The goat itself simplified matters for the frightened boy. Its lowered head collided with his rotund form like a battering ram, and the next instant Persimmons described a graceful parabola above the snowfield. As for the goat, it dashed on, but came to a sudden halt as a shot cracked from Jim’s rifle and the bullet sped to its heart.

The boys, however, paid little attention to this at the time. Their minds were concentrated upon poor Persimmons’ predicament. The boy had been hurtled head foremost into a pile of snow and all that was visible of him were his two feet feebly waving in the air.

“Gracious, I hope he’s not badly hurt!” exclaimed[288] Ralph, as he and the rest ran toward the snow bank.

Thanks to the soft snow, the lad was found to be uninjured, and after he had been hauled out, he sat down on a rock with a comically rueful expression on his face, and picked the snow out of his hair and eyes.

“What do you think you are, anyhow,” demanded Harry, “a bullfighter?”

“Ouch, don’t joke about it,” protested the boy. “I thought an express train had hit me. Wh-wh-what became of the buck?”

“There he lies yonder, dead as that rock, but I don’t see where you come in for any credit for killing him.”

“You don’t, eh? Didn’t I attract him this way so you could shoot him?” demanded the other youth indignantly. “I’ll tell you, fellows, shooting the chutes, the loop-the-loop and all of them can take a back seat. For pure unadulterated, blown-in-the-bottle excitement, give me a butt[289] by a mountain goat. It’s like riding in an airship.”

“If you ever take another such ride it may prove your last one, young man,” spoke Mountain Jim severely.

“Yes; I wouldn’t advise you to get the habit,” commented Harry Ware.

Not long after, they watched Jim separate the fine heads of the three dead animals, and, as it proved, there was one for Harry Ware, after all. Mountain Jim had shot so many of the goats in his time that a head more or less meant nothing to him, and he gladly gave his to Harry when he saw the latter’s rather long face.

They took the choicest parts of the meat back to camp with them. Not all of a mountain goat is very good eating, some of the flesh being strong flavored and coarse, so that they had no more than they could easily carry amongst them. That night, as you may imagine, Persimmons “rode the goat” all over again amidst much[290] laughter and applause, and the other young hunters told their stories till they all grew so sleepy that it was decided to turn in.

Three days of traveling amidst the big peaks followed, and they all helped the professor collect specimens to his heart’s content. His note books were soon bulging, and he declared that his trip had added much to the knowledge of the world concerning the Canadian Rockies.

One evening as they mounted a ridge, Mountain Jim paused and pointed down to the valley below them. Through it swept a great green ribbon of water amidst rocky, pine-clad slopes.

“That’s it,” declared Jim.

“What?” demanded Persimmons eagerly, not quite understanding.

“The Big Bend of the Columbia River,” was the rejoinder.

The party broke into a cheer. The end of one stage of their journey was at hand, for they were to return by a more civilized route. And[291] yet they were half sorry, for they had enjoyed themselves to the full in those last days amidst the great silences.

It is at the Big Bend that the mighty Columbia turns after its erratic northeast course and starts its southern journey to the Pacific Ocean, which it enters near Portland, Oregon.

In the sunset light, which lay glowingly on the great peaks behind them, the heart of whose mysteries they had penetrated, they rode rapidly down the trail, sweeping up to the store in a grand manner. That night they had an elaborate supper and related some of their adventures to the store-keeper, a French Canadian, who, in turn, told many of his experiences. They were still talking when a man came in and announced himself as Bill Dawkins from “up the trail a ways.”

“I heard that one of your party is a doctor or suthin’ sim’lar,” he said, “and maybe he can do suth’in for a poor cuss that’s just been throwed[292] from his horse and had his head busted, up the road a piece.”

“I am not a doctor, but I have some knowledge of medicine,” said the professor. “Where is the man?”

“In my cabin. I’ll take you to him.”

They all streamed out into the night and followed Bill Dawkins up the trail. It was not a great way and they were soon standing at the bedside of a well-built, but pitifully ragged-looking man. His head was bandaged, but enough of his face was visible to cause Ralph to give a great start as they saw him.

“It’s the mysterious man! The horse thief!” he cried, clutching Mountain Jim’s arm.

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

Jim turned to the man who had brought them.

“Is the horse that threw him outside?” he asked.

[293]

“Sure, pard’ner, right under the shed,” was the reply; “good-looking pony, too.”

Jim borrowed a lantern and he and Ralph went out. There was no question about it. One look was enough. It was the missing pony.

“Well, that’s what I call poetic justice,” said Jim.

“Hark!” cried Ralph suddenly. “What was that?”

“Somebody hollered,” declared Jim; “it came from the hut. Maybe that scallywag is dead.”

Ralph set off running. The cry had been in Jimmie’s voice. He had recognized it............