded, hobbled, and sent out to graze their fill. Tents were strung between some trees on the edge of the big natural clearing. Dry wood was gathered, and supper got under way. They were more than 5,000 feet up here, and the minute the sun set it grew very cold, with a strong, bitter wind blowing down from the snow-draped mountain. There were snow-drifts in the woods beyond the spring. Everybody got into sweaters, and huddled around the boiling coffee-pot. Even Jeff snuggled up close to Bennie—but that might have been because he was hungry and was looking for food.
He got the scrapings from all the dishes, and the last batch of pancakes, which nobody else had room for, and then went bounding off again, barking and wheeling amid the grass and flowers.
“Great dog, that!” Bennie declared.
“Well, here come some cattle. Let’s see how good a dog he is,” Norman grinned, pointing up the pasture.
Sure enough, a herd of cattle, turned out to range wild during the summer, was breaking out of the woods.
“They’ll be around all night, and walk all over camp, and get into the spring, if we don’t chase ’em off,” Norman went on. “Sic your sheep dog on ’em, Bennie.”
Bennie whistled to Jeff, and then pointed to the cattle.
“Sic ’em, Jeff! Drive ’em away!” he said.
Jeff gave a yelp, jumped madly around in a circle—and then ran barking loudly directly toward a bird sitting in a low tree, singing its evening song!
“Yes, that’s a great dog,” remarked Uncle Billy.
“He certainly knows how to herd up cattle,” Norman added.
“Maybe he’s a bird dog, Bennie,” said Spider.
“I know what he is,” Dumplin’ grinned. “He’s a Chickadee hound!”
“Aw, you make me sick,” Bennie retorted. “Just ’cause he’s a pup, and hasn’t been trained yet. Come here, Jeff. Bite ’em!”
Jeff came back, as proudly as if he had herded the cattle instead of scaring one small bird, and once more he had to be put out of the tent, after everybody had got nicely to sleep.
The next morning the thermometer, which the doctor carried in a case with his aneroid barometer, registered only 38° at five o’clock. Everybody was glad to pile out and hustle around striking camp, to get warmed up for breakfast.
“Now, gentlemen, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” said Norman, when they were ready to start. “Everything has been a picnic so far, but now we are going to run into the snow. I don’t know whether we can make Hunt’s Cove or not. It will depend on how good sports you are.”
“If the last two days have been a picnic, I don’t know whether I want to see your idea of working,” said Bennie.
“Afraid?”
“Afraid, your grandmother. But I sure am sorry for poor old Dobbin,” Bennie retorted.
Old Jefferson, which looked so near, wasn’t so near as it looked, of course. Mountains never are. They descended gradually from Minto Pasture, through a “ghost forest” for two or three miles. A ghost forest is a forest which has been burned, without consuming the standing trunks. There the trees stood, thousands of them, but ghostly gray and dead—not a live branch, not a needle. Beyond this forest, they came out on a great plateau three miles wide, which was bare of everything except low bushes, wild flowers, a few snow-drifts and lava heaps, and a tiny brown tarn of water. The fire had done its work thoroughly here.
“Grizzly Flats, they call this,” Norman said. “But I guess it’s been a long time since any grizzlies were seen here.”
“What a fire this must have been!” Spider was saying, when Bennie suddenly cried, “Sh!”
“What is it?”
“Somebody’s following us over the trail on a motorcycle,” he answered. “Don’t you hear?”
It certainly sounded that way. Far off they heard the roaring buzz of an unmuffled engine.
“An aeroplane!” Spider exclaimed.
They halted, listening and watching. A moment later, flying fairly low, the plane came over Minto Mountain behind them, and swept toward Grizzly Flats. As if he saw them, and wanted to tell them so, the aviator swooped a bit over their heads, then rose again, banked against the white wall of Jefferson, and swung off to the north.
“What is he doing here?” the boys exclaimed.
“It’s one of the new aeroplane forest patrol,” Norman said. “They go out every day now, in the dry season, to spot fires. We haven’t had a bad fire—not one of the old-fashioned big blazes, since they started in. They can get up and see into all the cañons, everywhere, every day, and get back with the tip in no time.”
“But what would they do if they had to land?” asked Spider.
“I guess it’s up to them not to have to land,” Norman answered. “I don’t want the job—but it’s a great work, just the same.”
“Well, I’ll say war isn’t the only risky thing,” put in Bennie. “That guy ought to have a medal for flying over this country every day.”
The plane had disappeared. They pushed on, and soon found themselves at the edge of Grizzly Flats. Right below them the land dropped at an angle of fifty or sixty degrees for a thousand feet, into a deep hole. Directly across this hole it went up again, and up and up and up, for the other side was Mount Jefferson. They were only a mile from the wall of the mountain, but for all they could see, they might as well have been a hundred miles. It looked quite impossible to take horses down that slope. To the right and left were dense woods which the fire hadn’t burned, and these woods were full of snow. The hole below them, called Hunt’s Cove, was carpeted with snow. The great pyramid of Jefferson opposite them was blinding white with snow.
“You wait here,” said Norman, “while I prospect.”
He went off to the south, into the woods, and they saw his horse climbing up over the drifts. Uncle Billy got out his field-glasses, lay on his stomach with his elbows firmly on the ground at the rim of the precipice, and began a long, careful study of the slopes of Mount Jefferson. He was very grave about it, and didn’t say a word, except now and then in a low voice to Dumplin’s father. The three boys wandered along the rim, wondering how Norman was going to find a way down. They couldn’t see any trace of a trail. Wherever the slope was enough off the perpendicular to hold a trail, it was covered with snow.
Norman didn’t return for nearly an hour. When he finally came back, he said, “Well, I think I’ve found a way, if you care to risk it. I’ll risk the horses.”
“As bad as that, eh?” the doctor replied. “Well, if you’ll try it, we will. I think I’ve found a way up the mountain, too, though I don’t like the looks of certain rock slides down that big west snow-field.”
“But why do we go on the big west snow-field?” the boys asked. “Looks as if we could just go right up the southwest shoulder.”
“Look sharp at the summit pinnacle, Bennie,” the doctor said, handing him the glasses.
Bennie looked. All he said was “Wow!” and passed them to Dumplin’.
“Do we climb that?” Dumplin’ demanded.
“We do, if we get to the top of Jefferson,” the doctor answered. “You see, that top peak, or pinnacle, is absolutely straight up and down. It’s just a slab of lava set up on edge and covered with snow and ice. The only place it can possibly be climbed is on the northern end, so we’ve got to get around to the northern end. My plan is to go up from Hunt’s Cove by the southwest spur to the 7,000-foot level, where the permanent snow begins, then traverse the big west snow-field and get up on that first northwest shoulder, which apparently leads us right up to the north end of the pinnacle. It looks possible. Well, Norman, we’re ready.”
Norman led the way southward into the woods at the rim of the Cove. As soon as they were in the deep shadows of the evergreens, they were on snow, and deep snow. Some drifts were still as much as ten feet deep, and so hard that the horses barely sank over their hoofs.
“The trail is somewhere underneath us,” Norman called back.
He traveled for almost a mile above the rim, and then led the way over. By zigzagging through the woods, on the steeply pitched snow, they were able to ride about half the way down. Then he called for them all to dismount.
“Want to get a good motion picture, Mr. Stone?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The big camera was unpacked, and Norman and Mr. Stone disappeared with it, down the steep pitch ahead. Ten minutes later Norman came back.
“Now,” said he, “each man lead his horse. Keep as far away from him as you can, and jump fast, or he’ll step on you. Go in single file, and Joe and Bill you go last and drive the pack horses ahead of you. Come on—follow me.”
They pitched down a few feet through the evergreens, and came to the top of a long, straight, open chute, like a ski run cut in the woods, covered deep with snow, and descending 500 feet to the very bottom of Hunt’s Cove. It was evidently the path of an old landslide. Part way down, at one side, Mr. Stone had set up his camera, and was ready to shoot them as they went past him.
“Ready? Go!” cried Norman, and over the edge he went, dragging his horse.
Bennie followed, and Spider and Dumplin’ and the doctor, and the pack horses, and the rest, in single file. Two jumps, and you were speeding up. Three jumps, and the horses were going ten feet at a plunge, snorting and slipping and sometimes going through the snow to their bellies, and the boys, ahead of them, were leaping from side to side madly to keep out of the way of their iron-shod, plunging hoofs.
As he passed the camera, Bennie heard the crank grinding, and the laughing voice of Mr. Stone crying, “More action, Bennie!”
Bennie was about to make some reply, when his foot slipped, and he turned a superb somersault, and only was stopped from rolling the rest of the way to the bottom because he kept hold of his horse’s bridle.
It was all over in two minutes, but it was certainly lively while it lasted. Then all the horses, their legs wet, shivering and trembling with nervousness, stood huddled at the foot of the chute, and Mr. Stone was seen descending with his camera. Bennie sprang back up the slope to get the tripod.
“Say, that beats skiing!” he cried, “and I sure got some more action for you, Mr. Stone.”
“You did,” the man laughed. “You did! That was the best action picture I ever took.”
They found at the bottom of Hunt’s Cove a small open meadow, boggy now with melted snow and full of white cowslips and running brooks, but full, also, of fresh grass for the horses, and all around the meadow deep forests of fir trees and deep drifts. Among the trees, beside a rushing stream of ice cold water, and in a dry place between drifts, they pitched their tents.
There was no danger of a fire spreading here, with the snow all around, so they built a roaring camp fire between the tents, and while the dinner was being cooked the doctor got from his pack a box of spikes, and they began to fix their shoes for the climb.
Uncle Billy fixed his first, to show them how. As the heavy soles of his boots were already studded thick with sharp hobs, he didn’t have to put in any short spikes. But into each sole, with the help of a key wrench, he screwed eight sharp steel spikes more than an inch long, and four more into each heel.
“I’d hate to be catching when you tried to slide for home,” Bennie said. “Those are wicked looking hoofs!”
“Now make yours just as wicked. And be sure you get the spikes in straight and firm,” his uncle answered. “Everything on this trip so far has been a mere picnic to what we are going to get tomorrow. It’s not only going to be the hardest work you ever did in your life, but the most dangerous. We can’t have anything wrong with our equipment.”
Everybody who didn’t already have plenty of sharp hobs in his boots also screwed in a large number of short steel spikes, in addition to the long ones. Then all the shoes were freshly oiled, to make them as nearly water-proof as possible, and Uncle Billy got out the amber goggles, to see if they were unbroken. He also produced a stick of grease paint.
“What’s that for? Are we going to act in a play?” Dumplin’ asked.
“No, but we are going to paint our faces, just the same. You’ll be glad enough of this stick before the sun sets tomorrow.”
After supper the cook made ready six small packages of lunch, for Norman was going to make the climb, too, and the doctor wound up his alarm clock.
“Bed, boys!” he ordered.
“Oh, no, not yet!”
“Who’s captain here? Bed, I said! We get up at three o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”
“Say, it’s worse than a bear hunt,” Dumplin’ groaned.
“You’ll think it is, by the time we get back to camp tomorrow night,” the doctor smiled. “I have a hunch that even Bennie is going to get enough exercise, for once.”
“Ho,” said Bennie, “Uncle Billy’s trying to scare us! Can I take Jeff along, Uncle, up his own mountain?”
“It might be a good way to get rid of him,” the doctor answered. “But if you don’t want to get rid of him, I advise you to tie him up in camp.”
“I wonder if Uncle Billy is trying to scare us?” Bennie whispered to Spider as they got ready for bed. “Don’t seem as if the old mountain was so bad as all that.”
Spider was very sober. “I had a good look at it through the glasses yesterday,” he replied. “I don’t mind saying right now that it’s got me scared. Remember those pictures in the book at home?”
“You mean the old Spitzes, and things? Sure!”
“Well, we’re going to get some of that stuff ourselves tomorrow.”
“Hooray!” said Bennie. “The real thing beats a book.”
But he began to think of the pictures as he was going to sleep, pictures of men clinging to precipices with awful depths below them, and in his dreams he was falling, falling, falling——
He was falling into a terrible black cañon where there was a loud noise of whirling water—and he woke to hear the alarm clock buzzing. The grip of the bad dream was still on him, and he was shivering a little, as Uncle Billy got up and lit the lantern in the tent. It was pitch dark in the woods outside, and still as death. But as they dressed, the three could hear Mr. Stone and Dumplin’ dressing in their tent, and then the sound of the cook starting the breakfast fire. Those who were to make the climb put on light shoes, for they were going to use the horses as far as timber line. They came out of the tents wearing their heavy sweaters, for it was bitterly cold, and washing by the brook was a very sketchy job. Nobody even suggested a bath.
While breakfast was cooking, they huddled around the stove. Meanwhile the horse rustler had gone up into the open meadow to round up six saddle horses. He was bringing them back as they ate their bacon and drank their coffee by lantern light, still huddled around the stove. As soon as the horses were saddled, each member of the party put his lunch into his pack, slung a canteen over his shoulder, tied his climbing boots over the saddle horn, took his alpenstock in his hand, like a lance, made sure he also had his colored goggles, and mounted.
“I feel like Sir Launcelot,” cried Dumplin’, tipping his alpenstock forward, like a knight about to tilt.
“I’d hate to tell you what you look like,” Bennie laughed. “Did Sir Launcelot carry his boots on his saddle?”
Bennie was the last one into the saddle, because he had to catch Jeff and tie him up. “Don’t let him loose till we’ve been gone a couple of hours,” he called back to the cook. “Don’t want him to follow us and break his neck.”
The sleepy cook grunted, and Jeff whined and moaned and tugged at his improvised rope collar, as Bennie patted him good-bye and climbed into the saddle.
It was still dark in the woods as they moved out of camp, but out in the open meadow of the cove there was a kind of gray daylight. Norman and the doctor led the way, putting the horses across the creek, and heading them for the steep side wall opposite the chute they had descended the day before.
This wall, when they came to it, was not so steep, however, as the chute. It had once been burned over, too, so that there was no timber except some dead, fallen stuff, and no snow. They zigzagged up it quickly, and at the top, looking over a two-mile gentler slope of low forest, they saw again the snow-white cone of the mountain rising up against the sky—or, rather, they half saw it, for the white clouds were swirling around it.
“They’ll lift with the sun,” said Norman. “Don’t worry.”
For the next hour, the horses plodded upward, over deep, hard snow, packed in huge drifts under the evergreen trees, which got smaller and smaller as they approached timber line. What had looked like an easy slope from below turned out to be full of short but steep pitches, over lava ledges, and if it had not been for the snow they could hardly have taken the horses up without endless zigzagging.
It was bright morning when they reached timber line, on the southwestern shoulder of the mountain, but as yet the sun had not reached them, of course, being cut off by the great bulk of the cone. They tied the horses to the last little trees, where the poor creatures would have to stay, without food or water, till night. Then they put on their heavy, spiked boots, shouldered their packs, canteens and cameras, the doctor with his coil of alpine rope, and set out for the summit above them, around which the clouds were scudding at a tremendous pace, driven by a strong west wind.
“How high up are we now?” Spider asked.
“About 7,000 feet, I should guess,” the doctor answered.
“Then we’ve got about 3,500 feet to climb,” Spider reckoned. “That’s not as much as Mount Washington from Bretton Woods or the Crawford House. You climb 4,200 there.”
“It’s 700 feet less,” said Bennie. “Gee, I’m good at arithmetic.”
“The only difference being that this is the second hardest snow climb in the United States (excluding Alaska, of course), and we are tackling it by a route which, so far as I know, nobody has ever tried before,” the doctor smiled.
“What’s the hardest?” Bennie asked.
“The north side of Mount Baker in Washington, up the Roosevelt Glacier,” his uncle answered.
“You been up there?”
“Yes.”
“Gee, I’d like to!”
“Suppose you do this one first,” said his uncle, “and suppose you follow me, instead of racing ahead.”
Bennie fell back into line.
They had reached a long, upward-stretching snow-field now, which the doctor said was the foot of permanent snow. It never melted entirely away. It was frozen now so hard that it held them up, and the long spikes were needed, or they would have slipped. They had to jam their alpenstocks hard down to set them into it. It led upward for a quarter of a mile or so, to a spine of broken, naked lava. As they climbed this slope, they could look back into the hole of Hunt’s Cove—or they could look where the cove was. They could only see it by flashes, as it were, because whole seas of billowing white clouds were driving in over Minto Mountain, crossing above the cove, and hitting Jefferson just below them. As these clouds hit, they seemed to get thinner, slid right up the snow slope past the climbers, like white snow, and blew off into blue space over the peak.