CHAPTER XVII

GOING TO BED IN THE CLOUDS

The Overland Riders did not turn from the scene until the “sapphire rocks,” described in Lieutenant Wingate’s colorful oratory, had turned a dull gray as the sun moved over behind the mountains to the west.

“Forward for a quick gallop to the camping site!” called Grace, who led the way alone. “Column of two’s!”

In this formation they presented a spirited appearance.

Ike Fairweather heard them pounding along the trail, and stepped out to watch the troop come on. They swept down on him in a cloud of dust, and in answer to an enthusiastic wave of his sombrero, Grace spun her own sombrero as high in the air as she could hurl it, drove her pony forward to meet it, and deftly caught it as it came spinning back.

“Whoo--oo--oope!” shouted Ike.

“Woo--oo--oo--oo!” howled Hippy, trying to imitate an Indian war whoop, but failing miserably.

Not to be outdone by Grace Harlowe, the lieutenant too spun his sombrero into the air, but instead of spinning it on its rim he spun it flat.

The sombrero floated gracefully off in the direction of Roosevelt Lake, sinking lower and lower into the shadows of the chasm hundreds of feet below them, until it finally disappeared altogether.

“My hat! My hat!” howled Hippy.

The Overland Riders were almost hysterical with laughter when they brought their ponies down to a quick stop, after Grace, in her merriment, had nearly ridden down Ike Fairweather. Ike had only saved himself from disaster by hastily throwing himself into the roadside ditch.

Nora Wingate was laughing so much that she forgot to scold her husband, and Hippy kept them laughing for as much longer as possible, so that Nora might not remember to give him the good-natured grilling that he knew he deserved.

It came, however, when Ike teased him about letting a woman outdo him in riding and hat tossing.

“You wouldn’t imagine that my husband ever was a bird of the air, flying above the clouds as gracefully as a wild duck on its way to a new home in the sunny south. Now would you, Mr. Fairweather?”

“Well, seein’ as you have put the question up to me pintedly, I don’t reckon as I would,” was Ike’s conclusion, after a brief stroking of his whiskers.

There followed another merry laugh at Hippy’s expense, then the outfit dismounted and led their ponies to the tethering ground that had been selected for the purpose.

“You folks’ll find it a little crowded, but the camp is high and fine,” volunteered Mr. Fairweather.

“Where is your wagon?” asked Lieutenant Wingate.

“’Bout a hundred yards further along the trail. Not room enough for it hereabouts, an’ I can’t drag it up the hill where the horses are. I reckon thet after this I’ll have the horses in pistol shot of me all the time.”

“Either that or we shall have to post a guard over the animals every night,” said Grace. “Please show us where to take our ponies,” she requested.

A “tote path,” a narrow path used principally by foot travelers, led up the mountain side, winding through cacti and scrub cottonwoods for more than a hundred yards, and up this narrow, crooked path the Overland Riders led their saddle ponies, finally emerging on a narrow mesa or tableland, bordered with scraggly cottonwoods that found their moisture in a nearby mountain stream.

The camp of the Overton girls had been pitched by this stream, fresh water close at hand being a vital thing to outdoor camps.

Hippy Wingate tied his pony to a tree, and, stepping to the edge of the mesa, waved a hand toward the black abyss beyond and below them.

“The yawning chasm!” he exclaimed, and sat down.

“That is the most fascinating speech you ever made, Lieutenant Wingate,” observed Miss Briggs.

“Eh? That so? Why?”

“Because there were only three words in it,” interjected Emma Dean.

Hippy sniffed, and, getting up, went over and untied his pony.

While the men were staking down the horses and fetching water for them from the stream, the girls were busily engaged in preparing supper. Ike not only had pitched the tents, but had placed the luggage of his charges in its proper place and set the camp in order in advance of the arrival of the party.

The campfire was still low, purposely kept so for cooking purposes, but a heap of wood nearby promised a cheerful blaze later on.

Pork and beans, bread without butter, canned soup and cake, that Hippy Wingate declared had been baked on a cactus plant, together with a large pot of coffee, formed the principal part of the evening’s bill of fare.

“Not a prize winner in variety, but great chow,” approved Hippy, which was high praise for Lieutenant Wingate.

Following the meal, Elfreda questioned the old stagecoach driver about the country where they were encamped.

“All Apache ground,” answered Ike with a comprehensive wave of the hand. “They’ve fit over every inch of it. You’ll see some of them folks to-morrow or next day. How long do you reckon on stayin’ at the Lodge?”

“What is there to keep us busy there?” asked Grace.

“The lake, the cliff dwellers’ homes, Apaches, an’ huntin’ in the Sierra Anchas, if you folks care for thet. There’s great fishin’ in the lake too.”

“It sounds interesting,” agreed Grace, “but of course you know we do not care to camp where there are people. What we are out for is to get away from people. What is there in the way of game in the Sierra Ancha Range?”

“Deer, bear an’ cougar is the big game. Plenty of smaller stuff.”

“I will talk with our party about the hunting, but I hardly think they will care for it. Is it possible to visit the cliff dwellings?” questioned Grace.

“Some of ’em. Others can’t be reached.”

Elfreda glanced quickly at Grace and frowned to herself.

“You mean that no one has been able to get to them, Mr. Fairweather?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gray.”

“Why not?”

“Sharp cliffs hundreds of feet up or down.”

“One can get above them, I suppose?” persisted Grace.

“Yes, by takin’ a trail ’round the mountain.”

“I’ll take a try at exploring them,” observed Hippy as if he really meant it.

“You will not if you keep on eating,” declared Nora.

“Are there other trails that lead to the top--I should say that lead to the mountain where these cliff dwellers lived?” questioned Grace.

“From other directions, yes.”

“So that one could get there without following the route we have taken thus far?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What _are_ you driving at, Grace?” demanded Anne.

“Information, Anne dear. Remember, one never can know too much about anything.”

“Yes he can,” differed Hippy. “One can know too much about overland riding. I know so much about it already that it pains me to think about how much I do know, and the journey isn’t half over. At this rate I shall acquire so much information that my brain surely will blow up one day.”

“Your what?” asked Emma innocently.

Even Ike Fairweather joined in the laugh, that followed. Nora nodded, and smiled her approval at Emma.

“I should prefer to blow up from an oversupply of brains than to faint because of short measure,” retorted Hippy heatedly.

“Brakes on!” ordered Grace, trying hard not to laugh. “That was real mean of you, Hippy Wingate. I think you should apologize to Emma.”

“All right, let’s go. I do apologize, Miss Dean. My seeming rudeness was not rudeness at all, it was merely an effort on my part to make conversation and to maintain my reputation for making myself agreeable. I’ll go further with my apology and assure you that I know that it wasn’t because you are sometimes brainless that you fainted, but because--”

“Hippy Wingate!” rebuked Nora sharply. “I shall never, never speak to you again unless you tell Emma you are sorry.”

“Whether I mean it or not?”

“Please do as I ask you to.”

“Ike, have you another hat in the wagon that I can wear to town to-morrow?”

Mr. Fairweather said he had not.

“I am sorry, Miss Dean, and I hope you will forgive me for my rude--my seeming rudeness,” corrected Hippy.

Emma’s face broke out into smiles, indicating that the clouds had passed.

“You are forgiven, Hippy,” she nodded.

“Whether I mean it or not?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I will think it over and let you know to-morrow whether or not I do mean it.” Hippy lifted his head and inhaled a long breath.

“Fog! We are rapidly being enveloped in it,” exclaimed Anne who had observed the lieutenant’s action.

“That is what you call it. I call it a cloud. I ought to know, for many is the time that I have smelled clouds,” declared Hippy.

“Yep, them’s clouds,” confirmed the old coach driver.

The Overland Riders uttered exclamations of amazement, for being above the clouds was a new experience to all except Grace Harlowe, who had once made a thrilling flight with Lieutenant Wingate on the French front. Emma Dean, however, declared that she could see nothing about fog to rave over, and it was difficult to convince her that they really were enveloped in clouds such as she had seen drifting above the mountain tops all that afternoon.

Grace proposed that they turn in early that night in order to be up with the sun and get the benefit of the early morning view, which Ike Fairweather said was well worth seeing.

“Going to bed in the clouds! How romantic,” murmured Anne.

“Yes, but why get sentimental over it?” grinned Hippy.

“Wouldn’t it be awful were we to fall out of bed?” suggested Emma.

Ike Fairweather and Lieutenant Wingate took more than ordinary pains in staking down the horses for the night, even though the animals were tethered so close to the camp that their every move might be heard by the campers. Ike distinctly objected to making a second trip to Globe for a bunch of runaway ponies.

While the men were engaged with the ponies, the Overton girls were chatting in Grace Harlowe’s tent, and Elfreda Briggs was dressing the wound on Grace’s head.

“It is really wonderful how rapidly a wound heals with you,” marvelled Miss Briggs.

“I am well and strong, so why should it not be so?” replied Grace. “I hope you take the bandage from my wound soon, because I wish to look nice when we reach the hotel at Roosevelt Lake.”

“All is secure, sir,” announced Hippy from without.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” acknowledged Grace. “You will find food in the tin box in the store-tent, provided you get hungry in the night.”

“Pleasant dreams, and do not fall out of bed,” piped Emma.

“If I do, you will hear me,” retorted Hippy.

“Yes, we surely shall feel the mountain shake when _you_ land,” chuckled Anne.

“Good-night, all,” called Hippy, and strode off laughing to himself, a chorus of good-nights following him. For an hour or more intermittent chattering was heard in the girls’ tents. Through the open tent flaps they could see the cloud fog swirling about, and the damp, musty odor of the sky-mist was strong in their nostrils.

“The glory of the mountains! How I should love to spend all summer right on this wonderful spot,” murmured Grace, and, turning over, went quickly to sleep.

Shortly after midnight Grace awakened, and lay gazing out at the drifting gray fog.

“What was that?” Grace sat up suddenly, listening for a repetition of the sound that had disturbed her.

What Grace had heard sounded to her like the rattle of a wagon, followed by a loud squeak, but the sound was not repeated.

The Overton girl sprang up, dressed hurriedly and buckled on her revolver holster. She then ran over to Lieutenant Wingate’s tent and softly called his name. There was no reply from within, nor could Grace hear breathing there.

Thrusting a flash lamp through the tent opening, she swept the interior with a brief ray of light. The tent was unoccupied, and the blankets lay on the ground in a confused heap, indicating to her that Lieutenant Wingate had taken a hurried departure.

“Something surely is going on, and Hippy has gone to investigate,” muttered Grace. “That young man surely is improving.”

Without an instant’s hesitation, Grace ran out and down the tote path, proceeding cautiously as she neared the trail, her step giving off no sound that could be heard a few yards away.