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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 “And we can’t accomplish that unless—I think I can do it,
professor,” broke off Ralph suddenly.
“What do you mean to do?”
“To straddle that log and get the rope out to him in that way.”
“Nonsense, it would not bear your weight even if you could
balance on it.”
But Ralph begged so hard to be allowed to put his plan into
execution that the professor was at last forced to give way and
consent to his trying the perilous feat.
“But come back the instant you are convinced you are in danger,”
he commanded; “remember, I am in charge of you boys.”
Ralph eagerly gave the required bond. Fastening the rope to his
waist, he straddled the narrow trunk and gingerly began working
himself forward toward his imperiled chum.
He got along all right till he was in a position where his feet
began to be clawed at by the hurrying waters below. He swayed,
recovered himself by a desperate effort, and then once more began
his snail-like progress. The sight of Persimmons’ blue lips and white
cheeks, for in that land the waters are almost as cold in midsummer
as in the depth of winter, gave him fresh determination to continue
his hazardous mission.
But even the most determined will cannot always overcome
material obstacles. A chunk of driftwood was swept against Ralph’s
feet. He was almost overbalanced by the force of the blow. The
watchers on shore saw him strive wildly for an instant to recover his
equilibrium, and then a cry of alarm broke from their lips as they
saw the boy suddenly lose his balance completely and topple off the
trunk into the stream.
“The rope! Haul on the rope!” shouted the professor, as Ralph
vanished, to reappear an instant later fighting for his life in the
relentless torrent.
Well it was for the boy then, that he had tied the rope to his
waist. Had he not done so, the moment might have been his last, for
even the strongest swimmer that ever breasted water would have
been but a helpless infant in that titanic current.
They all laid hold of the rope and pulled with every ounce of
muscle their combined forces could command. But, even then, so
strongly did the swiftly dashing stream suck at its victim that it was
all they could do to get him ashore. Blue and shivering from cold,
however, Ralph finally found footing and scrambled up the bank.
Then, and not till then—such had been the strain—did they recollect
Persimmons.
For an instant they hardly dared to look up. They feared that the
end of the long log might prove to be tenantless. But, to their
unspeakable relief, Persimmons still was clinging there. But even as
they gave a shout of joy at the sight of him, another thought rushed
in. Of what avail was it that the boy was there, when there appeared
no possible way of getting him out of his predicament?
Were they to stand there helplessly and see him swept to his
death before their very eyes? Was there nothing they could do? No
untried way of getting that precious rope to him?
It appeared that the answer to these questions must be in the
negative.
“Great heaven!” burst from the professor’s pale lips, and his voice
sounded harsh and rough as if his throat was as dry as ashes. “Can’t
we do anything? Can none of you suggest a way?”
“I tink I can get dat rope out dere, if you’ll gimme a chanct,
boss,” piped a voice at his elbow.
They all looked around. It was Jimmie, whom, in the stress of the
last minutes, they had forgotten as completely as if he had never
existed. But now here he was, repeating, with calm assurance, but
no braggadocio, his offer:
“I tink I can get it to him, if you’ll gimme a chanct.”
 CHAPTER IV.

JIMMIE’S PLUCK.

“You can get that rope to him?”

The professor’s voice held a note of amazement and possibly one
of unconscious incredulity, for Jimmie colored under his gaze.
“Sure I can.” He spoke rapidly, for it was no time to waste words.
“I used ter be wid a circus for a time, see. I learned ter do a
balancin’ act wid a troupe. I’ll jes’ take dat long stick dere fer a
balancin’ pole, and I’ll snake him out fer youse, er—er I’ll go up de
flume meself.”
Strange as it may appear, there was something in the manner of
the waif that instilled a new confidence into their hearts. Under other
circumstances they might not have felt it, but now, with Persimmons’
life in such danger, they were in the mood of drowning men who
grasp at straws.
Jimmie was such a straw, and his self-confident manner formed
to a not small degree the basis of their trust in his ability to carry out
what he said he could accomplish. Carefully the rope was transferred
from the dripping, half-frozen Ralph to Jimmie’s waist. This done, the
lad carefully balanced a longish branch he had picked up, and
appeared to find it suitable for use as a balancing pole; for, after one
or two trials, he stepped out on the log and began such a “rope
walking” act as has seldom if ever been witnessed.
 Before starting, he had kicked off his ragged, broken boots,—
stockings or socks he had none,—and was now barefooted. The
rough bark of the tree trunk afforded a certain stability of footing,
but they held their breath as they watched the waif’s slender, pitifully
thin figure painfully making its way on that narrow bridge above the
swirling, leaping waves of the torrent.
Once he hesitated and swayed, and a gasp went up from the
watchers on the bank. Involuntarily they took a tighter grip on the
rope. But it was only the green rush of waters under his feet that
had momentarily caused Jimmie’s head to swim.
He swiftly recovered himself and, forcing his eyes to remain
riveted on a definite object, he forged steadily ahead. Now he was
only five feet from where Persimmons, with a sub-conscious
strength, was hanging on to his precarious hold, now but four feet
intervened, then three, two,—one! How the slender trunk swayed! It
appeared impossible that anything human could keep its footing
upon it.
But at last the young acrobat reached a point beyond which he
dared not go. Holding his balancing pole with one hand, he undid
the rope from his waist with the other. Bending, very slowly, very
cautiously, he formed a loop and dropped it over Persimmons’ head.
The numbed boy had just strength enough to work it under his
armpits.
Then his strength gave out completely. He would have been
swirled away had not Jimmie taken the precaution to pass the rope
around the opposite side of the tree trunk to that on which the
current was pulling. But Persimmons was safe. The rope held him
firm. He took a brief interval for a breath, and then managed to
work his way along the trunk while the others hauled.
As for Jimmie, he crouched low for a time, using his balancing
pole with wonderful adroitness. Then, walking backward along that
swaying, treacherous trunk, he reached shore just as they dragged
young Simmons out. It was in the nick of time, too, for he could not
have lasted much longer. As it was, when they laid him on the bank
he collapsed utterly.
 “Jimmie, if you ever were an acrobat, and there’s no room to
doubt that, you must have been a marvel!” cried Ralph throwing his
arms about the boy’s neck, while the professor and Hardware
congratulated him hardly less enthusiastically, and the agent danced
a jig.
“Gee!” exclaimed Jimmie, when he released himself, “if you tink I
was a wonder, ask Sig. Montinelli, who trained me. I was so good
dat he used to beat the life out uv me. Dat’s de reason I ran away
frum de show and came up here,—dat and annudder reason.”
There was no time just then to ask him what he meant, for they
were all immediately busied in chafing poor Persimmons’ body and
bringing life back to him. The agent had rushed off up the rocky
path for hot coffee, for he had been preparing his breakfast when
the train came in. What with this stimulant and a brisk rub-down,
Persimmons soon recovered and was able to sit up and thank his
rescuer, which he did characteristically and warmly, despite the
latter’s embarrassment and frequent interruptions of “It wasn’t
nawthing.”
“Howling handsprings!” exclaimed Persimmons to Ralph, as the
latter helped him up the rocky path, “and to think that I classed that
kid in with Hardware’s dingbats! But that’s what he is, too,” he added
with a sort of an inspiration; “Hardware’s got his bags and boxes full
of fool fishing dingbats and cooking dingbats and chopping dingbats,
but this one of yours, Ralph, is the greatest ever, he’s a life-saving
dingbat. What can I give him?”
“Not money, if you take my advice,” said Ralph dryly. “While you
were down and out there the professor offered him some, and his
eyes blazed and he turned quite pale as he refused it. ‘I’ve joined
this expedition to be generally useful, and that was only one of my
jobs, see,’ was what he said.”
“Waltzing wombats! I hope he never has to be useful in just that
way again,” breathed Persimmons fervently, as they reached the top
of the trail.
“I hope not. But how did you ever come to get in such a fix?”
 Persimmons explained that he had been looking at some
wonderful trout disporting themselves in a pool some distance above
where the tree trunk stretched out over the waters of the torrent. In
some way his foot had slipped, and before he knew what had
happened he was whirled out into midstream.
Hurried along, brushed by out-cropping rocks and bits of drift
timber, he had caught at the first thing that offered, which happened
to be the trunk that so providentially stretched out above the
torrent.
“Bounding beetles! but it was a close shave, I tell you,” he
concluded fervently. “I don’t think I could have held on a minute
longer when Jimmie got that rope to me; but when I felt it, new
strength seemed to come to me and I could help you fellows drag
me ashore.”
For a consideration, the agent drew on his stores, and they made
a hearty breakfast after this adventure. Jimmie, of course, was the
hero of the occasion, although no one could have accused him of
seeking honors. The boy looked actually embarrassed as they each,
in turn and in chorus, told him over and over what they thought of
his plucky act.
They were still eating when there came a clatter of hoofs on the
cliff above.
“Something comin’ down the trail,” observed the agent;
“shouldn’t wonder if that’s your man now.”
“I hope so, indeed,” said the professor, “this delay is most
annoying.”
Emerging from the depot they saw a strange cavalcade coming
down the dusty trail. In advance, on a wiry buckskin cayuse, rode a
figure that might have stepped out of a book. His saddle was of the
gaily rigged ranger’s type. But it was the person who sat in it with an
easy grace that was more striking to the eye than any of his
caparisons.
He was of medium height, it appeared, but of so powerful a build
that his breadth of chest and massive loins seemed better fitted for
a giant. His hair and beard were curly and as yellow as corn silk, his
face fiery red by constant exposure to sun and wind and snow, while
his eyes, deep-set in wrinkles, were as blue as the Canadian sky
above them. His clothes were of the frontiersman’s type, and on his
massive head was a colorless sombrero, badly crushed, with several
holes cut in its crown.
Behind him came, in single file, four wiry looking little cayuses,
saddled and bridled ready for their riders. These were followed by
three pack animals of rather sorry appearance, but, as the party was
to learn later, of proved ability on the trail.
“You Professor Summered?” he hailed, in a deep, hearty voice, as
he saw the professor and the boys standing in a group outside the
little depot, eying him with deep interest and attention.
“Wintergreen, sir! Wintergreen!” exclaimed the professor rather
testily.
“Oh, ho! ho! Beg your pardon. I’m Mountain Jim Bothwell, at
your service. Sorry to be late, but the trail up above is none too
good.”
He struck his pony with his spurs, and the whole procession
broke into an ambling trot coming down the trail in a cloud of yellow
dust toward the waiting group of travelers.
 CHAPTER V.

THE START FOR THE ROCKIES.

“Great Blue Bells of Scotland!”

Mountain Jim Bothwell uttered the exclamation as he gazed at
the immense pile of baggage labeled H. D. Ware.
“Say, who is H. D. Ware, anyhow? He goin’ to start a hotel
hereabouts? When’s the wagons comin’ for all this truck?”
“That’s my camping equipment,” struck in “H. D. Ware,” looking
rather red and uncomfortable under the appraising blue eye of
Mountain Jim.
“Young feller,” spoke Jim solemnly, “you’d need an ocean liner to
transport all that duffle. We ain’t goin’ to sea; we’re goin’ inter the
mountains. What you got in there, anyhow?”
“Dingbats,” said Ralph quietly, a mischievous smile playing about
his mouth.
“Dingbats? Great Bells of Scotland, what’s them?”
“The things that the sporting goods catalogues say no camper
should be without,” exclaimed Ralph; “we told him, but it wasn’t any
good.”
“Well, my mother said I was to have every comfort,” said poor
Hardware, crimsoning under the guide’s amused scrutiny. “When we
were camping in Maine——”
 “When you were camping in Maine, I don’t doubt you had a cook
——”
Hardware nodded. He had to admit that, like most wealthy New
Yorkers, his parents’ ideas of “a camp” had been a sort of
independent summer hotel under canvas.
“Well, young fellow, let me tell you something. From what the
professor here wrote me, you young fellers came up here to rough
it. I’m goin’ to see that you do. The cooking will mostly be done by
you and your chums; your elders will—will eat it, and that’ll be
sufficient punishment for them.”
“But—but I’ve just engaged a lad to aid with the cooking and
help out generally,” struck in the professor.
“That’s all right,” responded Mountain Jim airily, eying Jimmie,
whose clothes, since they had been dried by the agent’s cook stove,
looked worse than before, “that kid seems all right, and he can take
his turn with the others. In the mountains it’s share and share alike,
you know, and no favors. That’s the rule up this way.”
The boys looked rather dismayed. Already the standards of the
city were being swept aside. Evidently this mountaineer looked upon
all men and boys as being alike, provided they did their share of the
work set before them.
Ralph, alone, whose wild life on the Border had already done for
him what the Rockies were to perform for his companions, viewed
the guide with approval. He knew that out in the wilderness, be it
mountain or plain, certain false standards of caste and station count
for nothing. As Coyote Pete had been wont to say in those old days
along the Border, “It ain’t the hide that counts, it’s the man
underneath it.”
“First thing to do is to sort out some of this truck and see what
you do need and what you don’t,” decided Mountain Jim presently.
“Most times it’s the things that you think you kain’t get along without
that you kin, and the things you think you kin that you kain’t.”
“That’s right,” agreed Ralph heartily. “Daniel Boone, on his first
journey into Kentucky, managed to worry along on pinole and salt,
and relied for everything else on his old rifle and flint and steel.”
“Never heard of the gentleman,” said Mountain Jim, “but he must
uv been a good woodsman. Now let’s get to work and sort out this
truck.”
Ruthlessly the travelers’ kits were torn open, and it was amazing,
when Mountain Jim got through, what a huge pile of things that he
declared unnecessary were heaped upon the depot platform. As for
poor Hardware’s “dingbats,” a new kind of compass and a hunting
knife that met with Jim’s approval, alone remained.
“All this stuff can stay here till you get ready to come back,” said
Jim; “the station agent will look after it and see that it is put in the
freight shed.”
But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Out of the
rejected “Dingbats” a fine hunting suit, axe, knife and compass were
found for Jimmie, who, indeed, stood sadly in need of them. When
the boy had retired to the station agent’s room and dressed himself
in his new garments, the change in him was so remarkable, when he
reappeared, as to be nothing less than striking. In the place of the
ragged looking Bowery boy, they saw a well set-up lad in natty
hunting outfit. A trifle emaciated he was, to be sure, but “We’ll soon
fill him out with hard work and good grub,” declared Mountain Jim,
who had been told the boy’s story, and who had warmly praised his
heroism in rescuing Persimmons.
The latter had also changed his wet garments and was in his
usual bubbling spirits when they were ready, in Ralph’s phrase, to
“hit the trail.” This was not till nearly noon, however, for the rejection
of the superfluous “Dingbats,” of which even Ralph and the professor
were found to have a few, had occupied much time. Then, after
hearty adieus to the station agent, who had incidentally been the
recipient of a generous gratuity from the professor, they mounted
their ponies and, with Mountain Jim in the lead, started on their long
journey into the wilds. Jimmy, whose circus experience had taught
him how to ride, was mounted on one of the pack animals, for, such
had been Mountain Jim’s ruthless rejection of “Dingbats,” only a tithe
of the expected “pack” remained.
 Up the trail they mounted at an easy pace under the big pines
that shook out honey-sweet odors as the little cavalcade passed
beneath them. At the summit of the rocky cliff that towered above
the depot, the trail plunged abruptly into a dense, black tunnel of
tamarack, pine and Douglas firs.
As the horses’ hoofs rang clear on the rocky trail and echoed
among the columnular trunks that shot up on every side like the
pillars of some vast cathedral roof, Mountain Jim broke into dolorous
song:
“Hokey pokey winky wang;
Linkum, lankum muscodang;
The Injuns swore that th-e-y would h-a-n-g
Them that couldn’t keep w-a-r-m!”

Over and over he sang it, while the shod hoofs clattered out a
metallic accompaniment to the droning air.
“Can we ride ahead a bit?” asked Ralph after a while, for the
monotony of keeping pace with the pack animals and the constant
repetition of Mountain Jim’s song began to grow wearisome.
“Sure; go ahead. You can’t get lost. The trail runs straight ahead.
The only way to get off it is to fall off,” said Jim cheerfully, drawing
out and filling with black tobacco a villainous-looking old pipe.
“Don’t get into any trouble,” warned the professor, who had been
provided with a quiet horse, and who was intent, as he rode along,
on a volume dealing with the geological formation of the Canadian
Rockies.
“We’ll be careful! So long! Come on, boys,” shouted back Ralph,
as he struck his heels into his pony.
Off they clattered up the trail, the rocks ringing with their excited
voices till the sound died away in the distance. Jimmie alone
remained behind. He felt that his duty as general assistant
demanded it. When the last echo of the ponies’ hoofs had died out,
Mountain Jim turned to the professor with a profound wink.
 “I can see where we have our hands full this trip, professor,” he
remarked, as they ambled easily along.
The professor looked up from his book and sighed.
“Really, I wonder my hair is not snow white,” he said mildly. “But
surely that is a fine specimen of Aethusa Cijnapium I see yonder!”
“Oh, that,” said Mountain Jim, gazing at the feathery plant
indicated, which grew in great profusion at the trail side, “that’s
‘fool’s parsley.’”
“O-h-h!” said the professor.
He might have said more, but at that instant from the trail
ahead, came a series of shouts and yells that made it appear as if a
troop of rampant Indians was on the war-path. The sharp crack of a
rifle sounded, followed by silence.
 CHAPTER VI.

ALONG THE TRAIL.

When they left the main body of the party behind, Ralph, Harry
Ware, and young Simmons had kicked their ponies into a brisk
“lope,” which speedily carried them some distance ahead. As they
rode along, they gazed admiringly about them at the beauties of the
rugged trail. The rough way soon left the tunnel-like formation of
spruce and tamarack, and emerged on a muskeg, or patch of
swampy ground, where rank, green reeds and flowers of gorgeous
red, yellow and blue grew in the wetter places.
As they cantered into the midst of this pretty bit of scenery, a
striped animal sprang from behind a patch of brush with a snort, and
dashed off into the timber on the hillside beyond.
With a whoop and yell the boys, headed by Ralph, were after it.
“A wild cat!” shouted Ralph. “After him, boys!”
Their lively little ponies appeared quite to enter into the spirit of
the chase. At any rate, they needed no urging, but darted off as
nimbly as mountain goats among the trees. The gray and reddish
form of the wild cat was speedily lost sight of; but Ralph, who had
slipped his rifle from its holster, still kept on under the shadows of
the forest, followed by the others.
Suddenly he thought he saw an elusive form slipping among the
timbers ahead of him. Flinging the reins of his pony over the
creature’s head, in Western fashion, he dismounted. Hardware and
Persimmons followed his example. The eyes of all three boys were
shining with the excitement of this, their first adventure in the
Canadian wilds.
“Cantering cayuses, boys, but we’ll have a fine skin to take home
before we’ve been on the trail ten minutes!” exclaimed Persimmons
under his breath, as they crept along behind Ralph.
“Don’t count your skins before you get ’em,” was Hardware’s
advice.
At this moment there was a sudden commotion among the
ponies. They snorted and sniffed as if in terror of something, and
Ralph rightly guessed that they had just scented the wild cat.
“You fellows go back and quiet ’em; I’ll keep on,” he said.
Dearly as his two companions would have liked to continue on
the trail of the wild cat, there was nothing for them to do but to
obey; for if the ponies stampeded they knew that Mountain Jim
would have something to say that might not sound pleasant.
“Be careful now, Ralph,” warned Hardware, as their comrade kept
on alone. “Wild cats are pretty ugly customers sometimes.”
But Ralph did not reply. With a grim look on his face and with his
rifle clutched tightly, he slipped from trunk to trunk, his feet hardly
making any noise on the soft woodland carpet of pine needles.
Suddenly, from a patch of brush right ahead of him, came a sort
of yelping cry, not unlike that of a dog in pain or excitement.
“What on earth is up now?” he wondered to himself, coming to a
halt and searching the scene in front of him with eager eyes.
Then came sounds of a furious commotion. The brush was
agitated and there were noises as if two animals were in mortal
combat in front of him. But still he could see nothing. All at once
came distinctly the crunching of bones.
“It’s that wild cat and she’s made a kill of some sort, a rabbit
probably,” mused Ralph. “Well, I’ll catch her red-handed and revenge
poor Molly Cottontail.”
 He cautiously tiptoed forward, making as little noise as possible.
He was well aware that a cornered wild cat can make a formidable
opponent, and he did not mean to risk wounding the animal slightly
and infuriating it. He was raising his rifle with a view to having it
ready the instant he should sight the savage wood’s creature, when
he stepped on a dead branch.
It emitted a sharp crack, almost like a pistol shot, and Ralph bit
his lip with vexation.
“That cat’s going to run now, taking its prey along, and I’ll not
get within a mile of it,” was his thought.
But no such thing happened. Instead, from the bushes, there
came an angry, snarling growl as the crunching of bones abruptly
ceased. Ralph’s heart began to beat a little quicker. It appeared that
the cat, far from fleeing, was going to show fight. But Ralph, after
his first surprise, did not worry: He knew his automatic would be
more than a match for the wild cat if it came down to a fight.
With this thought in his mind he pressed boldly forward, parting
the bushes as he went. He had not advanced more than a few yards
when he came upon a curious sight. A lithe, tawny creature of
reddish color, with oddly tufted ears, was crouched over the dead
and torn body of a rabbit. It had been savagely rending the smaller
animal, and as Ralph took all this in he realized, too, another fact. It
was no wild cat that he had disturbed, but another and a far more
formidable animal.
“Great juniper! A Canadian lynx, and a whumper, too!” gasped
the boy to himself as he gazed at the creature which was almost as
large as a good sized dog.
For a moment the realization that he was face to face with an
animal that some hunters have described as being more formidable
than a mountain lion, made Ralph pause, while his heart thumped in
lively fashion. The great yellow eyes of the lynx, whose tufted ears
lay flat against its head, regarded him with blazing hatred. Its teeth
were bared under its reddened fangs, and Ralph saw that it was
ready to spring at him. It was only waiting to measure its distance
accurately.
 “I’ll give her all I’ve got in the gun,” thought Ralph, bringing the
weapon to bear; “my only chance is to finish her quick.”
His finger pressed the trigger, but, to his amazement, no report
followed.
“Great guns! The mechanism has stuck and I’ve not got an
instant to fuss with it,” was the thought that flashed through his
mind as the rifle failed to go off.
He had no time for more. With a growl and snarl the tawny body
was launched into the air, as if propelled toward him by chilled steel
springs. Ralph gave a hasty, almost involuntary step backward. His
foot caught in an out-cropping root and the next instant he
measured his length on the ground.
As he fell he was conscious of a flash passing before his face and
caught a glimpse of two yellow eyes blazing with deadly hate and
anger. The next instant there was a crash in the brush just beyond
where he lay, and the boy realized that his fall had been the luckiest
thing in the world for him. The lynx had overleaped him; but he
knew that the respite would not last the fraction of a minute. He was
in as great peril as before unless he acted and that quickly.
 CHAPTER VII.

TREED BY A LYNX.

There was but one thing to do and Ralph did it. In the molecule
of time granted to him, he got on his feet. At the same time he
uttered a yell which had the intended effect of checking the second
onslaught of the lynx for an instant.
Of that instant Ralph took good advantage. He bounded at full
speed toward the nearest tree which looked as if it might sustain his
weight. Luckily, there was one not far off—a dead cedar. He
managed to reach it just ahead of the lynx and began scrambling
into the low growing branches. The rifle that had failed him in that
critical moment, he abandoned as useless; anyhow he could not
have climbed, encumbered with the heavy weapon.
“If I ever get out of this I’ll stick to the old-fashioned repeater,”
was his thought as he flung the weapon full at the head of the lynx,
missing her, in his agitation, by a good foot.
Under the circumstances, Ralph had done what he thought best
in making for the tree. In reality, though, had he had time for
reflection, he would better have taken his chances in a race toward
his companions, for of course a lynx can climb as well as any wild
cat. In fact, Ralph had hardly gained a second’s security before the
creature flung herself furiously against the foot of the tree and
began climbing after the boy.
 “She’s coming after me, sure as fate!” gasped Ralph desperately.
“Gracious, look at those claws! I’ve got to stop her in some way; but
I’d like to know how.”
By this time he had clambered some distance up the tree, an
easy task, for the branches grew fairly thick, and as the tree was
dead there were no leafy boughs to encumber his progress. But
unfortunately, this made it equally easy for his assailant to pursue
him. Ralph saw that unless he did something decisive pretty quickly,
he would be driven to the upper part of the tree where it would be
unsafe for his weight.
Just above him, at this juncture, he spied a fairly heavy branch
which, it seemed, he might break off easily. Reaching above him, the
boy gave it a stout tug, and found that he had at least a good, thick
club in his possession.
The lynx was just below him. Ralph raised his luckily found
weapon and brought it down with a resounding crack on her skull.
With a howl of rage the creature dropped; but caught on a lower
branch and clinging there, glared up at him more menacingly than
before. Far from injuring her as the boy had hoped, the blow had
only served to infuriate the creature.
Suddenly, as if determined to bring the contest to a speedy
termination, the lynx began climbing again. Once more Ralph raised
his club and as the animal came within striking distance he brought
it down again with all his force.
“I hope I crack your ugly head,” he muttered vindictively as he
struck.
But by bad luck, Ralph’s hopes were doomed to be blasted. He
had struck a good, hard blow and one that sent the lynx, snarling
and spitting, scurrying down the tree. But with such good will had he
delivered the blow that his club had broken in two. The best part of
it went crashing to the ground, leaving him with only a stump in his
hand.
“If she comes back at me now, I’m done for,” thought Ralph, as
he looked downward.
 But for the moment it appeared that the creature had no such
intention. Perhaps the two blows had stunned and confused her. At
any rate she lay on one of the lower boughs seemingly stupefied. As
Ralph gingerly prepared to descend, however, hoping to pass by the
brute, she gave a snarl and slipped with cat-like agility to the
ground. There, at the foot of the tree she lay, gazing upward with
malicious eyes. Evidently she had given up her first method of
attack, but meant to lie there like a sentinel and let Ralph make the
next move.
“Gracious!” thought the boy as he saw this, “I am in a fine pickle.
I can’t fire any shots to attract the attention of the bunch and I
guess shouting won’t do much good. They may come to look for me,
but they won’t know in what direction to search.”
Nevertheless, Ralph inhaled a good, deep breath and shouted
with all his lung power. But no result was manifest, except that the
lynx growled and snarled and lashed its stumpy tail angrily. Once it
set up a dreary howl and the unpleasant thought occurred to Ralph
that the creature might be calling its mate.
“If two of them come at me—” he thought; but he didn’t dwell
on that thought.
Instead, he cut himself another club and then sitting back,
thought the situation over with all his might. As if in search of an
inspiration he began rummaging his pockets. How he wished he had
brought his revolver along, or even the ammonia “squirt-gun” that
he carried occasionally when traveling as a protection against ugly-
natured dogs. All at once, in an inside pocket, his hand encountered
a small bottle. Ralph almost uttered a cry of joy. A sudden flash of
inspiration had come to him. In the bottle was some concentrated
ammonia. He had filled his “squirt-gun” that morning before placing
it in the pack, and in the hurry of leaving the train at Pine Pass had
shoved the bottle into his pocket.
“It’s an awfully long chance,” he thought as he drew out the
bottle, “but, by Jove, I’ll try it. Desperate situations call for desperate
remedies, and this is sure a tough predicament that I’m in.”
 His movements had attracted the attention of the lynx, and it
reared up on its hind legs and began clambering toward him once
more. With trembling fingers Ralph drew the cork of the bottle, and
a pungent odor filled the air. The reek of the ardent drug made the
boy’s eyes water; but he was glad the stuff was so strong. It suited
his purpose all the better.
What he had to do now was nerve-racking in the extreme. He did
not dare to try to put his plan into execution till the lynx got closer
to him, and to sit still and watch the ugly brute clambering toward
him was enough to upset the stoutest nature. Ralph waited till the
animal was on a branch directly below him and was glaring up at
him as if making up its mind for the final onslaught.
Then suddenly he cried out:
“Take that, you brute!”
With a swift, sure aim he doused the contents of the ammonia
bottle full in the face of the lynx. The effect was immediate and
startling. With a scream of rage and pain the blinded animal
dropped, clawing and scratching through the dead limbs, to the
ground. Landing on all fours she began clawing up the earth in a
frenzy of pain. The sharp, pungent ammonia was eating into her
eyes like a red-hot flame.
Suddenly, above the yelps and howls of the maddened creature,
there came another sound, a hail off in the woods.
“Ralph! oh, Ralph!”
“Here I am, fellows! This way! Come on quick!” shouted Ralph at
the top of his voice.
Then as they grew closer, still shouting, he added a word of
caution:
“Have your guns ready! I’m treed by a lynx!”
Through the trees the two boys burst into view. At the same
instant the lynx dashed madly off toward the trail. As she dashed
along she pawed her tingling eyes, trying in vain to rid them of the
smarting fluid that Ralph’s lucky throw had filled them with.
 Ralph slid to the ground and picking up his faithless rifle joined
his chums in a wild chase after the animal. Yelling like Comanches
they dashed after, making the uproar that had alarmed and startled
the professor and Mountain Jim and their young companion. But it
was not till they reached the trail, beyond the now tethered horses,
that they came within shooting distance of it. Then Persimmons
raised his rifle and fired.
As the shot echoed across the muskeg the lynx bounded into the
air, turned a somersault, and just as the rest of the party rode up,
lay twitching in death with Persimmons bending proudly over it.
“Larruping lynxes,” he was shouting, “I guess we’ve got at least
one skin to take home!”
 CHAPTER VIII.

A WALKING PINCUSHION.

Ralph’s story was soon told, with the accompaniment of a

running fire of sarcasms from Mountain Jim concerning automatic
rifles and all connected with them. An examination of Ralph’s
weapon showed that a cartridge from the magazine had become
jammed just at the critical instant that he faced the lynx.
“There ain’t nuthin’ better than this old Winchester of mine,”
declared Mountain Jim, taking his well-oiled and polished, albeit
ancient model rifle from its holster and patting it lovingly. “I’ve
carried it through the Rockies for fifteen years and it’s never failed
me yet.”
Nevertheless, the boys did not condemn their automatics on that
account. In fact, Ralph blamed his own ignorance of the action of his
new weapon more for its failure to work than any fault lying with the
rifle itself.
With a few quick strokes of his knife and a tug at the hide,
Mountain Jim had the lynx skinned with almost incredible rapidity.
Salt was sprinkled liberally on the skin, and it was rolled up and tied
behind Persimmons’ saddle, to be carefully scraped of all fat and skin
later on.
It was sunset when they left the well-traveled trail, along which,
however, they had encountered no human being but a wandering
packer on his way to an extension of the Canadian Pacific Railroad
with provisions and blasting powder, borne by his sure-footed
animals.
In the brief twilight they pushed on till they reached a spot that
appeared favorable for a camp. A spring gushed from a wall of rock
and formed one of an almost innumerable number of small streams
that fed a creek, which, in turn, was later to pour its waters into the
mighty Columbia. Ralph needed no instructions on how to turn the
horses out, and while he and the rest, acting under his directions,
attended to this, Mountain Jim got supper ready. By the time the
boys had completed their “chores” and the tents were up, the guide
had their evening meal of bannocks, beans and bacon, and boiling
hot tea ready for them. For dessert they had stewed dried prunes
and apples, and the boys voted the meal an excellent one. Indeed,
they had been hungry enough to eat almost anything.
Supper despatched, it was not long before they were ready to
turn into their blankets, which were of the heavy army type, for the
nights in the Rockies are cool. To the music of a near-by waterfall,
they sank into profound slumber, and before the moon was up the
camp was wrapped in silence.
It was about midnight that they were aroused by a loud wail of
distress from the tent which Persimmons shared with his two chums.
Mountain Jim rolled out of his blankets—he disdained tents—and
Jimmie, who likewise was content with a makeshift by the fire,
started up as quickly. From the door of the professor’s tent appeared
an odd-looking figure in striped pajamas.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland! What’s up?” roared Mountain Jim.
“Wow! Ouch! He’s sticking me! Ow-w-w-w!” came in a series of
yells from Persimmons. “Ouch! Prancing pincushions, come quick!”
“Is that boy in trouble again?” demanded the professor, as he
slipped on a pair of slippers and advanced with Mountain Jim toward
the scene of the disturbance. The air was now filled with boyish
shouts, echoing and re-echoing among the craggy hills that
surrounded the small canyon in which the camp was pitched.
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