CHAPTER VIII. A WALKING PINCUSHION.

Ralph’s story was soon told, with the accompaniment of a running fire of sarcasms from Mountain Jim concerning automatic rifles and all connected with them. An examination of Ralph’s weapon showed that a cartridge from the magazine had become jammed just at the critical instant that he faced the lynx.

“There ain’t nuthin’ better than this old Winchester of mine,” declared Mountain Jim, taking his well-oiled and polished, albeit ancient model rifle from its holster and patting it lovingly. “I’ve carried it through the Rockies for fifteen years and it’s never failed me yet.”

Nevertheless, the boys did not condemn their automatics on that account. In fact, Ralph blamed his own ignorance of the action of his[73] new weapon more for its failure to work than any fault lying with the rifle itself.

With a few quick strokes of his knife and a tug at the hide, Mountain Jim had the lynx skinned with almost incredible rapidity. Salt was sprinkled liberally on the skin, and it was rolled up and tied behind Persimmons’ saddle, to be carefully scraped of all fat and skin later on.

It was sunset when they left the well-traveled trail, along which, however, they had encountered no human being but a wandering packer on his way to an extension of the Canadian Pacific Railroad with provisions and blasting powder, borne by his sure-footed animals.

In the brief twilight they pushed on till they reached a spot that appeared favorable for a camp. A spring gushed from a wall of rock and formed one of an almost innumerable number of small streams that fed a creek, which, in turn, was later to pour its waters into the mighty Columbia. Ralph needed no instructions on how[74] to turn the horses out, and while he and the rest, acting under his directions, attended to this, Mountain Jim got supper ready. By the time the boys had completed their “chores” and the tents were up, the guide had their evening meal of bannocks, beans and bacon, and boiling hot tea ready for them. For dessert they had stewed dried prunes and apples, and the boys voted the meal an excellent one. Indeed, they had been hungry enough to eat almost anything.

Supper despatched, it was not long before they were ready to turn into their blankets, which were of the heavy army type, for the nights in the Rockies are cool. To the music of a near-by waterfall, they sank into profound slumber, and before the moon was up the camp was wrapped in silence.

It was about midnight that they were aroused by a loud wail of distress from the tent which Persimmons shared with his two chums. Mountain Jim rolled out of his blankets—he disdained[75] tents—and Jimmie, who likewise was content with a makeshift by the fire, started up as quickly. From the door of the professor’s tent appeared an odd-looking figure in striped pajamas.

“Great Blue Bells of Scotland! What’s up?” roared Mountain Jim.

“Wow! Ouch! He’s sticking me! Ow-w-w-w!” came in a series of yells from Persimmons. “Ouch! Prancing pincushions, come quick!”

“Is that boy in trouble again?” demanded the professor, as he slipped on a pair of slippers and advanced with Mountain Jim toward the scene of the disturbance. The air was now filled with boyish shouts, echoing and re-echoing among the craggy hills that surrounded the small canyon in which the camp was pitched.

As they neared the tent, from under the sod-cloth a small dark form came shuffling forth. It grunted as it went, like a diminutive pig. Jim jerked his old Winchester to his shoulder and[76] the death struggle of the small animal immediately followed the rifle’s report.

Simultaneously, the three boys clad in their underclothing, dashed out of the tent door.

“Is it Indians?” shouted Hardware.

“A bear?” yelled Ralph, who had his automatic in hand.

“More like a walking pincushion,” yelled Persimmons, dancing about and nursing one of his hands, “look here!”

He held out his hand and they saw several objects which, in the moonlight, looked like so many knitting needles projecting from it.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mountain Jim, whose mirth aroused Persimmons’ secret indignation, “I reckon it was a walking pincushion, all right. Boy, don’t never put your hand on a porcupine again, they always leave souvenirs.”

“A porcupine!” cried the professor.

“Sure enough,” rejoined the guide, and he[77] rolled to their feet with his rifle barrel the body of the small animal he had shot.

It was surely enough one of those spiny and familiar denizens of the north woods.

“Nodding needles! No wonder I felt as if I’d struck a pincushion,” cried poor Persimmons, who had, by this, drawn the last of the offending quills from his hand. “I heard something grunting and nosing about my blankets, and when I put my hand out I got it full of stickers.”

“I’ll put some peroxide on,” said the professor, hastening to his tent for the medicine chest.

“They aren’t poisonous, are they?” asked Ralph, referring to the quills.

“No; just sharp, that’s all,” responded Mountain Jim. “Porcupines are the greediest and stupidest cusses in the woods. I reckon this one smelled grub and was investigating when he ran into Master Simmons here.”

“You mean that Persimmons ran into him,” corrected Ralph.

[78]

“Guggling geese, no!” expostulated Persimmons, holding out his hand to be dressed, for the wounds made by the sharp quills were bleeding, “he ran into me, don’t ever mistake that.”

It was some time before the camp quieted down again, but finally peace was restored and a tranquil night, undisturbed by any more nocturnal adventures, was passed.

Bright and early the next day they set out once more, traveling now off the beaten track and making for their destination, the Big Bend of the Columbia River. The professor was on the lookout for what he called metamorphic specimens of rock, which, in plain English, means bits of stone and so forth that show traces of the new world in the making. For, as he had explained to the boys, the Canadian Rockies are, from a geologist’s standpoint, of recent formation. Unlike many chains of like character, they are not supposed to be volcanic in formation. The final cause of the uplifting of their giant crests is[79] generally attributed to the shrinkage of the earth’s interior by loss of heat or some other action. It is also supposed that eons ago the Rockies were as lofty as the Himalayas or the Andes, but that the various destructive forces that worked and still work amidst their rugged bosoms, have diminished their stature by thousands of feet.

It was at the close of their second day’s travel that the first of a series of mysterious happenings, destined to puzzle them greatly in the future, occurred. Ralph, who had been disturbed by the noise of some nocturnal animal trampling about in the brush, rose from his blankets and emerged into the moonlight with his rifle, his thoughts centered on the notion that his long-cherished hope of shooting a grizzly had materialized.

Not far from the camp, and overlooking it, a lofty rock towered above the floor of the valley through which they were then traveling. In the[80] moonlight its dark form was silhouetted blackly against the night sky. Ralph’s heart gave a leap as he saw, or thought he saw, something moving on the summit of the great boulder.

He raised his rifle to fire and stood with beating pulses awaiting the opportunity.

Suddenly a form moved into view on the summit of the rock. The boy’s finger was just about to press the trigger, when he gave a gasp of astonishment and the rifle almost fell from his hands.

It was the form of a man that had appeared, blackly outlined against the moonlight. For one instant the figure stood there and then, as Ralph hailed it in a quavering voice, it wheeled, and like an alarmed wild beast, slipped off into the forest.