The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

“What are we going to do now?” whispered Jack, as they stood cramped and aching, but thrilling at the same time with the sense of glorious liberty. But they were by no means at the end of their troubles yet. They had still to get out of the cave and make their way to some place of security beyond Bully Banjo’s immediate grip.

Tom did not answer Jack’s question immediately. Instead, he paused and an expression of deep thought came over his countenance. One by one, he ran over the various features of the locality as he recalled them. The high-sided canyon, steep as the walls of a house, and with no apparent way of reaching the summit from below. No, there was no chance of getting away there. The river? Ah, that was better. Tom thought that by working along the edge of the stream they could reach the sea coast, or at least some point at which they could clamber back onto the trail, – possibly at the same place as that by which they had made their unfortunate excursion after water.

Rapidly and in a low whisper he conveyed his plan to Jack. The younger boy nodded, and then, as there was nothing to be gained by waiting, they started to put the daring plan into execution. But as they moved forward out of the cave Death, who, like most Indians slumbered as lightly as a cat, stirred and opened his eyes. In a flash, he saw what had happened and comprehended it.

Luckily, before he cried out to give the alarm, he reached for his rifle, which lay by his side. That instant of time was all that Tom needed. In one bound he was on the Chinook. The fellow reeled backward under his powerful blow, toppling head first into the still glowing fire. Before he could utter a cry, though, Tom was on him. The Bungalow Boy’s hand was clapped over the Indian’s mouth. But Tom speedily found that, though his swift attack had temporarily made him master of the situation, he was no more than a fair match for the Indian. The fellow was thin, but as tough as steel wire. He wriggled and squirmed like an acrobat under Tom’s powerful grip. Fortunately, all this rolling and thrashing about brought them out of the embers, or one or the other might have been badly burned.

It was Jack who turned the balance in favor of Tom. He saw as soon as Tom sprang on the Indian that the latter was likely to prove a pretty handy man in a rough and tumble encounter, and therefore he had lost no time in dashing back into the cave and securing some of the ropes with which they themselves had been secured but a few moments before.

He returned just as the Indian, by dint of arching his back, had succeeded in momentarily casting off Tom’s grip. The Bungalow Boy, taken by surprise by the sudden spring-like upbound of the Indian, was cast clear off him, in fact. But before the Indian could take any advantage of this turn of affairs, Jack was on him. The younger Dacre boy seized the leathery-faced old rascal by the head and clapped one hand over his mouth. He realized that the most important thing to do was to keep the man from calling out and alarming the camp. Tom speedily recovered himself, and, coming to Jack’s aid, it was not long before they had the Chinook as securely tied and bound as they themselves had been. Ripping off a portion of his blue-flannel shirt, Tom stuffed it in the fellow’s mouth to serve as a gag. They then bundled him into the cave and started for the river. There was no difficulty in locating it. The roar of its dashing waters as they rushed on to the sea betrayed its whereabouts.

But, unfortunately, during the battle something had occurred which they had not foreseen. The red-faced man had slumbered serenely through it all. But, unseen by either of the boys during the struggle in the embers, a glowing brand had been cast upon his clothes. This had burned steadily on, fanned by the wind which swept through the canyon. Just as the boys vanished in the black shadows toward the river, the smoldering flame reached his flesh. With a yell, he wakened, on the alert in an instant, his slumber having cleared his fuddled brain of the effects of his carouse.

It took him scarcely a longer time than it had the Indian to perceive what had occurred. His first yell of pain had aroused the camp. Before the befuddled, red-faced individual had regained his wits entirely, the place was humming like an angry beehive.

With long-legged leaps, Simon Lake came bounding into the circle of light formed by the scattered embers.

“What in tarnation’s the matter, Tarbox, yer red-faced codfish?” he shouted.

“Matter enough,” roared back Zeb Hunt, who had been doing some rapid investigating. “Them boys has got away.”

“Got away!” echoed Simon Lake furiously, yet incredulously.

“Yep. Death’s trussed up like a Christmas turkey back thar in ther cave, an’ ther young varmints hes vamoosed.”

“Scatter, boys! After ’em!” bellowed Lake. “By Juniper, I’ll give a hundred dollars to the one that gets ’em.”

“Alive or dead?” asked one ruffian, with an ugly scar running from brow to chin down his weather-beaten face.

“Yes,” snarled Lake, “alive or dead. They know too much fer me ter lose ’em now. And then if they git loose all our plans go ter tarnation smash. Go on, Zeb, arter ’em. Git on the scent, my bullies. As for you,” grated out Lake, casting a terrible look at poor Tarbox, who had succeeded in extinguishing his clothes, “I’ll attend to you later.”

The fellow sank to his knees and began quivering out pleas for mercy. But Lake turned away with a savage laugh.

“You’ll blubber worse then that afor I git through with yer, by Chowder!”

As he spoke, from the direction of the river there came a sudden loud crack as if a branch had snapped under some one’s foot. Lake heard it, and was quick to guess its significance.

“Ther young varmits is in ther brush yonder, byes. Git ’em out. Arter ’em. Drag ’em out of thar!”

It sounded like the master of a pack of hounds urging on his charges to their work. In obedience to Bully Banjo’s shout and cries the searchers plunged into the brush, shouting and yelling to one another savagely.

Simon Lake was right when he imagined that the sudden sharp noise in the brush had been caused by the boys. It was Jack’s unlucky encounter with a dead limb half buried in dried leaves and debris that had caused it. The accident could not possibly have occurred at a more unfortunate moment for the boys.

Gritty lads as they were, both of them changed color and their pulses began to beat a tattoo as they heard the human bloodhounds break into full cry at the sound.

“Tom, I’m – I’m awfully sorry,” gasped Jack contritely.

“Rubbish, old fellow. How could you help it?” rejoined Tom. “Come on, we’ll beat them yet.”

“How?”

The question seemed a natural one. They were still some little distance from the river, in the midst of thick underbrush through which it was hard to proceed quickly without making a noise. The outlaws, on the other hand, probably knew of trails to the river bank. They might thread these quickly and arrive there ahead of the boys.

But they kept doggedly on. Tom had given no answer to Jack’s question. Time was too precious for that now, and breath, too. The great object was to reach the river bank first. Tom felt that once among its rugged rocks and intricate windings, interspersed as they were by dense brakes of brush, that they would stand at least a chance of getting away unobserved.

And now they reached the river bank. Through the darkness they could see the water rushing whitely along. In the midst of the white smother in front of them could be seen a darker blot. Tom guessed it to be a rock in mid-stream.

As he saw it a bold idea flashed into his mind. If they could jump and gain it, perhaps there was another rock beyond to which they could jump in turn, and so cross the stream and reach the other side in safety. In a few low breathless words he confided his plan to Jack. The younger boy, however, was not impressed by it.

“It’s all right for you, with your record for the broad jump, Tom,” he argued. “You could make it. But I don’t believe I could, and – ”

There was a sudden crackling and trampling in the brush behind them.

“Here they come,” exclaimed Tom. “It’s now or never. Are we going to try for it or wait here to be roped like two fool calves?”

Jack drew a deep breath.

“I’ll try it,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Good boy!”

Tom’s hand fell with a tight squeeze on the younger lad’s shoulder.

“You’ll make it, never fear, Jack,” he went on encouragingly, as he threw off his coat and stepped back from the bank as far as possible.

“I’ll go first, and if I can make it, I’ll be on the rock to help you when you come.”

“But if you miss?” quavered Jack.

“But I won’t miss,” said Tom pluckily, although he felt by no means certain in his own mind. “I feel as confident as I did that day at Audubon when I got the broad jump away from Old Hickey. He – ”

“This way, boys. I hearn the varmints not a second ago!”

The voice, raucous and savage, came behind them. Its owner was still in the brush. They could hear his heavy-footed tramplings. But it warned them that the moment for action had arrived.

With a quick run, Tom reached the bank of the stream. Then up he shot and outward over the boiling, screaming waters, and – landed on the rock with six inches or more to spare. The great stone was wet and slippery, but he maintained his footing, and turned with a wave toward the shore.

As he did so a terrible fear shot into his heart. What if Jack’s nerve failed him at the last instant? Situated as Tom was, he would be powerless to help him, for to leap back to shore again would be an impossibility. Shout encouragement he dared not. All he could do was to wait, with the river roaring in the blackness all about him.

Suddenly ashore the night was split by a red flash and a sharp report sounded above the turmoil. Jack had been sighted and they were firing at him.

“Oh, Jack, why won’t you jump?”

The words were wrung from the Bungalow Boy as he stood upright on the wet rock, the spray of the racing river showering him till he was as drenched as his foothold. With burning eyes, he peered shoreward.

Suddenly over the water toward him came a figure. It was Jack. As he leaped three shots resounded behind him. Tom could feel the bullets whistle by. But they hardly arrived quicker than Jack.

It was well for him that Tom was there, for Jack’s jump was short. He fell, clutching at the wet rock. The water seized his legs and tried to whip him off in its mad current. But Tom’s strong hands had grasped his brother’s wrists before his hold gave way, and in less time than it takes to tell it Jack was beside him on the rock.