Hal Kenyon Disappears

"Mountain, pine tree, ca?on, gulch,

Cookies, bacon!-like 'em much.

Canteen, hike-stick!

Hi-hi-hike-stick!

Lakefarm! mummy!

Flathead!-Ra-a-a!"

Thirty lusty juvenile throats, strong with frequent exercise, caused Mummy Ca?on to ring with this school-yell. It was almost evening, and the boys of Lakefarm School were on their return from a day's outing in the mountains. Clad in Boy Scout uniforms and wearing Rough Rider hats, they presented a picturesque appearance in that wild, rocky, mountain country, while their school-yell echoed among the hills, bright in the setting sun.

It was midsummer, yet thirty of the forty-four regular students were in attendance during the summer term, evidence of the popularity of the school, for they were all boys of the age that welcomes vacation time with cheers.

In spring this ca?on was a beautiful place; in summer it lost some of its freshness, but was still beautiful; in fall it lost more of life, but beauty still clung to it; in winter, it was a picture that called for deep admiration. It also might well have been named Echo Ca?on; indeed many in that part of Colorado often called it that. But Mummy Ca?on it had been christened, and this was the only name by which it was known on the maps and in the guide books.

Interesting stories were told about this great mountain gorge. They had to do with the ancient inhabitants of the country, the cliff-dwellers, ruins of whose homes were to be found here and there high up in steep places. The boys of Lakefarm knew these stories by heart. They had been told over and over and added to until enough new and interesting details had been gathered around the original stories to fill a book.

Dr. Regulus Byrd, head master, Chief Scout, and owner of Lakefarm, was as peculiar as his name. Some called him eccentric, but the boys of the school and the friends of the doctor did not agree. The boys loved him as few schoolmasters ever are loved; the older people of the district declared that when it came to a pinch, Dr. Byrd never lacked judgment.

The doctor and the two instructors of the school, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter, were with the boys on the outing from which they were now returning. Mr. Frankland was a short, brisk, wide-awake man, who smiled frequently and shrewdly. Mr. Porter was an odd personage, dignified and very positive in all things, but an excellent instructor in manual training. After the procession had advanced well toward the heart of the gully and given two or three school-yells that raised the echoes, Mr. Porter said:

"Dr. Byrd, we're only three miles from home. Why not stop here, build a fire, and sit around and talk a while?"

"That's the stuff," came from several of the boys at the same time. Dr. Byrd had a boy's heart, and as there was no good reason for opposing the suggestion, he gave his consent.

In a jiffy the boys scattered in all directions in search of firewood; up the side of the hill and along the near bank of a noisy mountain stream, and soon were returning with armfuls of dead wood. Most of them were experienced in building camp fires in true frontier style, and the work progressed rapidly.

Two of the boys, Hal Kenyon and Byron Bowler, were delegated to the work of starting the fire. This was not done by striking a match and touching it to some dry leaves. The method employed was one more suited to the romantic scene. First, Hal and Byron searched until they found two serviceable pieces of dry cottonwood root. Having good, strong, sharp pocketknives, they proceeded to whittle and shave the roots. One was made flat and about three-fourths of an inch thick; the other was cut slim and round and sharpened at both ends. In one edge of the flat piece was cut a notch, and close to the notch was sunk a hole to fit one end of the slim piece. Then a small hand-piece with a socket for the other end of the drill was prepared by Byron, while Hal cut a section of a small green limb, two feet long, which with a thong made a bow.

All the material needed for starting a fire was now ready save a supply of tinder. This was obtained by rubbing a piece of dry cedar on a rough boulder, producing a handful of easily lighted shreds. The notched piece of wood was now placed on a flat rock, the drill was inserted in place and the string of the bow looped tightly over it. Then the top-socket-piece was set on the other end for a handle, and the bow was drawn back and forth, the notched piece being held in place under the foot of the operator.

Hal Kenyon operated the device. The drill revolved rapidly in the socket, and presently a fine brown powder was flowing into the notch. In a few seconds this powder was smoking densely and slight fanning with a hat brought a flame.

Some of the tinder was now applied and after a little blowing, a tiny flame leaped up. The rest of the tinder was then applied, followed by some cedar bark and small wood. Pretty soon the fire was roaring and crackling, while the boys piled on more fuel.

"Now for our camp-fire yell," cried Hal when the last armful of fuel had been deposited on the burning heap. Immediately the ca?on rang and echoed with thirty young voices chanting the following:

"Camp-fire, rah!

Smoke-punk, ha!

Tinder, Lakefarm!

Rah-rah-rah!"

This yell was repeated several times until it seemed as if the rocks poised aloft would be shaken loose and come crashing down on the reckless Boy Scouts. Then the boys scattered again, each returning presently with another load of fuel, which was deposited near the blazing pile.

"Well done, my lads, well done," announced Dr. Byrd as the last load was dropped. "Now what are we going to do next?"

"Eat supper," replied Allie Atkins, with a slap of his hand on his hungry region.

"Of course; I almost forgot that," laughed the doctor. "I'm always forgetting my stomach. That's the reason I haven't dyspepsia. Always forget your stomachs, boys, until they remind you of their existence and you'll be all right in that spot. But what are we going to eat? Nothing left, is there?"

"How about the fish?" inquired Walter Hurst, commonly known as "Pickles" because of his fondness for that table delicacy.

"That's right. This is just the time and place to cook them."

The suggestion was followed accordingly. The fish-two score of mountain trout-had been caught by the boys in the Rio Grande several miles to the east early in the morning. As they had enough other food for breakfast and dinner, their catch had been saved for the next morning's meal at the school.

Of course the doctor had not forgotten the fish when he asked the boys what they would eat for supper. But he always appeared to have a poor memory and few ideas when on a trip with his Scouts. He made it a rule to compel the boys to suggest and do every useful thing within their power.

So they prepared the meal on this occasion, as they had done on others. Fireplaces were constructed with stones, frying-pans were placed over them, and the fish were soon sputtering appetizingly. Fortunately, they still had a moderate supply of bread, butter, jam and coffee, so that all appetites were fairly well satisfied.

The pans and coffee pots and cups were washed in the dashing stream, the remains of the meal were cleared away, more fuel was thrown on the camp fire, and all gathered before it for the next number of the unprepared program. For a few minutes the boys chatted on the incidents of their three days' hike and exploration. Then one of them suggested:

"Let's tell stories."

A proposal of this kind under such circumstances is always favorably received by true Boy Scouts. There was a general note of approval, and Dr. Byrd inquired:

"Well, what shall it be first?"

"Flathead Mountain," suggested Pickles.

"Good!" exclaimed Frank Bowler.

"And have somebody slam somebody in the face," proposed Clayton White, the joker of the school. "That'll suit 'Bad.'"

Frank Bowler had been nicknamed "Bad" because he was continually talking about "clipping somebody on the jaw," or "slamming some one in the face," or "putting somebody to the bad."

"I'll push you one on the chin if you don't close your face," growled "Bad" in an undertone to the last speaker.

Clayton only grinned. He was not at all afraid, as he was a year older than Frank and thought himself stronger.

"Well, who has something more to add to the story of Flathead?" inquired the owner of Lakefarm.

"I have," replied Hal Kenyon.

"Very well, Hal, we'll listen to you first," announced the doctor, and all became attentive with a readiness that indicated almost military training.