That was the history of Mummy CaÑon, Flathead Mountain and Lakefarm Institute. The mountain was partly visible from the school. On their return to the farm from Mummy CaÑon the Boy Scouts would have to walk on through the caÑon, past old Flathead, and up the stream that came dashing noisily down from Lakefarm and joined Flathead River north of the big gorge.

The peakless mountain was located near the lower end of the caÑon, and it was from a bluff on the mountain side that the “mummy” stood forth. Before the sun went down the Scouts could see the outlines of this freak of nature from their position at the camp fire, but as it sank beneath the high horizon and the caÑon grew dark, both the bluff and the “mummy” were lost to view. But presently the moon rose over Old Flathead.

Under such circumstances Hal Kenyon began his legend of the caÑon, relating it as follows:

“Flathead Mountain was once a giant. He was the biggest giant that ever lived. His name wasn’t Flathead then. His head ran up to a peak, and the people called him Sugar Loaf.

“But his heart was made of stone, the hardest kind, and his brains were all up in the peak of his head. And those brains didn’t amount to much, for they had such a small place to rest in that they were squeezed into half their natural size.

“And since he didn’t have much brains and his heart was made of stone, he was a cruel giant. He did all kinds of mean things. He killed and ate all the boys he could lay his hands on. There weren’t any Boy Scouts in those days, or they’d have gone out and killed him.”

“I’d have clouted him in the jaw,” interrupted Frank Bowler energetically. “Just one good swift punch on the chin—”

“Yes, you would, Bad,” jeered Pickles; “you’re all the time talking about clouting somebody—but you never do.”

“I don’t, eh?”

“Come, come, boys,” warned the doctor. “That’s not very dignified talk for a Boy Scout, Frank. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It’s silly. Go ahead, Harry. We’ll let Frank tell us how he would have licked the giant after you’ve finished.”

“Well,” continued Hal, “I was going to tell how a boy like Bad did clout the giant in the face, or something worse, but he interrupted me. You see it was this way. A good many years ago, a boy called Smash lived near here. That was before the giant lost his peak. Smash went around smashing everybody in the face. The giant met him in the woods one day and nodded his head at him and said hello.

“‘Come off the heap; don’t talk to me,’” jeered Smash. ‘I’ll lay my mit on your mouth.’

“‘Ho, ho, ho!’ laughed the giant. ‘You’re the conceitedest kid that ever came to this caÑon.’

“‘Where’s the best place to hit you?’ asked Smash.

“‘Right here on my ankle,’ replied the giant. ‘You can’t reach any higher.’

“‘Let me stand on your ear, and I’ll give you a nailer,’ said Smash.

“The giant picked Smash up with two fingers and stood him on his ear.

“‘Now, let me have your axe,’ said Smash.

“‘What!’ roared the giant.

“‘Let me have your axe.’

“‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the giant. ‘You couldn’t get your arms around the handle.’

“‘I can’t, eh? Just give it to me and I’ll knock your brains out.’

“‘All right, you conceited kid,’ said the giant. ‘Here it is. Bust away.’

“He always carried his axe with him to cut firewood, and he gave it to the boy. Smash’s fingers seemed suddenly to grow very long and very strong, for they seized the handle and lifted it up. Then, before the giant realized what was happening, Smash gave the axe a mighty swing and cut the top of his head off.”

“Hurrah for Smash!” exclaimed Bad.

“Wait a minute,” said Hal. “There’s more coming and you won’t be so happy over it.”

“Did Smash fall off his ear?” inquired one of the boys.

“Good guess,” replied Hal. “That’s just what happened.”

“Did he break his neck?” asked another.

“I don’t know; but it was just as bad. He fell faster than the top of the giant’s head and the giant’s brains spilt on top of him and drownded him.”

“Drowned him, you mean,” corrected Mr. Porter. But the correction was not noticed. The boys were loudly expressing their opinions of the story. Some liked it; others were displeased.

“Served him right for having the big-head,” declared Joe Moffett wisely.

“You bet it did,” agreed Vincent Pyle.

“Didn’t either,” shouted Frank Bowler. “That’s a crazy story. You can’t tell me. Why, do you think a boy who could stand on a giant’s ear and cut off the top of his head with a axe as big as forty trees would get in such a scrape?”

“No,” replied several. “Yes,” declared others.

“You’re crazy,” said Bad, addressing the latter. “Why, he’d ’a’ fell in the giant’s pocket, or caught hold o’ one of his whiskers, or hung onto his watch chain.”

“That’s a good argument,” pronounced Dr. Byrd. “What have you to say to it, Hal?”

“Bad’s wrong,” replied the story teller.

“I want you boys to quit calling Frank ‘Bad,’” said the doctor sternly. “He isn’t bad at all. He’s just extravagant in his talk.”

“I don’t care what they call me,” declared Frank, who was rather proud of his nickname.

“Just so we don’t call you down, eh?” Pickles amended.

“If you do, I’ll clean you up.”

Pickles was smaller than Bad and did not resent this threat. The doctor did not regard Frank’s talk very seriously and so did not remonstrate. He remembered similar experiences of his own and believed that hard knocks are a much better cure than constant preaching for the brag and bluff of a boy.

“Where’d you get that story?” inquired Byron Bowler, Bad’s one-year-older brother. “Make it up yourself?”

“No, Pepper helped me,” replied Hal. Pepperill Humphrey was an old servant of the doctor’s who had traveled with him much and followed his employer soon after the latter settled in Colorado. He was an interesting character, one of those old-style family servants who had grown up with the families for whom they worked.

“We worked it out together,” continued Hal.

“Did you put me in it or did Pepper?” inquired Frank.

“I didn’t know you were in it,” replied Hal with a mischievous grin plainly visible in the firelight.

“Oh, Smarty! You know what I mean. You meant Smash for me.”

“I put Smash in the story, yes; but you never did any such things as he did.”

Hal and Frank were very good friends, and Hal knew better than to take seriously Bad’s “fierce” attitude. He liked his warlike friend best when he was threatening to “clean somebody up.” There was something amusing about him when he was making one of his idle threats.

“Now, who’s going to tell us a story about the mummy?” inquired Mr. Frankland.

“I have one on that if nobody else has,” announced Dr. Byrd.

“Tell it,” cried several of the boys eagerly.

“It isn’t very long,” said the doctor; “but it fits in well with Hal’s story. The giant, by the way, had water on the brain: that’s why Smash was drowned.

“Well, Smash, by the way, was an Indian. And he had a brother whose name was Rash. This brother was continually doing the most outlandish things and performing the most wonderful feats. After the top of the giant’s head was cut off and his brains gone, the giant died. But as he was very stockily built, he did not fall over, but continued to stand there. Trees and bushes and grass and flowers grew all over and he became a mountain.

“Now, Rash was a witness of the death of Smash. He was sailing above in an airship—”

“What!”

“In an airship!”

“Yes, why not?” he replied.

“Who ever heard of Indians having airships!” said Bad in tones of disgust.

“This Indian was a real inventor,” explained Dr. Byrd. “But he kept the secrets of all his inventions to himself, so that when he died all his work died with him. When he saw the fearful accident that had befallen his brother, he glided down to offer assistance. The giant was dead, although standing erect; but Smash had disappeared, all but one foot. That was sticking out from under the hollow peak of the giant’s head, which had fallen over the boy and caged him in.

“Rash alighted and attempted to turn the peak over; but although he was very strong, he was unable to do this. So he flew away, and a few days later he returned with several other Indians. With the aid of some tree trunks for levers they elevated one side of the peak-prison and pulled out the body of the prisoner.

“The brain of the giant proved to have been a most remarkable substance. It had a strong odor of spices and chemicals and had converted Smash’s body into a mummy. The flesh was becoming hard as stone and it was evident that no decay could follow.

“Although Rash was a reckless and daring fellow, he had not the great fault that had brought Smash to a sad end. He appreciated the danger of such a nature and desired to warn all others against a like fate. So he wrapped the body in cloths, as some of the Indian tribes have done, and saturated the cloths with diluted giant’s brain to preserve them. Then he put the body on his airship and arose to the giant’s forehead, and landed with his burden on a beetling eyebrow. There he hewed out a shallow niche, into which, he set the mummified Smash and cemented him fast; and on the giant’s forehead he remains to-day as a warning not only to boys who are continually threatening to clean some one up, but also to giants who may be so foolish as to put great power into the hands of boastful youths.”

Everybody except Frank applauded this story. After the hand-clapping and shouts of glee had subsided, Bad remarked disdainfully:

“That story’s all bunk. The mummy on the mountain’s as big as a elephant. How could it have been a boy?”

“Oh, those Indians were giants themselves, though they weren’t anything like as big as Flathead,” exclaimed Dr. Byrd.

At this moment all were startled by a most remarkable noise. It was a heavy whirring sound and came from overhead. Instinctively they all looked up and beheld in the moonlight a very strange object. But, strange though it was, every one of the boys recognized its nature almost immediately.

“It’s an airship,” cried one.

“An aeroplane,” shouted another.

“He’s volplaning,” exclaimed Dr. Byrd in startled tones. “I wonder what he means. He can’t be going to land here.”

“He seems to be in trouble,” said Mr. Frankland. “Yes, he’s coming down.”

“Look out, everybody!” shouted Dr. Byrd. “No telling where he’ll land.”

There was no need of a second warning. Evidently the aviator was losing control of his machine. It acted as if one wing had been clipped. Suddenly, within fifty feet of the ground, the aeroplane plunged and fell with a crash and a thud less than a hundred feet from the camp fire.