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.…
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