The Ramblers were so pleased with the ranch-house and their new-found acquaintances that next morning they accepted the cattle king's invitation to remain another twenty-four hours.
Two days later they were lolling on the shore of a lake surrounded by magnificent hills. In places they saw almost perpendicular walls of glistening rock, wild-looking slopes covered with timber, and jutting crags. And all this appeared again, with wonderful clearness, in the still water of the lake.
The bronchos, tethered to trees close by, cropped the long tangled grass or drank from a shallow inlet which extended some distance back.
A noonday repast had just been finished, and the glowing coals were still sending out a grateful warmth, for the air was cold and penetrating.
"Where are we, I wonder?" murmured Jack for the tenth time.
"Somebody had better run over to the corner grocery and find out," grinned Tim. "Want to send some picture postals home?"
"How in the dickens shall we ever find our way back to anywhere?" went on Jack, grumblingly. "May take the rest o' our lives to do it. We haven't even seen a glimpse o' that mountain where Wanna's gold mine—"
"Hey, cut it out, Jacky," interposed Dick. "You're breaking rule number one again—that makes the seventy-eighth time."
"Suppose you think some bear, or little birdlet, or panther is listening!" jeered Jack. "Hang it! Bet nobody else would be silly enough to fight his way through walls o' bushes an' wade wet creeks like we have. How do you know we're goin' in the right direction, eh?"
"Compass tells us that, Jack," laughed Bob. "Don't worry yourself. By to-morrow we may sight it. Time's up, fellows!"
"Whoop!" cried Tim, suddenly springing to his feet. "Great Scott!" He stopped short, and bent forward, a hand to his ear, listening intently. "Did you hear that, fellows?"
The report of a gun had echoed faintly.
There was a murmur of surprise and interest.
Tim thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets, drew a long breath and stared blankly at the others.
"Can you believe it?" he said, softly.
Crack!
For a second time, the silence of the wilderness was broken.
All the boys were now on their feet, eagerly trying to locate the direction from which the sound had come. But opinions hopelessly disagreed.
"Jehoshaphat!" howled Dick, after a moment's tense silence. "That shows how much Jacky knows—and he thinking that we had this corner of the earth all to our little selves. Whoop!"
"What's that grunt for?" sniffed Jack.
Tommy's face was turned inquiringly toward Bob Somers.
"What do you think of it—hunters, eh?" he queried, earnestly.
"Search me, Tom."
"What in the dickens do we care who it is?" growled Jack, shrugging his shoulders. "This gold—er—er—Jabberwock, I mean, has you chaps all nervous; it beats the Dutch how you're actin'. Don't you all begin chirpin' 'bout me again; mind now."
"Perhaps it's the same crowd that was camping out near the ranch-house," remarked Dave, thoughtfully.
"I hardly suppose they would be keeping so close to us as that," said Bob.
"Unless they had a good reason to," hinted Tim, darkly.
"Oh, shucks! Listen to him!" scoffed Jack. "Didn't you ever hear o' hunters an' trappers before?"
"An' nine broncs plungin' through underbrush an' grass an' swampy ground have made a trail that any good woodsman could follow." Tim appealed to the others: "Eh, fellows?"
"Sure thing," answered Sam. "Still, we needn't worry; I guess there isn't any danger of anybody trying to track us, even if Ja—"
"Don't say it!" howled Jack. "Might think from the way you fellows talk I was the only one who had a word to say 'bout it."
"Quit scrapping," laughed Bob, good-naturedly. "There are a lot of hunters in this part of the country. Forget it, and help me stamp out this fire."
When they were certain that nothing remained but a heap of charcoal, the seven walked toward the bronchos.
"Oho," sighed Dave, with a glance at the tree-covered heights above, "I can see our jobs cut out for us. Whoa, Whirligig, whoa! Everything put back on the packhorses, Bob? Good! My turn to lead one, and Dick the other, eh? Well, such is life in the wilds. Here, Whirly!"
He untethered the restive broncho, and coaxingly patted a brown-patched neck. Then, with a nimble spring, Dave was astride his back.
"The lake shore route," quoth Bob; "hill's too steep yet to climb."
The seven horsemen rode in single file, the steady hoof-beats alone breaking the soft murmuring roar of the wind in the forest. At every turn the scenery became more wild and impressive. Dense masses of vegetation defied them to attempt a passage. Frowning reddish cliffs, where erosion had worn away the soft facing of whiter rock, towered high above, to deeply shadow the line of shore.
Passing around one of these crags, Bob Somers, at the head of the column, came to a halt.
"Here's a chance to force our way up, fellows," he said.
"I can feel myself gettin' cracked an' swiped by about a hundred dozen branches already," remarked Conroy, with a dubious glance at the hill. "Whoa—whoa! W-h-o-a, I s-a-y!"
Conroy's pony was hard to manage; suddenly he whirled about, crashing against the side of Dave's packhorse with unpleasant force, then backed toward the water's edge.
"Look out, broncho-buster!" yelled Tim. "This isn't swimming weather."
Jack brought his quirt down with stinging force, and the broncho, snorting angrily, leaped forward, landing with a jolt which almost unseated his rider.
"Confound the vicious little beast!" cried Jack, red-faced and flustered.
Bob Somers' broncho had already started up the hill, fighting bravely to force a passage through a mass of underbrush. In places trees grew so close together as to leave scarcely room enough to pass between; and frequently only quick and skilful dodging enabled them to escape low-hanging branches. Once Dick Travers was almost swept from his saddle by a sturdy limb which he imprudently tried to thrust aside.
Not long after, a yell came from Tommy Clifton. "Wow! My, oh, my, but that stung!" he sang out, as a branch pushed forward by the Rambler in advance suddenly came back and lashed his shoulder. "Look out, Jack; it'll swipe you, too."
The ascent soon became steeper and more open. The character of the soil seemed to change; showers of earth and stones rattled noisily down the slopes. Presently the bronchos were jammed together in the greatest confusion, the way being blocked by a great mass of broad-leafed prickly pears.
"Great Scott! Now we're all at sea on land," chirped Sam. "Gee! What queer-looking plants!"
"I could manage if I didn't have this confounded little packhorse to bother about," grunted Dick.
The bronchos, in the confined space, were fast becoming unmanageable. They started to buck and rear, dangerously close to the prickly leaves.
Bob, with a firm hand, wheeled his pony sharply about.
"We'll have to get out of this," he said, grimly. "It wouldn't be a bit healthy to take a header in among that mess."
Dave, leading his packhorse after him, was now crashing down the slope, and the others, with quirts and voices, succeeded in bringing their bronchos under partial control.
When they pulled up some distance below for a moment's rest, all seven were smarting from the effects of collisions with numerous obstacles.
"I wonder what I ever did to these trees, to have 'em treat me like this," chirped Dick.
"It's a dangerous landscape, son," laughed Bob, rubbing his shoulder.
"That last crack I got completed the first hundred dozen," grumbled Jack. "An' more to come! Whoa—whoa, you silly duffer. Quick, Sam—get out of the way, or this idiotic bronc'll sail right over top o' you."
Jack was passing through some anxious moments as Sam frantically tried to turn. His bronco threshed wildly about, threatening to pitch him headlong. Just as he began to have melancholy visions of what might presently happen, the other managed to get out of his way.
"Hello, fellows—this way!" came over the air in Dave Brandon's cheery voice. "I can see the top of the hill from here."
"Bully for you!" cried Bob.
He urged his pony ahead, jumped it over a fallen tree, and, after passing the edge of a dense thicket, found the forest again opening out, with the brow of the hill showing high above.
The riders slowly came together from different points, and allowed their horses to cover the intervening space at a slow walk.
At the summit they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. The hill had a broad flat top, extending off to their left for about half a mile, where it dropped almost vertically to the plain below. They could see the rugged end of the cliff joining a steep declivity which began only a short distance from where they had reined up.
By keeping to the right, the way led directly down into a wide rolling valley dotted with clumps of timber. In the distance, range after range of hills stretched off, the furthest to the north a hazy line of bluish-gray jutting against a higher form, which, at first glance, seemed to be but a cloud.
Bob was staring earnestly.
"Look, fellows!" His voice held a note of excitement. "What is that?"
"A—a mountain!" yelled Tim. "Sure as shootin'! Whoop!"
"You're up in the air, an' so is that," laughed Jack Conroy. "It's floatin' away."
"An' you float away, too," cried Tommy, whose eyes were shining with interest. "Whoop! It's—it's the unvarnished truth."
"Get Dave to rub a drop o' his varnish on it, an' see if it still looks the same," grinned Jack, with a wink. "That enlargin' affair o' yours, if you please, Bobby!"
"We'll give these broncs a rest, eh?" said Bob, dismounting.
He tethered his horse to a convenient sapling, and raised his field-glass.
"Yes, fellows," he announced, calmly, "it's a mountain."
"Whoop—hooray!" cried Dick, enthusiastically.
"Why, anybody could easily see that with only half an eye," laughed Jack. "Whoa—whoa! What's gettin' into this critter?"
All the bronchos were acting strangely, sniffing the air and beginning to prance wildly about. Jack Conroy's was snorting, showing every evidence of fear, and all his rider's efforts failed to quiet him.
"Whoa, w-h-o-a!" yelled Jack desperately tugging at the reins. "W-h-o-a!"
The sorrel whirled around in wide circles, showing the whites of his eyes; and each moment every broncho in the group seemed to grow more frightened.
"Thunderation!" cried Bob, springing toward his own mount, and seizing the bridle. "Wonder what's the matter?"
He looked hastily around.
A slight commotion suddenly sounded from behind a group of trees. All heard a low, ominous growl; and even before it had ceased Jack Conroy's broncho, rendered uncontrollable by fear, had bolted, and was fairly flying over the ground directly toward the bluff.
As the boys realized his danger, they gave a cry of alarm.