The Rambler club in the mountains

"Well, boys, here we are at last!"

Bob Somers, with a smile of satisfaction on his healthy, sunburned face, uttered these words, as he stood, surrounded by his fellow members of the Rambler Club, at a small railroad station in Oregon. To their left, above a line of trees, columns of brownish smoke and jets of dazzling white steam shot up, each moment changing position and showing how fast the train from which they had just alighted was speeding on its way over the iron rails.

About them was a rich and fertile valley overlooked by a range of rugged mountains, several of whose summits, crowned with snow, gleamed brightly against the sky. It was a wild and beautiful prospect that met the Ramblers' gaze, and their eyes sparkled.

"Well, here we are at last!" repeated "Captain Bob," seating himself upon a trunk. "What do you think of it, Chubby?"

Stout, good-natured Dave Brandon, fanning his face vigorously, paused for an instant, turned slowly around until his eyes had taken in the entire scene, and then replied, "Simply grand, Bob. My, but won't I make some great sketches!"

"Chub--artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."

"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em," grinned little Tom Clifton--"real exciting sport, that."

"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully. "It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle said----"

"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and----"

"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.

"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.

"Cinnamon--that's it--knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom, with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."

"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel uncommonly tired--and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a square meal."

A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the door.

"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell, jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.

Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master, reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he connected; "but he'll be here all right--don't worry yourselves--there!"

He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and apparently moving at a snail's pace.

"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.

"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I wish he would hurry."

"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some party was a-going to have the place this summer."

"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us there."

Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip came over the still air.

In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple grays, rattled briskly along.

"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave Brandon, resuming a standing posture.

To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.

"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.

"Mornin', Jed--mornin', gents!"

The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.

In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose, a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted that he wore an extremely sour expression.

"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."

"I see 'em--my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay here all your lives, ain't yer?"

"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.

"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."

But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.

"Them nags has to take a rest," he announced, calmly. "Beats me, Jed, why any one should want to come out here. Only wish I had 'nuff coin to git away."

The station-master laughed.

"'Tain't the first time you've said so, Bill," he observed, dryly.

"An' won't be the last, nuther. I ain't never had no chance. Jack Bender went off to Portland, an' I hear tell he's makin' lots of money. I'm smart as him, any day."

"Big Bill's" restless eyes fixed themselves on the other's face, and, as if expecting that his statement might be challenged, he paused.