"We got out lucky, didn't we, lad? Have you ever seen the little
Englishman since that day? He was a dandy, wasn't he?"
Chuck had been listening to the foregoing conversation.
"What wreck? What Englishman? Who is your friend?" he questioned.
The stranger spoke. "Why, don't you know about the wreck? Has he never told any of you?" In answer to a chorus of "No's," the stranger drew his chair closer to the fire and began to tell the story.
"So the lad has never told you, eh? He is a splendid fellow, this lad. I want to tell you boys there is no yellow in his system. He has cool, true nerve, like my old friend, that never thought of himself if there was trouble, always of the other folks that might suffer. That's the reason he slid off this mortal globe so soon. The lad here came near doing the same thing. Then he never told you about it. Well, well."
"I'll see you again," called the stranger as Willis passed out into the night.
CHAPTER V
A Plan Is Evolved
"Well, by the Great Horn Spoon, you are the laziest bunch of fellows I've seen in many a long day. What's all this scheming and planning about that's going on here? Are one of you fellows trying to get a Presidential nomination?" Ham seated himself on a chair facing the fellows. They were lounging on a big window-seat in a corner of the game-room, talking earnestly in low tones.
"Come, now, let's hear about it. What's the game? Say, fellows, I just heard a rattling good story." "Well, now, Ham, let up on your stories for about two shakes and give us your attention. We have an idea, a real, first-class scheme, if you please, and we want you to give us your expert opinion on it," said Shorty Wier, as he went and closed the door.
"All aboard; let her go! What do you want me to do? When are you going to do it? Hurry, I'm getting awfully excited."
"Well," continued Shorty, "Fat originated this idea, or at least he suggested it, and we have just been talking it over. How fine it would be if we owned a cabin, a good-sized log cabin, big enough to take care of at least twenty fellows over night. A place far enough from the city to keep it from being continually broken into by rowdies, and still within a couple of hours' walking distance from the car-line. With all of this great string of mountains and canyons, so well-forested and filled with streams, it ought to be an easy matter to find some such a place. Of course it would be ideal if we could find a cabin already built; then all we would have to do would be to rig it up. But we are game sports, every man of us, and if we can't find any such cabin built, let's locate an ideal spot and build one. Nothing real fancy or expensive, but just a typical mountain house that's weather-tight and warm. Of course we'd want a big fireplace like the one at Bruin Inn. It would be a great big job, but we could take our time to it. We'd have all winter, and more, if we needed it. Now, what we want is your suggestion, understand; we are just talking and planning about it yet."
"Gee, it would be an awful pile of work," complained Sleepy Smith, and he yawned and stretched himself. "Work! of course it would be work, you dub; but what do you ever get in this world that's worth while without real work, I'd like to know."
"Work! that's the best part of it; nothing in the world could bind us fellows together so tight as to do a big piece of real work together. We would show each other what we're made of. I always have wanted to build a cabin in the mountains. It would be a great deal better to build one than to get an old, tumbled-down shack. Besides, we don't want to work out a stunt that's just going to last for a year or two, and then be abandoned. We want to build a real, permanent mountain camp. See?" added Chuck.
"What's the matter with the old Y.M. cabin up in Bear Creek, Shorty?"
"O rats, boys, we are not talking about a pill box now. We want a cabin."
"I think it would be a great thing to do, fellows; but we must go awfully careful. We'll have to finance the thing some other way than from our own pockets, and we don't know yet what Mr. Allen will say about it. He may think it's a big mistake and a waste of time and energy. Then, too, where would we camp while working on the new cabin?" said Willis. Then he slipped off to talk the plan over with Mr. Allen, and in a few moments brought the "Chief" back with him. Willis was talking.
"Now we are on the right track for sure, fellows. Mr. Allen has the proper suggestions about this matter. No telling what fool stunts we fellows would do if we didn't have Mr. Allen to keep our feet on the earth."
"Listen, fellows," said Shorty. "We have talked this thing all over from A to Z, and we believe Mr. Allen's advice is the thing; only before we decide to do anything definite we ought to have Mr. Dean's opinion. He has been in the army, you know."
"Mr. Dean, the physical director, been in the army? Why, I didn't know that," said Sleepy.
"Yes, and he's a mighty practical fellow. Fat, go out to his office and ask him to come in here a few minutes, will you?"
In a moment they came in together, Fat explaining their plans for a cabin. When every one was seated, Shorty continued:
"This is a very serious matter, fellows, and we don't want to make a mistake by being in too big a hurry. There are a few things that seem very clear after talking with Mr. Allen—
"First, we must make our cabin stunt an Association enterprise, so we can have their help and backing. Let's make it a high school boys' enterprise. Next, we must find an ideal place, where the work will have all the natural advantages possible—not too far away, not too close, near good water and a good supply of dead wood. It would be best to get somewhere on the old Cripple Creek Stage Road. Mr. Allen has suggested that we might help finance it in two ways: Organize a cabin company and sell stock at so much a share, all stockholders being privileged to use the shack, or we might give a circus in the gymnasium and use the money thus earned. He thinks the latter the better plan. The greatest trouble seems to be to find the ideal place. Mr. Dean, what do you think of the whole plan?"
"It's a capital idea, fellows; only it means real business. If you tackle a job like that, you want to finish it. I'd sure be in with you on any such a deal. Here's a suggestion. Why don't six or seven of you fellows take a week just before school opens, pack your grub and blankets, take a gun or two and a good camera, and make a trip on foot, looking over the possible locations? For instance—start up the old Stage Road, go as far as Daddy Wright's, then to the top of Cheyenne Mountain through that valley. There is a beautiful park there that might be suitable; then down Rock Creek, up around Black Mountain, back around St. Peter's Dome, then study the canyons along the railroad. They say there is a good cabin somewhere near Daniel's Pass, and several around Fairview. Get into all of those canyons that run into North Cheyenne, because that would be the handiest location for us to get to. It would be great if we could find an old prospector's cabin that we could remodel and add to. You see, we'd have a place to camp as we worked that way. Then, too, it would have this decided advantage—it would be a staked claim and not the open forest reserve. You would have to pay for all lumber you cut on the reserve, but on a claim you are entitled to a certain amount for building purposes. You see, we could probably show mineral anywhere near a prospector's cabin. I am convinced there are many such cabins that would be almost ideal, if we could only find them."
"My father built a cabin in these mountains years ago," said Willis. "A miner's cabin; but I've never seen it. I don't know where it is, but it's near Cookstove Mountain. Some one has jumped the claim, though, now, so mother said."
"Wouldn't it be funny, Willis, if we should find that old cabin of your father's?" asked Mr. Allen. Ideas came thick and fast. Even "Sleepy" Smith woke up to the fact that something unusual was going on, and roused himself so as not to miss it. After an hour's planning and discussion they decided what to do. A route was to be laid out and an investigation trip made under the direction of Mr. Allen. The party was to be limited to six fellows: Ham, Phil, Fat, Chuck, and Willis were the ones chosen to go. Definite plans were laid out, and the following Tuesday set as the day for starting.
As Willis was explaining the plans to his mother the next morning his Uncle Joe came into the room. He had seen an article in the morning paper to the effect that the Y.M.C.A. boys were to build a cabin, including the names and the probable route to be taken by the investigating party.
"What's all this nonsense about a cabin in the mountains, Willis? I saw an article in the Gazette this morning concerning it. Now listen to me, boy. I don't want any relation of mine getting mixed up in any such a crazy, wild-goose chase. Do you hear? About the first thing you kids will do is to trespass on some one's mining claims, and then you'll be getting yourselves and some of the rest of us into trouble. It's a lot of foolish nonsense, such doings, anyway. Isn't home good enough for you?"
"Well, it seems to me you're kind of mad about nothing, Uncle. We're not going to carry off any one's gold mines," replied Willis. "Have you a few you are afraid we will steal?"
Mr. Williams flew into a fit of anger, saying something about, "If he was mine, I'll bet I'd see if he'd insult his superiors in that way. The next thing we know you will be off on a mountain picnic on Sunday, bringing disgrace on your respectable relatives," snapped Mr. Williams. "There are enough enemies now to a man's good name, without adding any more by foolish kids like you, with heads full of nonsense."
Mr. Williams stalked angrily out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Of all the strange men on earth, I think he is the strangest of them all," remarked Mrs. Thornton. "Something has upset him, and he has an ugly streak to-day. I heard him at the telephone, storming about some old prospector that has come back to the city to make life miserable for him. He had seen him on the street, talking with a man he said was a detective. Lucy told me just the other day that Uncle Joe took awful chances on mining stock very often, and that she believed he would sell his very soul for a gold mine. It seems so strange—he has been angry at me every time I have let you go into the mountains. He works hard, and I suppose he thinks you ought to be doing something, too, and if we stay here through the winter, my boy, I think it would be well for you to look about for something to do after school."
As Willis left the house the next morning and started for the Association to complete plans for the trip, he met two men coming in at his front gate. They asked for Mr. Williams. Willis directed them, then hurried on, rejoicing in his heart that he was to have a real gipsy trip in the mountains with his gang.
He spent the day getting his things together for the trip. He was to carry a small individual frying pan, a small granite bucket, knife, fork, and spoon, eight small cans of condensed milk, a little cloth sack of tea, one of sugar, one of oatmeal, and one of rice, two boxes of raisins, a loaf of rye bread, and butter packed in a small tin can with a cover. He was to wrap these things, and whatever else he wanted to take along, including a first-aid packet, in his blanket, army style. His pack must not exceed twenty pounds in weight, not counting gun or camera. His tincup was to be fastened to his belt, and his safety ax carried in his hip-pocket. They would sleep on spruce boughs at night, and each man would cook his own meals from his own store. The mountain raspberries were just ripe, and there were great quantities of them. They would have them with cream, and count on killing a few squirrels now and then, or perhaps some turtle doves for a change. Mr. Allen took a trout line and a few flies, in case they had a chance to have mountain trout to break the monotony of the diet.
By Monday evening all was in readiness for the start. The news of the proposed cabin scheme had spread all through the Department, and many were the suggestions offered by interested fellows for making the trip an entire success in every way.
"Remember, shelter and drainage and wood supply, along with good water and big trees, are what you are looking for, boys," was the advice of Mr. Dean, as he left them. "I wish I were going along with you. Here's hoping you'll find the very best spot, and that soon."
CHAPTER VI
A Stage Road Journey
"Well, if you haven't any more brains than to be starting out on a mountain trip on a wet, stormy day like this, why I haven't anything more to say to you; but remember, I'm not one whit responsible for you," said Mr. Williams, as he arose from the breakfast table and passed out into the hall.
It had been a stormy night. The rainfall had been heavy and the lightning sharp. It had been a typical electric storm of the mountains. Old Sol had tried in vain to force his way through the heavy rain-clouds earlier in the morning, but by breakfast time he seemed to have given up entirely, and to have withdrawn from the contest. At any rate, he was nowhere to be seen. Willis was visibly disappointed. He pushed his chair back restlessly and went to the window. The heavy, black clouds hung low on the ridge, and Pike's Peak was entirely hidden in the mists. Willis was thinking of the conversation he had had with his uncle that morning at the breakfast table.
"Mother," he turned to Mrs. Thornton, who was still seated at the breakfast table, "why is Uncle Joe so positive about it being a mistake for me to take this trip? Either he just wants to show his authority or he has some special reason. According to his talk, there isn't a more dangerous place on this earth of ours than around an old prospector's cabin. Rats! I don't believe a word of it. It's all bosh and, as far as cabins go, how could disease live in an old, open mountain shanty? Anyhow, you might go for weeks in the mountains without even seeing a cabin. He thinks I'm a child and haven't any judgment of my own. My! I'm glad he isn't my father. He's just a blamed old hypocrite, that's what I think about him, anyway."
"Well, you won't be going if it stays so stormy, will you?" asked his mother.
"No, but it's going to clear up, mother; this is just a little summer shower—we weren't counting on starting until after dinner, though, anyway," replied Willis. Toward noon the clouds broke and melted away as if by magic. Their lifting was like the raising of some majestic curtain on a wonderful stage. The moisture from the recent storm still glistened on every twig and leaf, and the fresh-bathed air was as clear as crystal. The summit of Pike's Peak was decked in a new covering of snow which sparkled like beautiful gems. The robins chirped gayly as they fed on the worms that had come to the surface during the night's rain.
Was there ever such a happy crowd of fellows' setting forth on any expedition? High boots, slouch hats, soft shirts, a rifle, a shotgun, two cameras, and a plenteous supply of food. Each fellow was equipped with a haversack, in which were his eating tools and other necessary articles, such as bachelor buttons, cartridges, films, and other things. They carried their frying-pans, small buckets, and tincups suspended from their belts. The handles of their safety axes extended from hip-pockets, making their pockets bulge suspiciously.
Mr. Allen took the lead through Stratton Park, and headed for the short cut that joined the old Stage Road just as it sneaked around the base of Cheyenne Mountain on its way to the top of the Continental Divide; then downward through mountain passes and clinging close to canyon walls until it reached that most wonderful of all gold camps, the Cripple Creek District.
"It's just two o'clock," said Chuck, in answer to an inquiry as to the time. "And we will have to do some rapid walking if we are to get on top of Cheyenne Mountain to-night. We ought to make three miles an hour from here to the old road house. We'll have to rest there a little and have a drink from Daddy Wright's spring. That's the best spring in the Rocky Mountains, I do believe."
"Hope Dad's home to-day," said Mr. Allen. "I haven't seen him since early spring. I certainly do enjoy getting the old gentleman to telling some of his stories. You know he is an old, old timer in these parts. He came here years before gold was first discovered in Cripple Creek, and he has lived up in his little gulch ever since. In the early days, when the only outside connection the gold camp had was this old wagon road, there were a great many interesting happenings at Dad's little inn. It was really the only road house on the Stage Road, and was burned down years ago. Haven't you ever heard that story? I'll tell it to you some time. They used to say that Dad had any quantity of money—I don't know how true it was. At any rate, he hasn't much now. After the old inn burned, he built himself a log cabin down by the spring, and there has lived ever since. He can tell some great old tales, too. You can't name a single prospector of the Rocky Mountain region but what Dad can tell you all about him. He lives a lonely life up here all by himself, shut in all winter by heavy snows. In the summer he sees a few people passing by, and that helps some. He's a very friendly old man, and if you treat him right there isn't anything in the world he won't tell you or do for you if he can. He loves to talk politics, and can tell you about every Presidential election back as far as the war. He was a Confederate soldier in his day, and if there is one thing above another that he loves to talk about, it's the 'Gov'ment,' as he calls it. 'Uncle Sammy an' me ain't jest zackly the best o' pards yit, by crackey,' he says, with a twinkle in his eye."
"That certainly is a great view," explained Ham. "I'm going to unload my cargo and rest here a bit, for I like this spot. Right up yonder in that heavy belt of timber is where we used to come so often to stay all night. There is a great granite boulder up there in the 'Graveyard,' as we used to call it, that's just as good as a house any day. It leans away out on one side, and we built a big bed of balsam boughs under it. Right behind the great rock, to the west, we found a tiny spring, hardly big enough to be called a spring; but we dug it out and stoned up a small reservoir to catch the water. We used to come up in the evening, cook our supper, get our beds ready for the night, then climb on the big rock and watch the lights of the city come on. When they were all lighted it looked like a big, illuminated checker board out there on the plain. We'd get up early in the morning, then, and climb to the Devil's Horn to see the sunrise. My! but it's a gorgeous sight on a cloudy morning. The last time we were there we sure did have a mighty queer experience—"
"Come on, fellows, let's travel along, or we'll not get anywhere to-night. Ham, you can tell us your story while we are walking. We've got to reach Dad's by four o'clock, or we'll never get to the Park by night," said Phil, as he arose and adjusted his blanket roll preparatory to starting.
"Go on, Ham," urged Fat, who was always ready for a story, especially a mountain story. "Let's have that tale of yours. I expect we'll need a little salt with it won't we?"
"There isn't much to it, after all, when you tell it, for it was the night and the surroundings that made it so impressive. We had just finished supper and were all sitting up on the big rock looking out over the lighted city. As we sat there, every now and then we would hear the strangest sound. It came from the timber away up behind the camp. At first it sounded like a human voice—a kind of a long, sad sob. The night was as dark as pitch, and as we sat listening the cold shivers began to run up and down our backs. Sometimes the sound seemed to be answered from far out in the dark valley. We speculated a good deal as to what it could be, for it was such a sad, wailing call. Then suddenly way down the valley a light appeared, not a large one, just a tiny, flickering, ever-moving light. It seemed to me to be in the air just over the center of the canyon, but the rest declared it was on the road below us. Then the sad call came again and again. It seemed to be nearer this time. Then came a far-away, dull, muffled sound, such as a horse would make on stony road. The light came directly toward us, now, up the canyon. It resembled a lantern being swung by some one, as if to give signals. We sat and watched it for a long time, everybody talking in low whispers; and many were the opinions as to what it really was. No one noticed just when, but some time, without a second's notice, the light disappeared. We heard the faraway sound of rolling stones, then all was quiet for a long time. Two of us sat and listened far into the night. Several times we heard that long, sad wail—a sort of hoo-oo-oo. A night breeze had risen, and you fellows know how the wind moans in these pines. It was a mighty lonesome night—just sitting there with your every nerve alert and as wide-awake as you could ever get, just listening and watching. As soon as it was light enough to see, we started for the summit of Cheyenne, up through that mountain of granite boulders and mighty crags. I think we were about half-way up, when some one noticed an immense black bird, swinging in great circles, high in the air. Soon we smelled smoke, so hurried on. The first long rays of light began to streak the sky, and we knew we would have to hustle if we reached the summit by sunrise. The crowd was pretty well strung out down the side of the mountain. Keller and I were in the lead. The smell of smoke grew stronger and stronger. The air was heavy that morning, and so forced the smoke down to us, from somewhere on the summit. At last we came to a little plot of ground surrounded on three sides with great rocks. From this pit-like nook the smoke was slowly rising into the morning air. We climbed one side of the great crags, then cautiously peered over. I was pretty excited, for I was thinking just then of the awful tragedy that had occurred on Mount Cutler the year before. What if we should find a dead man? Well, what do you suppose we did find? I was dumbfounded. There below us were the dying embers of a log-fire. The flames had long since died, and now it was just smoldering and smoking. On either side of the fire lay a man, well-wrapped in his blanket. A gun that for some reason looked very familiar to me was leaning against the rock near their heads. We could not see their faces from where we were, but like a flash I remembered the gun by the leather-covered stock. The two men were Old Ben and a young fellow who often went with him into the mountains. I never shall forget how they looked when we waked them by dropping small pebbles from above. As soon as they would stir a little, we would drop back out of sight and listen. At last the young fellow muttered something and reached for his gun. Then Old Ben awoke, sat up, and asked what was the trouble.
"'I'd bet a dollar that rock just dropped on me from above.' Then he turned his head and looked up into the sky. 'Great Scott, man, what a place to sleep! A stone might have tumbled on us any minute.' Then he scrambled to his feet and cried out, 'Man alive! take a look at that eagle; what an immense bird!' We boys had forgotten the eagle on finding the men, but we, too, looked upward, and there, not more than a hundred feet in the air, directly over us, was the biggest bird I ever hope to see. He seemed to be fixed, motionless, in the air, with wings outstretched. Just then some of the rest of the boys came shouting up to where we were. Ben heard them and shouted back. In a few minutes we were all up on the rocks watching the bird. Ben wanted to shoot, but the other man wouldn't let him, for he declared he was going to find the nest. It must have been the smoke from the fire that first attracted the bird, for it seemed to keep circling directly above the column of smoke. To this day we never told who dropped the stones—I suppose they think the eagle did it.
"Well, as we sat there watching the eagle, the sun came up. There never was such a sunrise before, I don't believe. There was a layer of fluffy, fuzzy clouds, stretched out over the city as far as we could see. Then the sun came slowly up—a great crimson ball of fire, the long, yellow rays lighting up that sea of clouds and the pale-blue sky above, until the scene looked like a great, boiling pot of gold. Then, far above us, that immense black bird, wings still outstretched, just winging itself round and round in great, even circles. I've seen many a choice bit of mountain scenery, and many a sunrise and sunset, but never one just like that. It isn't at all strange to me why the savages were nature worshipers. How could they help it?
"As we sat watching the ever-changing panorama of colored clouds, there came to our ears, faintly but surely, that same sad call of the night before. The great eagle paused a moment in his circling—then my heart came into my mouth, for as we watched he folded his great wings, tipped his head forward, and began to drop. I held my breath. Down, down he came. I thought he must surely be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. He was falling directly toward the great dead spruce, and it seemed that nothing could save him from being torn to pieces. As suddenly as he had begun to drop he spread his mighty black wings and swooped down to the very tree we thought must be his death. He perched for a second on a dead limb, then flew into a Douglas spruce, emerging in a second with something in his talons. As he began to rise again, in long, spiral flights, we heard the cry of distress from the unfortunate bird in his claws. It was the same cry that we had heard in the night."
"What was the light in the night? Did you ever find out?" ventured Phil.
"O yes, I forgot to tell you. It was Daddy Wright on horseback, swinging a lantern. He had been to the city, and was returning home. He passed Ben and his friend and nearly frightened them to death. He was singing as he came up the road, and was keeping time to his song with the lighted lantern."
"Twenty-five minutes to reach Dad's! Come, you fellows—loosen up your joints. The climb up the gulch to the Park is a real one, and there isn't a place in the canyon to camp," called Mr. Allen, as he started forward at a more rapid gait.
When they reached the farthest point of the big Horseshoe Bend, they stopped to rest a moment before starting up the last long incline to Daddy Wright's.
"Isn't it really wonderful when you think of the obstacles men have overcome just to accomplish their desired ends?" asked Mr. Allen as he stood gazing out over the mountains. "Men have risked their very lives just for the privilege of climbing into these old hills to look for gold. Many were the narrow escapes from death by starvation or wild beasts that these hills could tell of if they could speak. Did you ever stop to think that if it hadn't been for the gold that God hid away here in this Continental Divide, that perhaps the men in the old Eastern colonies would never have crossed over and taken possession of the wonderful Westland. It was the gold that was hidden under the snow and ice of Alaska that beckoned men northward. This has always been true. The prospectors of the Nation have always been its best explorers—certainly they were its real frontiersmen. They led and civilization followed. Think of the thousands of people who endured hardships of which we can not even imagine just to follow westward that trail, blazed by such sturdy old men as Dad Wright and others like him. I've heard Dad tell many a time of that caravan of forty-niners, all their earthly possessions packed in one of those old prairie schooners, drawn by slow, patient oxen. I've heard him tell of the time gold was discovered in Cripple Creek. Cripple Creek was just a part of the great wilderness, and was only accessible by a series of uncertain trails. Yes, gold is a precious metal, to be sure; but it is magical, too, for no sooner is it discovered than a wave of industry is created. Upon a bleak and barren spot a city is built in a week—a miracle of human energy. The Midland Railroad kept great gangs of men working day and night, in order to connect that great gold field with the outer world. Before long there was a tremendous demand for a common wagon road 'to civilization,' as they put it; and this very road that we are walking on came into being—an outlet, if you please—for some of that wonderful, teeming, bubbling life and industry created by the mere discovery of gold.
"Soon this very road became the most important highway in the State. Great wagon loads of food and tools went up, and bags of precious ore came back. Stores were opened, schools were built, churches erected, and homes founded. Civilization had found another desolate mountain wilderness, and with her magic wand added it to her ever-widening domain—all because some one had discovered gold.
"Then came the first stage-coach. Daddy has often told me all about it. A great, cumbersome affair, rolling and pitching on its leathers as it came lunging and bumping along the rough, stony, mountain road. The driver was seated high above the dashboard, nearly buried in boxes, bags, and bundles, while the baggage till behind resembled a railroad truck piled high with every kind and description of trunks. As it came to a sudden stop in front of the little postoffice, its great, swinging side-doors opened and the passengers scrambled out, each one handing the jovial and loquacious driver a five-dollar note.
"Soon it took four stages to satisfy the demand, one going each way night and morning. It was at this stage of the game that Daddy built the famous Road House. Here the horses were relayed, and here the passengers stepped out to stretch their cramped limbs or, perhaps, to drink at Dad's spring. Sometimes, on stormy nights, both stages, the one going up and the one coming down, would be tied up for the night at Dad's. Then such times as there would be in that old log house! Prospectors from every gold camp on earth, promoters and mining brokers, surveyors and engineers, old-timers and tenderfeet—all brought together by one single impulse—the craze for gold.
"Many were the mining claims that passed over the poker table there; many were the conspiracies that were talked over and determined upon. Many were the stories of the old Sante Fe trail and of the Pony Express, or perhaps strange tales of Kit Carson as he roamed the great Westland from Texas to Wyoming, trapping for fur and killing every treacherous Indian that crossed his trail. You know Old Ben at Bruin Inn was for many years a stage driver for Dad on this very road, and he is chuck full of stories."
"When are you going to tell us the story of the burning of the Road
House?" interrupted Ham.
"Well," replied Mr. Allen, "if I don't succeed in getting Dad to tell it to you himself, I'll tell it when we stop on top of that hogsback to rest," pointing to a great, round hill in the canyon.
"Do you think Dad will really tell us any of his stories?" queried Willis. "My father used to know him, and he has stopped at this very place. I'm sure he made many trips to Cripple Creek in those old stages." Turning to Mr. Allen, he continued, "Wouldn't father think it awfully strange if he knew I was tramping over the very road he used to travel so often?"
Mr. Allen and Willis dropped to the rear of the line, and Willis went on:
"I've been thinking I'd ask Daddy Wright if he remembered my father, and he might know where the mine is; and O, I'd so like to see it. I never want to be a miner, but I'd just like to know all about mines, so I could understand father better."
"Well, it all depends on how Dad is feeling," returned Mr. Allen. "If he is well he will be as glad to see us and as loquacious as a happy child; but if not, he will hardly notice us at all. Leave the talking all to me. He and I are old friends, and I always have some little treat in my pocket for him. He will be looking for it if he is home, but sometimes he is up at the mine."
"O, he doesn't work a mine now, does he?" exclaimed Willis.
"No, he doesn't exactly work it, but he owns one up in the gulch here behind his cabin, and sometimes there is a man up there at work. I don't know who he is."
As they rounded a great boulder that jutted out into the road, the little cabin of Daddy Wright came into view. A dog began to bark loudly, and somewhere up in the canyon that runs at right angles to the road there came the deep, muffled boom of a mine blast.
"Guess they must be working the mine, after all; still, it might be one of the others. There are half a dozen in this canyon, all of which have been worked more or less. The owners work in the city until they can get enough money to buy powder and grub stakes, then they work the mine for a season on their earnings," remarked Mr. Allen. He was carefully surveying the cabin and hill behind it. The dog had now come out from its shelter and stood in the middle of the road, doing his utmost to wake the dead. He evidently disliked visitors.
"Dad can't be very far away, for Knepp is always at his heels. He is nearly as old a timer as Dad himself, and as harmless. Hold on there, you fellows up ahead," called Mr. Allen. "Let me do the introducing of this party."
The cabin was a little log affair, well-banked around the base with dirt and moss to keep out the cold. To all appearances the only two openings in it were the front door and a double window. One of the window panes was covered over with the end of an old egg crate, and another, which was not so badly shattered, was repaired by a burlap sack, wadded into the opening. A big pine stood just outside the door and cast its shade over the roofless veranda. At one side of the house stood an ancient, moss-covered, hollow pine log, into which a pipe ran from the spring, a few paces back in the gulch. This was the old stage watering-trough, made by Dad himself when the big cabin was built. Directly up the road a hundred paces stood the old stone chimney, a famous landmark of the region.
Mr. Allen went to the watering-trough and, filling his cup, called out:
"Here, you fellows, do you want a drink of the greatest ale in the world?
It's the purest of Mother Nature's brews."
The old pine door squeaked on its rusty hinges as it slowly opened.
"Well, sir, I'll be dummed. Howdy, young 'uns! Whar d' ye hail frum?
Huntin' bar, er jist a roundin' up a bunch o' jay-birds? Haw, haw, haw!
Yer 'bout the fightin'est bunch o' young dandies I've seen sence the
war."
Daddy Wright stood in the doorway, taking in every detail of the group. He was a little, shriveled-up man, with small, watery eyes set well back under shaggy white eyebrows. His head was protected by a very disreputable and time-worn black hat that looked as if it might have been in active service for at least a half a century. His clothes were shabby and dirty, and his feet were bare. It was one of the peculiarities of the old man that he rarely ever wore shoes, except in the coldest of winter; then he preferred his old, home-made moccasins. His straggly, gray whiskers were badly stained with tobacco from his constant companion—an old, corncob pipe. He was short and stout, and had of late years become very feeble, being just able to hobble about a little each day with the aid of a cane.
"Yew fellers with all yer fixin's remind me a heap o' some o' the gangs o' green city fellers I used to see when I was freightin' on the old Spanish Trail—all guns an' blankets an' fixin's, but not much real explorin' blood in ye. Hain't that 'bout so? Say, Hallen, jist explain to me what yer ca'clatin' to do with these yere young roosters. Explorin', huh—jist as I thought. Kick me fer a stick o' dynamite if ye hain't the beatenest bunch o' explorers I've seed in many a moon. Lookin' fer gold mines? Suthin' bigger, I s'pose? I'd give half my grub stakes if Tad could see ye. Explorin', eh? Yew remind me o' the time me an' Old Ben went explorin' on Beaver Creek. We had 'nough truck 'long t' start a gold camp, an' we walked an' explored an' explored. We must o' walked fer well nigh onto three weeks, an' all we ever seed in all that time was a pole-cat—an' we wished we hadn't o' seed him, fer Ben had t' bury every livin' last stitch o' his duds an' walk home in his bare hide. Haw, haw! I wisht Tad 'ud come 'long now an' take a squint at yew fellers—he'd bust a bein' tickled!"
"Dad, how is your good health these days?" inquired Mr. Allen, as he handed the old man a little package he had taken from his haversack. Dad took it, smelled it through the paper; then a pleased smile spread over his face.
"Smells like grains o' gold, Mr. Hallen. Thank ye. As fer me health, never was no better sence I been here. A man can't git sick a livin' out in this yere country all his life. I'll be ninety-five now, in jist a few weeks, an' I'm as spry now as most any o' yew fellers. I'll live longer'n some o' ye yit. Yep, I'm feelin' mighty spry agin sence Tad's got back. Kind o' seems like the old days afore the shanty was burned. I ca'calate them there devils must o' injoyed that performance."
The fellows all stood at attention. Was the Road House story really coming, and from Dad's very own lips?
"It must have been a sad sight, wasn't it, Dad, to see your home demolished in that fashion?" quietly suggested Mr. Allen, by way of encouragement.
"'T wan't near as sad a sight as some I have seed," replied the old man. "'Bout the saddest sight I ever seed was of an old pard o' mine a wanderin' over these almighty hills a sorrowin' out his life after he'd lost his right down best friend in a mine cave-in. Poor old boy, he took it mighty serious. He used to be the happiest prospector I ever swapped lies with, till that devilish old tunnel caved in an' crushed the life out o' the feller's pardner. He hain't never ben no 'count sence, till lately. Now an' then he'd take a long, wanderin' trip back into these yere gloomy ol' gulches, an' I've seed them as say they've heerd him away off in the hills at night a callin' his pardner's name, an' a sobbin' an' a carryin' on. He's a strong man—that's why he gits out into God Almighty's hills to open his troubled heart, 'stead o' tellin' his lonesomeness to men as would make fun o' him. That's 'bout the sorriest sight I ever seed, an' I've seed 'bout my share on 'em—Indian killin's, dynamite explosions, an' sech like. 'T ain't many fellers ever has as real a friend as that!"
"What finally happened to your friend, Dad—did he get over his sorrow after a while?"
"No, no, my boy, he never got over it. He got on top of it. I mind now how he was gone a long spell in the timber; no grub, no duffel, no nothin'—only his ol' gun. He lived off'n the bounty o' these yere wooded hills, an' he let the spell o' God Almighty's woods an' crags an' streams heal up his broken heart. Then he came back. I remember one mornin' he come to my shanty, and a hungrier, starveder, wild-eyed feller ye never seed in yer born days than him; but shoot me fer a pole-cat if he didn't come back a smilin'. I was skeered he'd lost his mind. I was a pannin' mud in the gulch up back o' the shanty when he come 'long the trail. I jist looked, then I knowed what had happened. He had licked that awful sorrow. He's ben off down in civilization now fer these ten years, but now he's back agin. The silent company is callin' him, he says, an' he jist has to have a free breath an' a little more pasture, an' this is the only place he can git it."
"He must have had an extraordinary companion, if he had learned to care for him in that way," remarked Mr. Allen.
"Extraordinary, yew say," began Dad in a low, measured tone. "Bet the last button on your britches, he was that an' more. He was a youngish feller, an' quick as scat. Knowed more 'bout machinery 'n all the other fellers I ever knowed. Seems to me he growed up in Kankakee, or suthin' like that, an' he was a—"
"Where did you say he came from, Mr. Wright?" asked Willis in a voice that betrayed his excitement. Willis had been thinking very rapidly as Dad told his story. What was there in this strange tale that so fascinated him, and made him want to cry aloud? He had never felt so strange before.
"Why, I don't 'zackly recollect," replied Dad. "It was Kankakee or Kangaroo, er some sech name. Many's the night he's stopped with me in the big cabin an' told me about all kinds o' machinery. The night the big cabin burned he was here a showin' me a lot o' plans of machinery he had got up himself. They were 'bout all he saved out o' the fire, 'cept his hide, an' that was some scorched.
"I never seed a man 'at went so plumb dumb crazy over a few gold nuggets as him. 'T was here at the old cabin he met his pard, an' they made plans fer a great minin' company. Of all the fellers they was settin' up machinery in the mines a dozen years ago, this feller was the best o' the lot. Why, oncet he rigged up a—"
"O, Mr. Wright, were there lots of different men installing mine machinery here in the early days?" inquired Willis. A note of anxiety had crept into his voice.
"More'n one, do ye mean, lad? Well, I should snicker. I mind oncet they was five o' them at the cabin one night, an' every feller could prove that his machinery was the best. Sech a jamborees o' arguatin' I never heerd. I had to send 'em all t' their bunks t' keep 'em frum fightin'. Laws, yes, plenty o' 'em, boy; but this one feller, I forgit his name, now—my pard could say it quicker'n scat—was wuth all the rest o' the bunch put together. He was a reg'lar genius with machinery."
Dad had been filling his pipe from the package Mr. Allen had given him. He now lighted it and began to smoke. Mr. Allen knew that there would be no more stories that day, so, bidding good-bye to the old man, he suggested to the boys that they make a start for the Park. After a last drink from the cool, bubbling spring, they turned up the gulch, and were soon lost from view.
"Well, I hope you'll find explorin' a plenty, young fellers," called Dad. "Keep yer eye peeled fer pole-cats. They's powerful friendly to strangers in these parts."
CHAPTER VII
A Wilderness Camp
As the little party climbed upward on the gulch trail, they were discussing Dad and what they knew of his life. Each boy telling little stories and incidents that he had heard concerning the old man. Willis lagged behind, and did not seem to be particularly interested in the conversation.
"Well, old man, what are you so glum about?" inquired Ham. "One would think you had been to a funeral instead of chatting with the most humorous of old mountaineers. You aren't getting weak in the knees already, are you?"
Mr. Allen came to the rescue.
"No, Ham, he's just like me—busy thinking of the really admirable qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is gathered into that one life—frontiersman, cattle man, freighter, prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when it comes to good, common horse-sense. I'd rather take Dad's opinion of a man than any one's I know of in this world. It wouldn't be in polished English, but it would be shrewd and just."
From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.
As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man. He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props. Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, "Hello, there; must be going to build a cabin!" The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.
"Yes, an underground one," he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he continued, "Well, well, aren't you the fellows I saw over at Ben's place the other evening?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Why, yes, there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your systems?"
"Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains," said Willis. "It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are you doing up here, anyway?" He turned and surveyed the valley.
"Well, I'll tell you," replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle. "It's like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest desire—to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature's storehouse. As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed." He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent. "I've been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It's a funny thing about mines, boys—you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quantities. I've had the gold fever for twenty years."
"Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?" inquired Willis. "My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine—never developed. I'd love to find it, though, just because it was his. He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy."
The miner's face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, "Just as I thought," then continued, "Well, I—" He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.
"I can't tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one with a dump of black rock," pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, "belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs—Williams and somebody." He never took his eyes from the boy's face as he spoke.
"Williams, why—why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn't know that he—"
The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding, "And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to a young engineer, and was located many years ago. The Williams shaft has been sunk in the last few years. That hole has the very best prospects of being something of any on the mountain. The Williams outfit restaked the claim because the assessment work had not been kept up by the original owner."
"What was the original owner's name? Do you know? You say he was a young engineer?"
"Yes, his name was Thornton." The man dropped his head and worked the heel of his boot nervously in the dirt. "I used to know him quite well, years ago." Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, "I haven't seen anything of him for nearly a dozen years."
The corners of Willis's mouth twitched nervously. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.
"Would you mind telling me all about him—all you know?" asked Willis. The miner looked at him curiously a minute, then asked, in a quiet, well-controlled voice, "Did you know the man, lad?"
"Not so well as I would like to have known him, sir; but perhaps I may get better acquainted with him now. He was my father, but I hardly remember him, except for the stories and pictures that mother has told me about. I've always wanted to know more about him."
"I can't tell you much, my boy," returned the miner in a kind, friendly voice, "only that he was the best man that ever set a hoisting plant in this region, and the finest, cleanest young fellow that ever came into these hills. Every man was his friend."
"Did you ever know a Mr. Kieser who was a friend of my father's?" asked
Willis, after a moment's thought.
"Seems like I did," replied the miner, "a great many years ago, but he
disappeared from this region long since."
"Did you say the mine which once belonged to my father seemed to be the best in the canyon?" broke in Willis.
"Yes, it did, the last I knew of it; but nothing ever came of it, except that there have been two men there to-day, preparing to do this season's assessment work. You can never tell, you know, about a gold mine, for most of them have just been 'holes full of hope,' and the hope usually leaked out sooner or later."
Chuck halloed from up the trail to get under way, or they would never reach the top by dark.
"Going to camp up in the Park to-night, I presume?" asked the miner.
"Yes, if we can make it," replied Mr. Allen. "Have you been up to the top lately?" "Yes, I was up yesterday, and it's a grand sight at this season of the year. The Maraposa lilies are blooming in great profusion, and the spring is running a fine little stream. I had a very pleasant surprise up there, too. Years ago there was a large herd of deer which lived in that park, but they were supposedly all killed off. Yesterday, about this time, as I sat on a dead log just back from the spring, quietly thinking over some of the memories of old times when I had hunted on that very ground, I heard the dry twigs snap, and, turning, I saw a doe and two tiny, spotted fawns cross the park and enter the timber at the other side. If you build a fire to-night you may get a glimpse of them."
"I'm coming to have a long talk with you some of these days," called
Willis as they started off.
At last the entrance to the Park was reached, and they came upon a stretch of level ground. The entire country changed. Instead of the stony tallus of the canyon, there was soft, black soil under foot. Instead of the great spruces and firs scenting the air, there were only tall, stately aspens on every side, their leafy tops lost in the deepening shadows. Instead of the ground cedar and berry bushes, wild grass grew in rank profusion. The air was tinged with a faint fragrance, and somewhere in the distance came the sound of gently-splashing waters, "Like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows."
The party halted and turned to the right of the trail, where a great, lone pine tree stood on a little rise of ground, directly above the tiny spring. This was to be the camping spot for the night. Packs were quickly removed and unfolded, dry sticks gathered for the fire, and sweet-scented balsam boughs were cut and brought to the tree. One generous bed was made, big enough for all, close in front of the camp-fire. Mr. Allen cleaned and filled his small acetylene lamp—"In case of need," he said. The guns were stacked in a handy place and supper operations gotten under way.
"It sure does smell awfully good up here," began Phil. "I wish we had gotten here before dark—I'd like to have had a little look around before I went to sleep. Who knows but we may be sleeping ten yards from a bear's den. We are up in a real wilderness, now!"
"Bears, your grandmother!" snorted Ham, as he deftly opened a can of baked beans with his pocket knife. "A lot of great big bare spots is about all you could find. Say, Phil, on the dead square, what would you do, now, if a black bear would sneak down here to-night and crawl into bed with you?" "I'd say, 'Mr. Bear, if you want a real sweet, tender morsel that's easily digested, just help yourself to that little imported Ham over there.'" A roar of laughter went up from the others.
Chuck was philosophizing about the value of gathering food while it was yet day, as he sat stowing away his quart of fresh raspberries.
"You can have all you want of them," retorted Mr. Allen. "I'm seedy enough now, without eating those things."
"What's the matter, Willis? Did we walk you too hard?" inquired Fat.
"No, I could walk a hundred miles yet to-night," replied Willis, as he sliced up his bacon preparatory to frying it. "But this has been a very wonderful day for me. It's all so new, you know, and I'm green, too. Besides, it all has a very special significance to me, some way. I love it. I like it better than anything in the world. I could live this way forever. I'm sure I could write poetry to-night, or paint a great picture, or even sing. It's a wonderful feeling. Did you ever feel that way? It's the charm of the great out-of-doors."
"I think we had better picket Willis to-night," dryly remarked Ham. "He's liable to be floating off in his enthusiasm. But if he happens to be fortunate enough to lie on a friendly pine knot all night, he'll feel differently in the morning."
So the merry talk went on. After supper bigger logs were laid on the fire. A collapsible canvas bucket, filled with drinking water, was hung on a low limb of the tree, and the supply of night wood was conveniently placed near Mr. Allen's end of the bed.
Then Ham got a long, cotton bag, from which he produced several handfuls of pinion nuts. They were always the introduction to the camp-fire stories. He seated himself, drew his knees up close to his body, leaned back against the great tree trunk, and shouted: "All aboard, let her flicker. What's first? Mr. Allen, let's have that promised story you didn't get out of Dad. I believe you just side-tracked him on purpose, so you could tell it yourself. Come, now, wasn't that it?" He began to whistle in a low tone as he waited for the story. Fat stretched himself at full length before the fire, his head resting on his blanket roll. Phil had backed up on one side of Mr. Allen and Willis on the other. Everybody was waiting.
"Well, once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a little fairy," began Mr. Allen.
"You don't say so," interrupted Ham, as he tossed a stick into the fire in a disgusted manner. "Was it fairy long ago? I can recite Mother Goose rhymes myself. You'll have to do better than that."
Phil nudged Mr. Allen in the ribs and chuckled to himself.
"Well, then, how's this: Not many years ago, in a wonderful little village, there—"
"Was a wooden wedding at which two Poles were married," interrupted Ham, with a mischievous grin on his face.
"You're kind of hard to please, Ham," suggested Fat, as he rolled over to warm his other side.
"How's this? The night was dark and stormy," started in Mr. Allen. Ham settled back contentedly. "That's something like it. 'The night was dark and stormy,' and what else?"
"Well, if you must have it. I have heard a good many stories of how the Old Road House was burned, but they are all different. Which one shall I tell you? I'll tell you the one that Daddy tells himself, because it probably comes nearest the truth. As a matter of fact, though, I don't believe any one knows just how it burned down.
"You know Dad spent his boyhood on a great southwestern cattle ranch, and knew at first hand a great many things about Indians and tramping and mining and 'explorin',' as he calls it. Just why he left this ranch life he never told me exactly, but I know he had his first case of real gold fever in forty-nine, and has never gotten over it. His father was a United States marshal, and was instrumental in gathering in a number of the most notorious criminals of his day. One of Dad's favorite stories is of the capture of a gang of Mississippi River pirates.
"It was Dad's father that finally cleaned out this great nuisance when he captured Mason, their leader, through the treachery of his fellows. When the final raid was made, Dad, who was then a young man, was one of the party. It seems that there was a certain boy in this pirate gang who escaped, after having been arrested with the others. Several years later Dad had occasion to remember the threats this boy had made to him at the time of the raid.
"Dad was out on a trapping trip with a group of professional trappers, and, as was the custom, each man had taken with him two good horses, one to carry his share of the hides and his food supply, the other to be used in case of emergency. They were trapping in the Arkansas valley, and after a few weeks out they began to suspect that their camp was being watched by a large band of hostile Indians. They understood the situation perfectly. The Indians were not following them for murder or for a mere fight, but for their horses and furs. They would not attack, however, until they were reasonably sure of getting away with the desired booty without loss of life to their own party.
"The trappers' hunt had been a very successful one, and a large amount of money was already represented in the heavy packs of fur. Each night these packs of fur were carefully arranged in a big circle, forming a crude rampart for the party. The furs gave the men reasonable safety as they slept, for no arrow, however swift, could penetrate a roll of green hides. The horses were always securely fastened not far from the camp, and guards posted at night.
"Finally the ideal night for attack came. It was dark as pitch, not even a star showing in the cloudy sky. As night fell, it was so stormy that the usual night guard was not deemed necessary. Instead, every man went to sleep. Sometime in the night Dad was suddenly awakened by the pounding of many hoofs on the hard gravel of the valley. In less than a second the entire camp was awake, and every man gripped his rifle in readiness. No one dared to leave the rampart. Safety lay in being all together. The pounding of hoofs grew louder and louder, the picketed horses whinnied, then there was a wild gallop past the little camp, accompanied by fiendish yells. Not a man dared to investigate, for fear of ambush. All that they could do was to patiently await the coming of morning.
"With the first rays of light all looked anxiously toward where the horses had been picketed so carelessly. They were gone, every one of them. A hasty examination told the tale. Under the cover of the intense darkness, the hobbles and the picket ropes had been cut at the pins, so as not to disturb the horses or waken the sleeping trappers. After the ropes were cut, the Indians had ridden pell-mell past the free animals, and they, finding their fastenings gone, had joined the stampede. It was a clever game, and the trappers had lost. What were they to do—fifteen days' journey from any assistance, and not a horse within a hundred miles?
"As they climbed a hill on the far side of the river, to take a look at the surrounding country, they heard a faint whinny, and there, in the bottom of the gulch, lay one of their horses, stretched at full length. His feet had become entangled in the long picket rope, and he had fallen at the edge of the washout with a badly-broken leg. The party gathered about the unfortunate animal, lamenting the fact that he must be shot to relieve him of his suffering.
"As they stood talking, Dad noticed a movement in a nearby clump of bushes. Was he mistaken? He quietly told his partner what he had seen, and, with rifles leveled, the two cautiously approached the spot. There was, however, no need of fear, for it turned out to be only a young Indian boy, and he badly injured. He had probably been riding the horse before its fall. Everybody was for instantly shooting the lad except Dad, who protested, explaining that the boy might be able to give them valuable information as to the number of Indians in the war party, and something of their future plans. This seemed to be reasonably wise, so the wounded Indian was taken back to the trappers' camp.
"For many days he kept silence, never once speaking to any one, growing weaker and weaker every day from his injuries. Finally he was taken with an awful fever, and every man in the party knew that nothing could possibly save him. Dad nursed him and cared for him as patiently as if he had been one of their own party. When the Indian learned that he was to be treated kindly for the present, at least, he called for Dad, making feeble signs that he wanted to talk to him secretly. After a long and painful effort he made Dad understand who was with the band of Indians, and why they had watched the trappers so long and so closely. There was a certain pale face with them who was their leader and who had been a 'heap big robber' on the big river. He had offered a reward for Dad's life to every Indian in the party. He had invented the stampede, and when the men were faint with hunger and watching, they would be back to kill them all. Dad was to be hung in honor of the occasion, to celebrate the day the pirate had made his escape from Dad's father. In a few hours the Indian died. Dad kept his secret to himself, although he was greatly disturbed over it. He was being hunted—hunted by a savage worse than any red man that ever shot a bow or took a scalp. He remembered, now, that many of his comrades of that memorable raid had since mysteriously disappeared. The truth flashed upon him in an instant. Shorty Thunder, the river pirate, was taking his revenge. Slowly but surely he was hounding down every man that had sought his life that day.
"In a few days the trapping party was picked up by another hunting party.
"What's the matter, Ham? Are you getting sleepy?" called Mr. Allen as he arose to replenish the fire. Ham had sprawled out on the ground and was looking off into the dark woods, all alert.
"Sh-h-, you," he whispered as he motioned them not to move. "I saw something move out there in those bushes just now; I'll bet my hat on it."
"O sugar," said Phil. "Something moved, did it? What do you suppose it was, an elephant?"
Just then Fat raised his finger cautiously. "Quiet, there, a second, you rubes. Use your eyes more instead of your mouths, and you'll see more. Can't you see that light spot right over there?" pointing into the darkness with a very crooked stick he had been fooling with. All sat quietly listening and watching, but to no avail. They could see nothing.
"Go on with your story, Mr. Allen," urged Ham. "What's river pirates got to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that's what I'd like to know." The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.
"Well, it's like this, Ham," continued Mr. Allen. "Every great story has a preface, and I've been telling you the preface so far." Ham let out a few long, extra well-developed snores. "Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to the beginning of the first chapter, will you?"
"Finally Dad came to Colorado—just why, I don't know; but he prospected hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in Cripple Creek he was right on hand. In 1873, I think it was, the county built the Cripple Creek Stage Road. Dad was a pretty old man then, but not too old to see his opportunity. With a little outside capital, he constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House. In a short time after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon producing a nice little revenue for Dad.
"The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and stormy. It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full blast. The thunder and lightning were terrific. When the down stage pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the night, fearing a possible cloudburst. It happened that the stage was full of passengers that night. There was a little Irishman who had just discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch. Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his business all to himself. As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little incidents that gave evidence to his own theory. For instance, several times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out into the night. He seemed very nervous about something. He did not mingle with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself. When it became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch near the fireplace. Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.
"The storm was at its worst. Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad's dog let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls. Dad shouted down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat outside. He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and scratched at the door. There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in a peal of thunder, then the cry of 'Fire!' The smoke of the burning logs was already streaming up the open stairway. The outside door opened and shut, yet the dog was left inside. Almost before the sleeping guests could grab their clothes, the whole house was a sheet of flame. There was a wild scramble for the back stairway. Dad hurried down the front way, stumbling through the smoke to the door. The dog gave a joyous bark and sprang toward him. As he opened the door, he stumbled over a large oil-can that always stood just under the stairway. He didn't think of it at the time because of his excitement, but later, as he puzzled over the real cause of the fire, he remembered with startling distinctness his stumbling over the empty oil-can, which he knew had been full the day before. As months went by he put this with other little bits of information, and he believed he understood, yet he had no proof. The old man who had slept downstairs had oiled the entire first floor, then set it afire. But why? That was the question.
"He remembered how the old man had insisted that the house had been struck by lightning. Dad never saw him again after that night, but a few months afterwards he recognized him in a description of one of the robbers of a stage coach, held up at Duffield's. Then, like a flash, it came to Dad. The old-timer was his enemy of the river pirates, old Shorty Thunder. He had accidently stumbled onto Dad here in these mountains, and had determined to settle scores once for all. He had meant by setting fire to the cabin to burn Dad alive, and if it hadn't been for the dog he probably would have succeeded."
"Great old tale," sighed Phil, as he arose and stretched himself.
"Let's turn in," suggested Fat, "for you know we have some walking ahead of us to-morrow." "Second the motion," joined in Ham. "Me for a good, big drink, though, to wash that fairy tale down. How about it?"
The little party gathered close about the fire after all final arrangements had been made for the night. Boots were pulled off and set away from the fire. Watches were wound and trousers unbuckled. They had all instinctively looked toward the "Chief." He had drawn close to the fire, and was turning over the leaves of a pocket Testament.
"What will you have to-night, fellows, from the Great Spirit's Message before we sleep?"
"The one about the lilies," said Ham thoughtfully. "There are several big ones in bloom just at the head of my bed." The "Chief" began to read in low, reverent tones.
"And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." So he went on reading till he came to the end of the chapter, after which there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for bed.
"They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of God," snorted Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, "but they aren't in it with a night like this spent in the open in such a country."
"There's a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham," said Mr.
Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.
"How do you make that out?" asked Ham.
"Well, you're just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously; but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create such a Nature." "Too deep for me, too deep for me; I'm no philosopher," grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night's sleep.
Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.
"Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say," he remarked half-aloud, as he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. "He's the very spit'n image of Bill, now that's dead sure, and there's one thing more that's certain." He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling in the sky far above them.
"That mine belongs to the boy, but how's he going to get it?"
He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came down the trail, the smell of Dad's simple supper came floating up to him. He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him. He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be something.