Perhaps it was because these three good scouts were after all just boys that they began to be conscious of certain real or imagined perils in their big adventure. They talked over among themselves what they were likely to be expected to do and they began to be a little concerned about the secrecy which characterized the expedition. Westy had talked of doing something big, of being a scout in the large and adventurous sense. And he had felt quite ashamed of scouting as he knew it, when he allowed himself to view it through the sophisticated gaze of Mr. Wilde. He began to wonder now whether all his big talk, or rather the expression of his big hopes, was not going to plunge him and his companions into perils which he had not anticipated. Poor Westy, he was not afraid; he was only young and unseasoned. Mr. Wilde, on the other hand, was thoroughly seasoned—oh, very. So thoroughly seasoned that he did not take these youngsters into his confidence. And thereby ensued something very like tragedy.

The trail up the mountain was through such a wilderness as the boys had never seen before. It was late in the evening when they came out into the open and beheld a panorama far below them and reaching eastward as far as the eye could see. Mountains, mountains, mountains, rolling one upon another in stately and magnificent profusion. So they might have been for thousands, millions, of years without so much as one contaminating sign of man and all his claptrap works.

How small, how insignificant, would even a city seem in that endless region of rock and hill. The vast scene was gray in the twilight, for even the sun was sinking to rest in the more hospitable direction whence they had come. They were facing the sunless chill of a Rocky Mountain evening, looking eastward toward the only compass point that was open to their view. They were almost at the edge of a mighty precipice, a stupendous gallery of nature. It was as if a mountain had been rent asunder and half of it taken away to afford a dizzy view of the amphitheater below.

As the party paused to make their camp within the shelter of the forest a few hundred feet from the brow of the precipice, Mr. Wilde, his unlighted cigar tilted like a flag-pole out of his mouth sauntered over toward the edge with Billy, the camera man, with the practical manner of a man who might intend to buy real estate in that forsaken region or who was picking out a suitable spot for a tennis court. The boys, useful at last, and competent in their task, began pitching their tent and making ready their little camp. They saw Mr. Wilde and the camera man approach a little clump of something dark within a very few feet of the precipice. It was bare and bleak out there, without background or vegetation, and the two khaki-clad figures seemed bereft of their individuality; they were just two dark objects examining another object on the naked, cheerless rock. High in the air above a black speck moved through the dusk and disappeared among the distant mountains.

“I don’t see how they can get a picture of a thing like that,” said Warde; “a vulture doing a thing like that, I mean. They wouldn’t get a picture of me having a scrap with a vulture, not while I’m conscious.”

“You wouldn’t be conscious long,” said Warde.

“The first thing they’ll be able to get a picture of up here,” said Ed Carlyle, “is me eating some fried bacon, only they’ll have to be quick. Come on, let’s get the fire started. Where’s the can-opener, anyway? Chuck that egg powder over here, will you? I’m going to stage a scene with an omelet.”

“I know one thing,” said Warde, “we’ve been talking about something big. Whatever they want me to do I’m going to do it. I’m not going to flunk.”

“Believe me, I’m going to do something big,” said Ed. “Watch me! I’m going to do a bacon sandwich—a big one. Where’s the thing to fry this on anyway? Let’s have a big supper; big is my middle name. You fellows must be crazy! You don’t suppose Mr. Wilde wants us to risk our young lives, do you? If I saw a vulture now I’d eat him before he had a chance to eat me, I’m so hungry. I wish there was some place around here where we could get an ice cream soda; I’m thirsty too.”

“A raspberry sundae would go good,” said Warde, as he gathered sticks for their fire. “I remind myself of Pee-Wee Harris. They say vultures live to be a hundred years old.”

“I bet there’s plenty of them up here all right,” said Westy. “We came to the right place.”

“I don’t see any now,” said Ed. “I guess they all went to the movies, hey?”

“It would be mighty risky,” said Westy, “staging a scene like that—a vulture trying to edge somebody off a cliff. I don’t see how they could do it.”

“Leave it to Mr. Wilde,” said Warde.

“I’ll be very glad to,” said Ed in his funny way. “You’d think we were all dead ones talking about vultures. Come on, let’s get ready to eat. If I had some eggs I’d cook some ham and eggs if I only had some ham. I wonder how cocoa would go in an omelet?”

“It’ll all go,” said Warde.

“Right the first time as you usually ain’t,” said Ed. “To-morrow we’ll catch some trout, hey?” Then raising his voice this exuberant member of the party called aloud, “Hey, Mr. Wilde and Billy, the camera man, come on home to supper! You’ve just got time to wash your face and hands!”

His voice sounded strange and singularly clear in the stillness and gathering dusk. The last word or two reechoed and sounded ghastly in the solemn and lonely twilight.

“Somebody hiding around here,” said Ed, clapping his hand to his ear in a funny manner of affectation. “He’s not going to get anything to eat anyway, that’s one sure thing.”