CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE MOUNTAINS.

Without an instant’s warning, Oliver Bright found himself in a situation that thrilled him with horror. As he went over the edge of the narrow path he did his best to save himself, but, as has been told, it was useless; the grass he clutched came out by the roots, and then he found himself going down and down, he knew not where.

He turned over and over as he rolled, and uttered several wild cries――cries that fairly pierced the heart of Gus, Mr. Whyland, and Cottle the guide, who could do nothing to save him.

The descent was fully sixty or seventy feet. Just before reaching the whirling torrent below, Oliver’s body struck a projecting rock, and this encounter, rude as it was, undoubtedly saved his life.

This can be easily seen, when it is told that to have fallen into the river would have been instant death. The current would have dashed him directly on the rocks, and that would have ended all.

But when Oliver’s body struck the rock that projected from the decline, the blow caused it to bound several feet out of its course, and in doing this he was hurled directly into the branches of a short and stout fir-tree.

By this time consciousness had forsaken him, and his body hung among the branches, a limp, inanimate mass.

“My heavens! the boy will be killed!” cried Mr. Whyland, who was the first to recover from the awfulness of the situation.

“It’s a bad tumble,” replied Cottle, shaking his head.

As for Gus he could not say a word. Suppose Oliver was killed? The very thought sent shiver after shiver through his frame.

“We must hurry down to him somehow,” went on Mr. Whyland; “how can it be done?”

“I think there is a path a little way ahead,” replied the guide. “Come, we will dismount and see.”

His directions were instantly followed. Sure enough, a little distance farther there was a break where a tiny watercourse led to the river below.

It did not take them long to reach the bottom of the ravine, and once down there they hurried back with all possible speed.

“He must have come down somewhere about here,” said Cottle, as he came to a halt; “but I don’t see anything of him.”

“Oh, I hope he hasn’t been carried down the river!” cried Gus; and he added in a low tone, “Poor Olly! if he is dead, oh, what will I do? It will break his father’s heart!”

“I don’t see――” began Mr. Whyland, and then, happening to glance up, he ejaculated, “here he is up in the tree!”

In a moment more Cottle had climbed the tree and had the body on the ground. He loosened Oliver’s collar, and applied his ear to the boy’s heart.

“Is he――is he alive?” faltered Gus.

“Oh, yes; but he has had a severe shaking up. Bring some water from the river.”

Gus hurried off to do so. When he returned Oliver was just stirring. Mr. Whyland put some of the water on his face and hair.

Presently Oliver opened his eyes and sat up.

“Where am I?” he asked faintly. “What――what――oh, I remember now! I didn’t go into the river, did I?”

“No, thank God, you did not,” replied Mr. Whyland. “It was a most miraculous escape!”

“How do you feel?” asked Gus. “I hope there are no bones broken.”

“I feel sore all over. Give me some of the water.”

Cottle gave him a drink, and carefully noted its effect.

“Did it hurt when it went down?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then that’s all right. If you were injured internally you couldn’t drink without having a pain. Better take it easy for a little while though.”

“I’ll have to,” replied Oliver with a suppressed groan; “I’m too sore to move much. Where is my mule?”

“Up on the path with the others. I’ll turn them back to the other trail. All hands take it easy for an hour or so till I get back.”

In a moment more Cottle was gone. Gus and Mr. Whyland sat down beside Oliver, one on either side.

“I’m so glad, Olly,” cried the stout youth. “When I saw you go over my heart jumped right into my mouth, just as if I was going myself. Crickety! but it was a nasty fall and no mistake!”

In half an hour Oliver arose slowly to his feet. As he had said, he ached in every joint, and his head, too, felt queer, but otherwise he was all right.

“But I never want another such tumble,” he declared. “I shall never forget it if I live to be a hundred years old!”

At the specified time Cottle came back. He had succeeded in turning the mules, and had found a much better path a little to the northward.

“Then we might as well go on,” said Oliver; “there is no use in wasting time here.”

“Do you feel able to go on?” asked Gus.

“I think so. We can try it any way.”

Mr. Whyland could not help but smile at the boy’s determination.

“You have lots of backbone!” he declared. “Well, since you say so, we will go on; but if you find it hurts you, don’t hesitate to speak.” And up to the path above they went, and then back to where Cottle had left the mules.

Walking pained Oliver considerably, and he was glad enough when he could sink once more into his easy saddle. Then the guide went to the front, and the onward journey was resumed.

By two o’clock in the afternoon they had passed around the northern base of the mountain, and were entering a long and narrow valley. Before them loomed a long, low range of hills, and Cottle said that the Aurora mine was located just beyond, and about forty miles to the north-east.

The scenery upon all sides was magnificent, and had Oliver’s mind been free from anxiety, and his body without pain, he would have enjoyed it to the fullest extent. Even as it was, he sometimes reined up his mule to drink in the prospect.

“Beats the East all to bits!” he said to Gus as they rode side by side.

“You are right. I would rather take a trip about here than go to Europe ten times over.”

“And yet you will find thousands of people who prefer the latter trip,” put in Mr. Whyland. “Some have gone to Europe half a dozen times and never come West once.”

“I guess they go because it’s the style,” suggested Cottle. “But as for me, Uncle Sam’s domain is good enough every time.”

The riding was now much easier and all hands urged the mules to a better gait.

“If we can, we will make Billy Ford’s cabin before we halt,” said the guide.

“And who is Billy Ford?” asked Oliver.

“An old timer who keeps a sort of cross-roads store and tavern,” laughed Cottle.

“A store! ’Way out here!” cried Gus. “Who in creation can he have for customers?”

“Miners come to him for forty miles around. Billy has been here since prospecting first began. We won’t buy much from him because he is so terribly high in prices; but you had better patronize him a little, just to keep him in good humor.”

On and on they went, until, just as the sun was setting over the mountain they had just passed, Cottle pointed to a cabin far ahead.

“There is Billy’s,” he said.

In a quarter of an hour they had reached the spot. It was where the road crossed a small mountain stream. Ford’s cabin proved to be a rude structure of logs plastered over with mud. A sign hung outside, stating that provisions and drinks were to be had on reasonable terms.

As they rode up, the proprietor came out, gun in hand. As soon as he saw Cottle, however, he lowered the weapon.

“Hello, Felix! Who you got thar?” he asked.

“A party bound for the mines, Billy,” was the guide’s reply; and he jumped down and held out his hand.

“So? All right.” The two shook hands. “Going to squat here over night?”

“Reckon to, unless you say no.”

“That’s all right. Come in, gents,” and Ford turned to the others. “Suppose Cottle’s told you all about my ranch?”

“He told us something,” said Oliver as he dismounted.

The party were soon on the ground, and Cottle turned to take care of the horses. As he did so, Ford walked up to him.

“Say, Felix, it’s a wonder you didn’t strike this place last night,” he said with a laugh. “There might have been some fun if you had. Your old boss, Colonel Guerotaz, stopped here.”