Madly the lumberman hurled himself forward, seized the map, and turned in the direction of his broncho, while, but an instant afterward, a long, tawny body sprang from the limb and landed on the edge of the marsh.
All thoughts of Wanatoma's drawing vanished from Bob Somers' mind, as he stood with but a few yards between him and a panther. The moonlight revealed the animal's ears thrown far back; his tail was lashing fiercely; he seemed on the point of leaping again.
"Great Scott!" breathed Bob.
The boy's hand flew to his holster. Backing slowly away, he kept his revolver leveled at the animal's head; his hand was steady, though his heart thumped hard. It was a moment of great suspense. Almost mechanically, he saw the riders looming up clearly in the moonlight.
"Watch yourself, Bob! We'll get him!" came encouragingly from Dick Travers' lips.
The loud yells of the boys and clatter of hoofs evidently caused the animal to decide that his enemies were too many to contend against. Still growling and snarling, he whisked about, took several great leaps, and, skirting along by the marsh, disappeared behind a clump of trees.
With a sigh of great relief, Bob Somers faced his excited friends.
"Hurt?—No; not a bit of it, fellows; but the map's gone—and all the fault of that wretched varmint!"
"The map gone!"
These words, repeated by several voices, sounded in accents of the deepest gloom.
"Quick—don't lose an instant!" cried Bob. "You may be able to overtake him, and get it back. Help me get my bronc out of that awful mess, Dick."
Fired with a determined resolve, five boys immediately cracked their quirts, and the bronchos were in motion again, pounding swiftly off in the direction taken by Smull and Griffin.
Bob and Dick managed to capture the former's badly-frightened animal just as it was floundering out of the mire, and presently galloped, side by side, after the now faint and shadowy forms of the other riders.
Occasional sharp, yelping cries echoed dismally between the hills, and within a short time they caught a glimpse of a pack of coyotes, an undulating line of gray sweeping across the narrow valley. A bit further along, the boys came upon Dave, in charge of the packhorses.
"I couldn't keep up the pace with these beasts," he explained.
"Think the fellows had any chance?" asked Bob, eagerly.
Dave shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," he answered. "They had too good a start. Gracious, Bob, you're in a pretty mess!"
"Tom Smull is in a worse," said Bob, grimly. "How did you chaps manage to break away from Griffin?"
"Sam suddenly gave a terrible yell, hung over the side of his pony like a Mexican vaquero about to pick a handkerchief off the ground, and started suddenly. The rest of us—well—we felt sure Griffin wouldn't shoot—took our chances, anyway, and bolted after him."
"Bully for you! Say, it certainly makes me sick to think of that panther mixing in just at the wrong time."
"The worst kind of luck," groaned Dick. "What's to be done?"
"Make a great rush for the mine, and beat those fellows out. It's going to be a free-for-all race now."
"That's right," agreed Dick. "My, oh, my, but I do feel wild."
They sat in silence for a few moments, straining their ears to catch any sounds of the pursuit.
"The timbermen have the map, an' they'll keep it forever an' two days," grumbled Dick. "Hello! Here come the boys!"
The five, after an interval which seemed very long, cantered up, their ponies breathing hard and flecked with foam.
"The scamps made a clean get-away," growled Jack.
"Bet the whole jig is up," wailed Tom.
"Oh, I rather guess not," snorted Tim Lovell. "There'll be some lively doin's before this crowd gives up."
This sentiment met with general approval.
As the bronchos had been pushed pretty hard, the boys decided to camp at the first suitable place.
"This is a great valley, full o' coyotes, playful panthers, an' desperate timbermen," remarked Jack, disgustedly. "Wonder what's comin' next."
"Plenty!" grunted Tim.
In a gash in the hills they came to a halt, built a fire against a rocky wall as a protection, and all but Tim Lovell turned in.
And each sentinel, in his turn, heard enough to make him keep his senses keenly alert. Several times the sound of skurrying feet rose with unpleasant distinctness, causing the lonely sentinel to picture in his mind the gray forms skulking close by.
In the early morning Bob made a drawing of the map, and, as all had studied it carefully, no detail was forgotten. Immediately after breakfast they were off, following a deep gully.
It did not end in a pocket, as Jack Conroy gloomily predicted, but opened out, forming an amphitheatre between wild, barren hills. Keeping to the north as closely as the configuration of the land would allow, the party struggled on, now in the midst of boulders, then halted by the undergrowth in some woods so dense that the sunlight scarcely filtered in.
But as each mile seemed to fall slowly and grudgingly behind them, they could see from points of vantage a great bluish mass rising higher, its outlines cutting more sharply against the sky. A towering summit of a peculiar blunt shape proved beyond doubt that this was their goal.
At the top of a high ridge they gazed with fascinated attention toward the mountain, their pulses quickened with excitement.
Perpetual snow, above pine forests, shone with dazzling luster; a succession of wild-looking crags extended off to the right and left until the furthest peaks were but faint grayish patches.
"Mount Wanatoma!" said Bob, in solemn tones.
"Mount Wanatoma!" echoed the others.
"Christopher! Let's hurry!" cried Dick, nervously. "See any signs of those lumberjacks, fellows?"
Each, taking turns with the powerful field-glass, stared in all directions. But nothing appeared within the circle.
"That doesn't prove anything," sighed Tim. "You may be sure they're not far away."
"Smull and Griffin acted like a pair of pirates," growled Tom.
"Pirates are water-birds, Cliffy," suggested Sam.
"Well, I'll bet Tom Smull felt like a water-bird for a few minutes," retorted the other, with a very faint grin.
"There's goin' to be snow before long," remarked Tim, "an'—"
"It would mean good-bye to gettin' back for six months," supplied Jack. "Snowed up in the mountains; I suppose that's the next thing'll happen, Timmy."
They stopped only a few minutes for lunch. Full of determination to win the race against all odds, the boys forgot fatigue, pushing their hardy little bronchos to the utmost limit.
When night came, after the hardest day in the saddle they had ever experienced, it found them encamped in the foot-hills, with Mount Wanatoma looming majestically above them. Its apparent nearness was deceptive, however, and all realized that many miles of rough, dangerous country had still to be crossed.
A cold wind was sweeping down from the heights, and from somewhere in the darkness came the sullen murmur of a rushing torrent. Sleep seemed banished from the thoughts of all save Dave. After supper, they paced restlessly to and fro before a fire built in a deep hollow, their shadowy forms touched now and again by the ruddy glow. None cared to venture far away, for, as on the night before, they realized that the blackness hid many a snarling foe.
At an early hour next morning the seven were again in the saddle, traveling through fields of waving yellow bunch grass. They followed an almost straight course to a point where the hills were sharply cleft, forming a wide, deep gorge. Through the center trickled a tiny stream bordered with scrubby willows. The rough, scarred hills on either hand ended abruptly, and, beyond, a series of ridges, some thickly covered with pine, others of bald, reddish rock, rolled off in crests, rising higher and higher until they joined the stupendous mass of Mount Wanatoma.
The vastness of nature impressed the boys strangely.
"Honest, it makes me feel like a little crawling ant," remarked Tim, with a deep breath.
"An' you look the part, all right, Timmy-Tim," grinned Jack. "An' Tommy! Why, he's 'most disappeared."
"Oh, you get out, Jacky. There's not such an awful lot of you, either," retorted Tom, stiffly. "Besides," he added, "I'm a half inch taller'n I was in Wyoming; honest, I am."
"Goodness gracious! Look at the giant!" chirped Jack. "Measure yourself every day, I s'pose?"
"By the time we reach the gold mine, he'll be a six-footer," laughed Tim.
"That's all right; I may be looking down on you some day, smarty," snorted Tom.
To the north! was the slogan; yet they were as often compelled to struggle east or west, pushed aside by huge barriers of rock or impenetrable forests.
About one o'clock the boys dismounted near the mouth of a gloomy canyon. On the frowning slopes of "Mount Wanatoma" they saw masses of dark, rich pines, gigantic piles of rock, and precipices with sheer drops of hundreds of feet. And there was a cascade, too; a thin dash of white tumbling from a dizzy ledge, growing broader as it fell, until, at the bottom, it spread out sharply into a fan-shaped form, glittering in the sunlight.
A torrent roared its way through the canyon, slashing past grim, gray rocks, a churning mixture of green and white, carrying on its battling surface occasional branches and bright-colored autumn leaves.
Close to the water's edge, the boys collected a quantity of fuel and started a fire. Dick and Tim officiated as cooks, and soon had ready a generous supply of bacon, flapjacks and coffee.
While they were busily engaged in disposing of the last morsels, Dick jumped abruptly to his feet.
"By the great horn spoon—look!" he yelled.
The eyes of the startled boys followed the direction indicated by his outstretched arm.
Uttering cries of dismay, they jumped to their feet.
Far up on the mountain slope, several moving specks could be plainly seen against a background of rocks. Small as the objects were, they cut out sharply in the form of horsemen.
Bob Somers was the first to break the silence.
"Great Scott! What in thunder do you think of that?" he gasped. "And so far ahead!"
He stared, in turn, at six downcast faces.
"I—I don't—can't understand it," quavered Tom.
"The lumberjacks are up there; the jig's up, too," pronounced Jack, dejectedly.
"But—but"—stammered Dick—"just look at the way we've traveled. They must be birds."
"A straight line is the shortest distance between two points; guess those chaps managed to keep closer to it than we have," came from Dave.
The crowd could not shake off the gloomy feelings which beset them. The horsemen had disappeared, but they kept staring up at the white patch of rocks, half expecting to see other riders pass across its surface.
"Knew it was goin' to be a wild goose chase by a pack o' wild geese."
"Oh, is that so, Jacky?" cried Tim, hotly. "An' but for that megaphone voice o' yours you might be chirpin' a different tale."
"Here—don't you dare blame it on me! Never spoke 'bout it yourself, I s'pose? Oh, no! Nobody did but me, eh?"
"I don't care what you say, Conroy; it's all your fault. I told you—everybody did."
"Cut it out!" Jack made a threatening gesture. "Cut it out, or you'll take a tumble, an' a mighty large-sized one!"
"Quit jawing," interposed Bob. "I'm surprised at you fellows. Are we such weak dubs as to call ourselves beaten before we even begin to climb that mountain? I rather guess not!"
All caught his spirit of enthusiasm. Saddle-bags were hastily repacked, and within a few minutes the bronchos were in motion again.
The boys were glad enough that they did not have to make the passage of the canyon. Led by Bob, they strung out over a flat strip by the edge of the torrent, soon finding a place to ford.
Plunging in, the bronchos snorted, as icy water gripped their legs and bodies; a fiercely surging flood splashed over stirrup-leather and boots. The Ramblers could scarcely control their sturdy little animals, as they slowly fought their way across.
Two hours later, after a hard climb, the seven were sprawling in the midst of sage brush on the slopes of "Mount Wanatoma," with a stiff southeast wind howling around them. White clouds which scurried swiftly through the blue often hid the snow-clad summit.
"Some weather soon," predicted Dave.
"Squalls, I'm thinkin'," muttered Jack, savagely.
From their elevated position they saw a vast area of hills, gorges and forests, all finally lost in a gray, misty line which met the sky. The torrent swept its crooked course to the eastward; waving fields of bunch grass shone with a golden luster, and forests of pine were sharply edged with light. The sun was already creeping near the rim of the western hills.
The boys jumped into the saddle again, but before a couple of miles had been covered found themselves facing a disheartening fact—the poor jaded bronchos could go no further.
"Napoleon's crossing of the Alps was nothing like this," quoth Bob, as he swung himself to the ground.
"Dave'll now have a bit o' history to write for his journal," sighed Tim—"The Ramblers crossing Mount Wanatoma."
"And just to think! We're stuck here for the night," growled Dick, with a glance at the tired bronchos. "Those poor little beasts deserve a real medal," he added. "They tried hard enough."
"We'll have one made from the very first gold we strike," remarked Jack, sarcastically, disregarding Tim's angry glance.
Disconsolately, they hunted about for a camping site, and found one near by. A fire was soon built, and supper cooked.
Twilight, and then night seemed to close down upon them with astonishing swiftness. Not a star peeped forth. A blustery wind moaned between the trees, carrying with it a suggestion of winter gales.
"We'll be snowed up," Jack again predicted, gloomily.
"An' I don't care if we are," snapped Tim.
"S'pose if it blizzards it'll be all my fault, too," mumbled Jack.
The night seemed long and dismal. Almost benumbed with cold, the early dawn found them astir again, and the journey was resumed with all possible speed.
Their voices held an eager note which told of excitement but partially repressed. Before the sun set again they would know their fate.
For hours they rode steadily, skirting around the mountainside, forced higher and higher up the slopes by innumerable obstacles. Sometimes they crossed narrow ledges where a single misstep would have meant a frightful plunge down rough, jagged precipices.
"Humph! Here's where we seem stumped at last," remarked Jack, as the bronchos emerged from a belt of timber.
Just ahead, a reddish pinnacle of rock, almost as straight as a cathedral tower, and rising for hundreds of feet, presented a strangely impressive spectacle.
Bob Somers looked dubiously at the slope which slanted sharply from its base.
"A risky job getting around, fellows."
"A pippin," said Dick, with a deep breath.
"Well, we can do it," asserted Tim. "Come ahead."
The boys scarcely dared to look at the depths below when the sure-footed little bronchos began cautiously treading the steeply-inclined surface, sometimes sending small landslides sweeping down the slope. All uttered sighs of relief when they again reached safer ground.
About mid-afternoon Bob raised his hand.
"Listen, fellows!"
The boys pulled rein in the midst of a deep pine forest.
"Do you hear anything?"
"Runnin' water?" queried Jack.
"Yes! Do you know what I think?" Bob paused. "Wanatoma said we'd run across a stream on the opposite side of the mountain—"
"Sure as shootin', that must be it," cried Tim, eagerly.
"And told us it flowed directly toward the gold field," chimed in Sam Randall, his face aglow with excitement.
"Now, according to my reckoning, this is just about the place where we ought to find it. That stream over there is certainly Gold Creek; so we have only to follow its course down the mountain to locate our mine. But—"
"Well?" questioned Tom.
"Those lumberjacks are ahead of us in the game. Big Jim is smart enough to understand the map. The word 'stream' on that line ought to show him the right place."
"And that awful big X 'ud simply screech it into his head," said Jack.
"I 'most hate to go on," said Tim, looking fiercely at Conroy, as he always did when anything disturbed him.
"Oh, my! I only hope they lost themselves somewhere," said Tom. "So let's hurry, Bob. I can hardly wait."
"Dive ahead for Gold Creek before worry stops our Tom from growin'," quoth Jack, with a strong effort to appear easy and unconcerned.
The bronchos' hoofs began kicking up the pine-needles and cones again. The sunlight cut curious streaks in the dim recesses of the gloomy woods, spotting trunks and boughs with its brilliant radiance.
As the Ramblers made their way in and out among the trees, a musical tinkle of running water came more clearly to their ears.
"I see it! I see it!" cried Tim, raising himself in his stirrups, and pointing excitedly.
A cool, silvery streak was showing between the trees.
"The thread that should have led us to fame and fortune," mused Dave Brandon.
"Gold Creek, fellows!"
Dick Travers was the first to reach the edge of the swiftly-running stream. The boys watched in silence the clear water tumbling down the steep descent, dashing briskly against rocks and snags, its never-ceasing roar rising high above the pulsating murmur of the pines.
Nervous and excited, with grim-set expressions, they put their bronchos in motion again, following the course of the stream as closely as dense vegetation would permit.
Broad shafts of light soon penetrated the woods, and before long only scattered groups of trees lay beyond.
Not a word was spoken as the ponies walked around the last of these and came to a halt on a knoll which commanded a clear view of the far-reaching slopes below.
One glance was enough.
A number of men, widely scattered, were seen digging with pick and shovel.
"Beaten!" cried Dick Travers, in a despairing voice.