The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

“It’s driving straight for us,” whispered Jack hoarsely.

Tom said nothing, but nodded to show he heard.

On came the tree, but as it was within a hand’s breadth of the rock, another eddy caught it and sent it staggering off again toward the other bank. But the boys were not going to be defeated by such an accident as that.

Bracing themselves, but still crouching so that their heads did not show above the rock, they jumped and landed in the tangle of roots. But, as might have been expected, their sudden weight had the effect of rolling the tree over. Submerged in the boiling current the two boys were hurried along.

Neither of them could tell you to this day how they escaped drowning, but they did.

Breathless, bruised, and with their clothes half torn from their backs, they succeeded in crawling around the roots till their heads were above the water. Helping each other, they struggled like two half-drowned flies till they succeeded in throwing themselves across the log so that it would not tip over completely. From time to time, though, it gave a lurch that threatened to topple them off altogether.

And so, half in and half out of the water, they shot from behind the shelter of the rock.

“Ther they be!” the shout went up from the shore, as Zeb Hunt’s sharp eyes espied the two clinging, half-submerged figures.

“The foxy young varmints! Let ’em hev it, byes!” yelled Simon Lake furiously.

But as the rifles were aimed, the tree was swung almost completely around by a sudden swing of the current, and the boys were borne out of range. The thick tangle of the roots hid them from the marksmen ashore.

The next instant, however, the capricious stream swung the log about once more. Instantly the white, racing water was flecked with bullets. Splinters from the ones which struck the tree showered about the boys. But either owing to the excitement of the riflemen, or to the erratic motions of the tree as it was tumbled along by the current, none of the bullets injured them. The next minute they would have been round a bend in the stream and safe from the rifles – at least, temporarily, when something occurred that made their hearts sink like lead.

The tree, which had been hitherto borne swiftly along, although in an eccentric course, grated, bumped, and then came to a stop.

A triumphant yell went up from the watchers on the shore as they saw it. They came running along the bank so as to pour in their fire from a position exactly opposite to the stranded tree.

“Quick, get round to the other side,” choked out Tom, blowing a stream of water out of his mouth.

Hand over hand among the roots, the lads at last succeeded in gaining the other side of the trunk. This put a thick barricade of solid timber between themselves and the riflemen.

“Now put your foot in the water and shove,” ordered Tom, suiting the action to the word. “This log is only stuck on a shoal. I think we can get her over if we try hard.”

They shoved till their muscles cracked, and at last, partly by their efforts and partly by the weight of the dammed-up water behind it, the great log quivered and then moved on.

This time it plunged into a deep, rapid pool that soon hurried it on, and almost before the boys knew it the shouts and shots behind them grew faint and then fainter, and finally died out altogether. Then, and only then, did they dare to raise themselves from their uncomfortable, not to say perilous, nooks among the roots and look out.

The first object Tom’s eyes fell upon was one calculated to make him withdraw his head instantly, like a turtle retreating into his shell.

The stream narrowed just ahead of them and roared between two walls of rock. On the summit of one of these rocks, standing where they must pass directly under him, was the sharply silhouetted figure of a man.

In his hands he grasped a rifle, seemingly ready for immediate action.

CHAPTER XII.

SAM HARTLEY TURNS UP

If the figure proved to be one of the outposts of Simon Lake’s camp, the situation was a serious one. In a few moments the big tree would reach the narrow passage in the rocks. When it did, two courses were open to the boys. One was to stick to it and throw themselves and their fate upon providence, or else make a leap for the rocks which were seamed and scarred. But in the event of the motionless figure on the rock proving to be an enemy, their position would be as bad as before. Unarmed as they were, they would certainly have to give in without a struggle.

But just as Tom had about decided that their best plan would be to cling to the tree and trust to luck to get safely through the narrow “gate,” something familiar struck him about the figure. It was that of a sun-burned man of middle age, clean-shaven, and with a conveying sense of alertness in his erect pose. He wore khaki trousers, much the worse for wear, stout hunting boots, laced up almost to his knees, a rough blue shirt, and a big sombrero.

In a flash it came across Tom where they had seen that figure before.

Another instant made the conviction a certainty.

The man was Sam Hartley. If any question had remained of it, all doubt was once and for all removed, as Tom decided to risk a mistake and hailed the man.

“Sam! Oh, Sam!”

The man on the rock started. His rifle, which had come up to his arm pit as the boy hailed, fell back. He stared before him intently as the tree came bumping at the rock. Before he could recover himself, from amid its roots two active young forms had leaped and hurled themselves straight at the stalwart figure of the former arch enemy of the counterfeiters of Saw Mill Valley.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Sam, as Tom stopped wringing his hand for an instant. “It is you, all right. I thought I was pretty sure of you when I peeked into Bully Banjo’s camp yesterday when he had you on the carpet.”

“But, Sam,” cried Tom excitedly, “what are you doing here, and – ” He broke off as a sudden explanation of the mysterious arrival of the knife flashed across him.

“It was you that lowered that knife!”

“Sure,” said Sam easily; “but, say, boys, we’re in a bad place right here. Let’s get back in the brush. I’ve got some grub there and a clean shirt apiece for you. I guess you’re in need of both,” he went on, with a smile, surveying the two dilapidated young figures.

“That’s right. Especially the grub part of it,” laughed Tom. “But, Sam, I can’t get over the mystery of it. You being here and arriving just in time to help us out of what seemed such a dickens of a mess.”

Yet it was simple enough as Sam explained to them a few moments later. He had been in Seattle when Mr. Chillingworth’s letter reached the Secret Service Department in Washington. His chief at the capital city had at once wired him in cipher to drop the case he was on and proceed with all haste to the neighborhood of the Chillingworth ranch.

In the guise of a prospector, Sam had been in the hills for some days, and, by a stroke of luck, he had encountered the day before the trail of the men he was after. An unlucky slip had betrayed his presence in the brush. It was that disturbance, it will be recalled, that had so excited Bully Banjo and his men.

He had seen and heard enough from his place of concealment, however, to know that two boys were in trouble, and it was no part of Sam Hartley’s nature not to try and help them. From various points of vantage among the rocks and trees on the cliffside he had watched all that had taken place subsequently in the camp of Bully Banjo.

After revolving one or two plans of rescue, it had occurred to him that his best plan would be to lower the knife, which the boys had put to such excellent use. From his eyrie high up on the cliffside above the cavern, he had later heard the shots at the river edge, and had surmised what was taking place. He had concluded, though, that the boys had been shot and killed as they reached the water, and had left the place while it was still dark, with a heavy heart.

What he had seen had enraged him still more against the men he had been sent to track, and he had made all haste back to his camp which was back of the “gate” in the rocks. It had occurred to him after his arrival there, though, that in the event of the boys having been killed their bodies might be carried down by the current. He had therefore posted himself by the narrow gateway in order to watch for them. His amazement when he encountered the Bungalow Boys safe and sound on their queer raft was only equaled by his delight.

To the readers of the “Bungalow Boys,” the first volume of this series, Sam Hartley will need no further introduction. Our other readers may be informed, however, that Sam was one of the “star men” of the Secret Service bureau in Washington, and that the boys had made his acquaintance at the Maine bungalow.

Sam, in disguise, was there for the purpose of getting evidence against the Trullibers in much the same manner as he was now after the defiant Bully Banjo. It will be recalled by our old readers that the boys had been of great service to Sam Hartley, aiding him in running down the Trullibers, and that he in his turn had been able to do them some services. How glad they were to meet each other once more under such odd – yet such entirely natural circumstances, when they came to be explained – may be better imagined than detailed.

“And now,” said Sam, when all had been said and explained, and the boys’ hunger fully satisfied, “what are you lads going to do?”

“Push on to the ranch, of course,” declared Tom. “It is important that we should get the medicines for Mr. Dacre without delay.”

“I agree with you,” said Sam, “and as it’s not much use my trailing those fellows any more – they’ll be away from there by now – I’ll go with you.”

“But then you’ll lose them altogether,” exclaimed Tom.

Sam laughed his light, cheery laugh.

“No fear of that, boy,” he said. “I know where their schooner is, and I’ll get them yet, just keep tabs of that. In any event, I don’t want to be in any hurry. I’m going to give this Bully Banjo all the rope he wants, and then round him and his gang up when he least expects it.”

“All by yourself?” asked Jack amazedly.

Sam laughed again.