The Trail of The Badger: A Story of the Colorado Border Thirty Years Ago

"No, señor," replied Pedro, laughing. "I was out of my own country and was distrustful of strangers."

Turning to our new friend, who was wondering what all this was about, Dick explained the circumstances of our former meeting with Pedro, adding:

"So, you see, we are old acquaintances after all. In fact, if we had not met Pedro before we should not be here now, for it was his copper-headed arrow which brought us down, oddly enough."

"That was odd, certainly. Well, Pedro, get the torch and show your old friends over the mine. We must be quick, or it will be getting dark before we can get back to our camp."

Pedro disappeared into the darkness somewhere, while we ourselves climbed up into the mouth of the tunnel. It was very wet in there: we could hear the drip, drip of water in all directions.

"Were you in here when the flood came down?" asked Dick. "How is it you weren't drowned—for I see the water stood five feet deep in the tunnel?"

"Oh," replied the other, "there was no fear of drowning. There are plenty of places in here out of reach of the water. Wait a moment and you'll see."

True enough, we soon heard the striking of a match, and next we saw the Mexican standing with a torch in his hand in a recess about ten feet above us.

"That is where we took refuge," said our friend. "Far out of reach of the water, you see. Come on, now, and I'll show you how this old mine was worked, and why it was abandoned."

Leading the way, torch in hand, he presently stopped, and said:

"The place where we came in was the mouth of the main working-tunnel. It follows the vein into the rock for about a thousand feet, which would bring it, as I calculate, pretty near to the other cañon—for the rock between the two cañons is nothing more than a spit, as you will remember. Above the tunnel they have followed the vein upward, gouging out all the native copper and wastefully throwing away all the less valuable ore, until there was none left. If you look, you can see the empty crevice extending upward out of sight."

"I see," said Dick, shading his eyes from the glare of the torch. "It seems to have been pretty primitive mining."

"It was—that part of it, at least. But having exhausted all the copper above, they next began the more difficult process of mining downward. Come along this way and I'll show you."

Walking along the tunnel some distance, our guide pointed out to us a square pool in the floor, measuring about eight feet each way.

"This," said he, "was a shaft. There is another further along. How deep they are, I don't know."

"But, look here!" cried Dick. "How could they venture to sink shafts, when at any moment a flood might rush in and drown them all?"

"Ah! That's just the point," said our friend. "Come outside again and you'll understand."

Returning once more to the bed of the pool, we faced the hole in the wall, when our guide continued:

"Now, you see, the floor of the tunnel is about ten feet above the creek-bed, and before the cliff fell down, forming the dam, the water ran freely past its mouth. But some time after the miners had got out all the copper overhead and had begun sinking shafts, this cliff came down, blocked the channel, and caused the water to back up into the workings. As you remarked just now, it filled the tunnel five feet deep, and, as a matter of course, filled the shafts up to the top."

"I see," said Dick. "You think, then, that the cliff fell in comparatively recent times. I believe you are right, too. That would account for there being no trees of any great size upon the dam."

"Yes. And as a consequence the mine was abandoned; for it would have taken years to dig away this dam, and as long as it existed it would be impossible to go on with the work with the water coming down and filling up the tunnel once every three days, or thereabouts."

"Every three days!" we both exclaimed. "Is this a regular thing, then, this flood?"

"Why, yes. I'd forgotten you didn't know that. Yes, it's a pretty regular thing, and a very curious one, too. Pedro says that up in that old crater near the top of the mountain there is a great intermittent spring which every now and then rises up and spills out a great mass of water. The water comes racing down this gorge, and half an hour later leaps over the fall here, fills up the pool and the mine, and gradually drains off again under the dam."

"That certainly is a curious thing," Dick responded. "And it also furnishes a reason good enough to satisfy anybody for abandoning the mine. Well, Frank," he went on, "this looks like the end of our expedition. We've done what we set out to do:—found the King Philip mine; and now, I suppose, there's nothing left but to turn round and go home again."

"I suppose so," I assented, regretfully. "I hate to go back; but I'm afraid we have no excuse for remaining."

"You think you must go back, do you?" asked our friend. "I'm sorry you should have to do so, but if you must, why shouldn't we travel the first stage together? I start back to Santa Fé to-morrow, and from there home to Washington."

"You live in Washington, do you?" said Dick. "Then, why do you go round by way of Santa Fé? It would be much shorter to go to Mosby—and then we could ride all the way together."

"I wish I could, but I have to go the other way. I left my baggage there, for one thing; and besides that I have some inquiries to make there which my mother asked me to undertake."

Dick nodded. "And then you go straight back to Washington?" he asked.

"Yes. Then I must get straight back home as fast as I can and report to my father. I had two commissions to perform for him:—one was to look into the matter of this old mine; the other concerned the present condition of the Hermanos Grant. The first one I consider settled, but the other, I find, is a matter for the lawyers: it is too complicated a subject for me, a stranger in the land and a foreigner."

"A foreigner!" I cried. "Why, we supposed you were an American."

"No," said he. "I am a Spaniard."

"A Spaniard!" we both exclaimed this time.

"Yes," laughing at our astonishment. "A Scotch-Irish-Spaniard—which seems a queer mixture, doesn't it? Though I was born in Spain, my forefathers were Irish, my mother is Scotch, and I have lived for several years first in Edinburgh and then in London; and now my father, who is in the Spanish diplomatic service, is stationed in Washington."

"And what——?" I began, and then stopped, with some embarrassment, as it occurred to me that it was not exactly my business.

"And what am I doing out here? you were going to say. I'll tell you. My father was out in this part of the world a good many years ago, having business in Santa Fé, where he got track of this old copper mine; but his idea of its whereabouts was very vague until, about a year ago, a gentleman whom he had met when he was out here wrote him a letter telling him of the number of copper utensils to be found down there at Hermanos—— What's the matter?"

That he should thus exclaim was not to be wondered at if the look of surprise on my face was anything like the look on Dick's.

"Well, of all the queer things!" exclaimed the latter; and then, advancing a step and addressing our friend, he said, smiling: "I think we can guess your name."

"You do!" cried the young fellow. "That seems hardly likely. What is it?"

"Blake!" replied Dick.

CHAPTER XIV A Change of Plan

If the young Spaniard had provided us with two or three surprises during the day, I think we got even with him in that line when Dick thus disclosed to him the fact that we knew his name. For a moment he stood gazing blankly at us, and then exclaimed:

"How in the world did you guess that?"

"I don't wonder you are puzzled," replied Dick, "but the explanation is very simple. The Professor Bergen who wrote to your father—that's the right name, isn't it?"

Young Blake nodded. "That was the name signed to the letter," said he. "'Otto Bergen.'"

"Well, this Professor Bergen is my best and oldest friend; I have lived with him for thirteen or fourteen years. We left his house to come down here less than a week ago. It was he who told us of his meeting with a Spaniard of the remarkable name of Blake, who, while hunting through the records in Santa Fé, had come across mention of this old mine. And when he and I passed through Hermanos last year and saw all those old copper vessels there, the professor wrote at once to your father to tell him about them. I mailed the letter myself."

"Well, this is certainly a most remarkable meeting!" cried our new acquaintance. "Why, I feel as if I had fallen in with two old friends!"

"Well, you have, if you like!" cried Dick, laughing; whereupon we shook hands all over again with the greatest heartiness.

"My first name," said young Blake, "is Arturo—Arthur in this country—the name of the original Irish ancestor who fled to Spain in the year 1691, and after whom each of the eldest sons of our family has been named ever since. But not being gifted with your genius for guessing names," he continued, with a smile, "I haven't yet found out what yours are."

"That's a fact!" cried Dick. "What thoughtless chaps we are! My friend here, is Frank Preston of St. Louis; my own name is——"

"Señores," said Pedro, cutting in at this moment, "with your pardon, we must be getting out of this cañon: it will be black night down here in another ten minutes."

"That's true!" our friend assented. "So come along. We camp together, of course. How are you off for provisions? We have the hind-quarter of a deer which Pedro shot three days ago; pretty lean and stringy, but if you are as hungry as I am we can make it do."

"Hungry!" cried Dick. "I'm ravenous. We've had nothing to eat since six o'clock this morning. How is it with you, Frank?"

"I'll show you," I replied, snapping my teeth together, "as soon as I get the chance."

With a laugh, we set off over the dam, and half an hour later were all busy round the fire toasting strips of deer-meat on sticks and eating them as fast as they were cooked, with an appetite which illustrated—if it needed illustration—the truth of the old saying, that the best of all sauces is hunger.

Our supper finished, we made ourselves comfortable round the fire, and far into the night—long after Pedro had rolled himself in his blanket and had gone to sleep—we sat there talking.

The reasons for our own presence in these parts were briefly and easily explained, when our new friend, Arthur—with whom, by the way, we very soon felt ourselves sufficiently familiar to address by his first name—Arthur related to us the motives which had brought him so far from home.

"It was not only to hunt up this old mine," said he; "in fact, that was quite a secondary object. My chief reason for coming out was to look into the condition of the Hermanos Grant, and to find out why it was we had been unable for the past twelve years to get any reports from there."

"Why you hadn't been able to get reports!" exclaimed Dick. "What have you got to do with the Hermanos Grant, then?"

"It belongs to my father," replied Arthur, smiling.

We stared at him with raised eyebrows.

"But what about old Galvez, then?" asked my partner. "We supposed it belonged to him. In fact, his nephew told us as much, and he evidently spoke in good faith, too."

"I dare say he did," replied Arthur. "All the same, the grant belongs, and for about a century and a half has belonged, to our family. It was my ancestor, Arthur the First, who 'bossed' the King Philip mine and who built the Casa del Rey. Old Galvez is just a usurper. I did not even know of his existence till I reached the village three days ago. It is a long and rather complicated story, but if you are not too sleepy I'll try to explain it before we go to bed."

It was a long story; and as our frequent questions and interruptions made it a good deal longer, I think it will be wise to relate it, or some of it, at least, in my own words, to save time.

The original Arthur Blake having rendered notable service in the great battle of Almanza, the king of Spain rewarded the gallant Irishman by making him "Governor" of the King Philip mine, at the same time, in true kingly fashion, bestowing upon him a large tract of land, comprising the village of Hermanos with the inhabitants thereof, as well as the desert surrounding it for five miles each way.

The mine having ceased to be workable, for the reason we had seen, Arthur the First was preparing to return to his adopted country, when he died out there, alone, in that far-off land of exile. In course of time the existence of the King Philip mine passed entirely out of everybody's recollection, as would probably have been the case with the Hermanos Grant itself, had not the agent or factor, or, as he was locally called, the mayordomo, placed in charge by the old Irishman, continued from year to year to send over to the representative of the family in Spain certain small sums of money collected in the way of rents.

They were an honest family, these factors, the son succeeding the father from generation to generation, and faithfully they continued to send over the trifling annual remittances, until the year 1865, when the payments suddenly and unaccountably ceased.

It was two or three years before this that Señor Blake, having the opportunity to do so, had come out to Southern Colorado to take a look at the old grant, which, since the discovery of gold in the territory, might have some value after all.

As a part of this trip he visited Santa Fé, with the object of searching through the records for some copy of the original royal patent; for what had become of that document nobody knew. It was possible that it had been destroyed when the French burnt the family mansion during the Peninsular war; again it was possible that old Arthur the First had brought it with him to America for the purpose of submitting it to the inspection of the Mexican authorities—for that part of Colorado was in those days under the rule of the viceroy of Mexico.

In the limited time at his disposal, however, Señor Blake had found no trace of it; a circumstance he much regretted, for though hitherto there had never been any question as to the title, should the tract some day prove of value, such question might very well arise, when the Blake family might have difficulty in proving ownership.

For about three years after his visit things continued to jog along in the old way, until, as I said, in the year 1865 the annual remittances suddenly ceased and all communication with Hermanos appeared to be cut off—for reasons unknown and undiscoverable.

Such was the state of affairs when the elder Blake took up his residence in Washington, when Arthur, having solicited permission from his father, came west to find out if possible what was the matter.

"When I got to Hermanos," said Arthur, continuing his story, "I found the people in such a down-trodden, spiritless condition that I had great difficulty in getting any information out of them—they were afraid to say anything lest evil should befall. By degrees, however, I gained their confidence, when I found that the Sanchez family, by whom, for generations past, the office of mayordomo had been held, was extinct, except for a certain Pedro, a member of a distant branch, and that the present owner of the grant was one, Galvez, who, seemingly, had come into possession about twelve years ago.

"As I could not understand how this could be, and as nobody seemed able to enlighten me, I decided, of course, to wait till Galvez came home in order to question him.

"Meanwhile, I inquired about this man, Pedro Sanchez, who, I was told, was the only one likely to be able to explain, meeting with no difficulty in ascertaining where he was to be found; for, though Galvez himself did not know whether Pedro was alive or dead, every other inhabitant of the village knew perfectly well, and always had known, not only that he was alive but where to find him.

"Presently, about dusk, Galvez came riding in, when I at once made myself known to him. At the mention of my name he appeared for a moment to be rendered speechless, either with fear or surprise, and then, to my great astonishment, with a burst of execration, he snatched a revolver out of its holster. Luckily for me, he did it in such haste that the weapon, striking the pommel of the saddle, flew out of his hand and fell upon the ground; whereupon I ran for it, jumped upon my horse and rode away.

"After riding a short distance, I bethought me of Pedro, so, circling round the village, I came up here, and following the directions of the peons, I easily found him next morning. Through Pedro, as soon as I had succeeded in convincing him of my identity, I quickly got at the rights of the case."

"Wait a minute," said Dick, who, together with myself, had been an attentive listener. "Let me put some more logs on the fire. There!" as he seated himself once more. "That will last for some time. Now, go ahead."

Leaning back against a tree-trunk and stretching out his feet to the fire, Arthur began again:

"Did you ever hear of the Espinosas?" he asked.

"No!" I exclaimed, surprised by the apparently unconnected question; but Dick replied, "Yes, I have. Mexican bandits, or something of the sort, weren't they?"

"Yes," said our friend. "They were a pair of Mexicans who, in the year '65, terrorized certain parts of Colorado by committing many murders of white people. This man, Galvez, who then lived in Taos, hated the Americans with a very thorough and absorbing hatred, and the exploits of the Espinosas being just suited to his taste, he decided to join them. But he was a little too late; the two brigands were killed, and he himself, with a bullet through his shoulder, would assuredly have been captured had he not had the good fortune to fall in with Pedro Sanchez.

"Pedro had been a soldier, too, and coming thus upon a comrade in distress he packed him on his burro, and by trails known only to himself brought him down to Hermanos, entering the village secretly by night.

"The occupant of the Casa at that time was another Pedro Sanchez, a forty-second cousin or thereabouts of our Pedro. He was a very old man, the last of his immediate family, a good, honest, simple-minded old fellow, who for thirty years or more had been factor for us. With him Pedro sought asylum for his comrade—a favor the old man readily granted to his namesake and relative.

"It was pretty sure that there would be a hue and cry after Galvez, so, to avoid suspicion as much as possible, they arranged to give out that it was Pedro who lay sick at the Casa, while Pedro himself went off again that same night up into the mountain to hide till Galvez thought it safe to move. He had done everything he could think of for his friend, and how do you suppose his friend requited him? It will show you the sort of man this Galvez is.

"For six weeks the latter lay hidden, when in some roundabout way he got word that his description was placarded on the walls of Taos and a reward offered for his capture. This cut him off from returning home and he was in a quandary what to do, when one day his host, who, as I said, was a very old man, had a fall from his horse and two days later died.

"Then did Galvez resolve upon a bold stroke. He came out of his hiding-place, and without offering reasons or explanations calmly announced that he had become proprietor of the Hermanos Grant, and that in future the villagers were to look to him for orders! The very impudence of the move carried the day. The ignorant peons, accustomed for generations to obey, accepted the situation without question; and thus did Galvez install himself as padron of Hermanos, and padron he has remained for twelve years, there being nobody within five thousand miles to enter protest or dispute his title."

"Well!" exclaimed Dick. "That was about the most bare-faced piece of rascality I ever did hear of. And your father, of course, over there in Cadiz or London or wherever you were then, was helpless to find out what was going on in this remote corner."

"That's it exactly; and at that time, too, this corner was far more remote even than it is now—there were no railroads anywhere near then, you see."

"That's true. Well, go on. What about his treatment of Pedro?"

"Why, Galvez, as padron of Hermanos—a place almost completely cut off from the rest of the world—felt pretty sure that he would never be identified as Galvez of Taos, the man wanted for brigandage; for the villagers had no suspicion of the fact. The only danger lay in Pedro."

"I see. Pedro being the one person who did know the facts."

"Exactly. Well, Galvez was not one to stick at trifles, and understanding that the simplest way to secure his own safety would be to get rid of this witness, he came riding up into the mountain one day, found Pedro, and while talking with him in friendly fashion, pulled out a big flint-lock horse-pistol, jammed it against his benefactor's chest and pulled the trigger. Luckily the weapon missed fire; Pedro jumped away, picked up a big stone and hurled it at his faithless friend, taking him in the mouth and knocking out all his front teeth. Then he, himself, fled up into his mountain; and that was their last meeting, except on the occasion when Galvez came up to hunt for him and Pedro shot his horse with the copper-headed arrow.

"There!" Arthur concluded. "Now you have it all. That's the whole story!"

"And a mighty curious and interesting story it is, too!" exclaimed Dick; adding, after a thoughtful pause: "That man, Galvez, is certainly a remarkable specimen; and a dangerous one. He is not an ordinary, every-day, primitive ruffian. That move of his in declaring himself padron of Hermanos was a stroke of genius in its way. It won't be a simple matter to get him out of there, if that is what you are after."

"That is what I am after," replied Arthur. "But, as I said, the question of how to do it is too complicated for me. I know nothing of American law, but it strikes me that, in spite of the fact that he plainly has no right there, we may have considerable difficulty in getting him out, for, as we can show neither the original patent nor a copy of it, we have only our word for it that such a thing ever existed."

"That's true," said I. "And Galvez being in possession, it may be that he would not have to prove his rights: it would rest with you to prove yours."

"I should think that was very likely," remarked Dick. "It is a complicated matter, as you say. What do you suppose your father will do? Have you any idea?"

"Yes, I have," replied Arthur, very emphatically. "I know exactly what he will do. When I tell him how the grant has been 'annexed' by this man—and such a man, too—he will never rest until he has got him out. It may be that the old brigandage business may serve as a lever—that, I don't know—but whatever is necessary to be done he will do, however long it may take and however much it may cost."

"As to the cost," said I, "that is likely, I should think, to be pretty big. Is the grant worth it? Suppose, on investigation, your father should find that the expense of getting Galvez out would be greater than the value of the property—what then?"

Arthur laughed. "You don't know my father," said he. "The value of the grant—which, in truth, is nothing, or nearly nothing—makes no difference whatever. It's the principle of the thing. To permit a robber like Galvez to remain quietly in possession would be impossible to my father. He will regard it as his duty to society to right the wrong, and he will do it, if it takes ten years, without considering for a moment whether the grant is worth it or not."

"Good for him!" cried Dick, thumping his knee with his fist. "The law in this new West is weak—naturally—and here in this out-of-the-way corner there is none at all, but a few such men as your father would soon stiffen its backbone. I hope he'll succeed; the only thing I'm sorry for is that the grant has so little value."

"That is unfortunate," replied Arthur; "though, as it happens, that particular concerns my father less than it does me."

"Is that so? How is that?"

"It is an old custom in the family to bestow the Hermanos Grant on the eldest son on his coming of age. I am the eldest son, and I come of age next August, when, according to the custom, I shall become the owner of this valueless patch of desert—if Galvez will be graciously pleased to allow me."

"What are the limits of the grant?" asked Dick.

"North, south and east," replied Arthur, "it extends five miles from Hermanos, but on the west it stops at the foot of the mountains."

"So the only part of it which produces anything is that little patch of cultivated ground surrounding the village."

"Yes; and as the water-supply is very limited the place can never grow any larger. In fact, it produces little more than enough to feed the villagers; and even as it is, the boys as they grow up have to go off and get work elsewhere as sheep-herders and cowmen, there being no room for them at home. It is the padron's custom, I was told, to hire them out, their wages being paid to him, in which case you may be sure it is precious little of their earnings they ever get themselves."

"He's a bad one, sure enough," remarked Dick. "But to go back to that water-supply. Isn't there any way of increasing it?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Arthur. "I wish there were: a plentiful supply of water would make the place really valuable. There is land enough, and excellent land, too; all that is needed is water. But that, I'm afraid, is not to be had. I've talked to Pedro about it; he knows every stream on these two mountains, but he says that they all run in cañons from five hundred to two thousand feet deep, and there is no possible way of getting any of them out upon the surface of the valley. What are you thinking about, Dick?"

My partner, who had been sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, frowning severely at the fire, started from his revery, and turning toward his questioner, he replied, speaking slowly and thoughtfully:

"If any one ought to know, it's Pedro; but, all the same, I believe Pedro is wrong. I believe there is a way of turning one of these streams somewhere and bringing it down to Hermanos—if only one could find the right stream."

"Why do you think so?" asked Arthur.

"I know it looks ridiculous for me to be setting up my opinion against Pedro's," replied my partner, "but I can't help thinking that there is such a stream. Look here!" he cried, jumping up, walking to and fro between us and the fire once or twice, and then stopping and shaking his finger at us as though he were delivering a lecture to two inattentive pupils. "Where did those old Pueblos get their water from, I should like to know? Up in these mountains somewhere, didn't they? Of course they did: there's no other place. There was a big irrigation system down there once, enough to support a population of three or four thousand people probably. Well! What has become of that supply? That's what I want to know. They had it once—where is it now?"

For some seconds Dick stood in front of Arthur, pointing his finger straight at him, while Arthur sat there in silence gazing steadfastly at Dick. Suddenly, the young Spaniard jumped up, stepped forward, and slapping my partner on his chest with the back of his hand, exclaimed:

"Look here, old man! I believe you are right. I believe there is a stream somewhere which those old Pueblos used for irrigating their farms. It has somehow been switched off and lost. It ought to be found and brought back. Now, look here! I can't stay here to hunt for it myself: I must get home right away. But I'll make a bargain with you:—You find that stream and provide a way of getting the water back to Hermanos, and I'll give you a half-interest in the grant—when I get it. There, now! There's a chance for you!"

"Do you mean that?" cried my partner.

"I certainly do," replied Arthur. "The grant is without value as it stands: if you can get water on to it and give it a value, it would be only just that you should have a share in the profits. Yes, I mean what I say, all right. If you'll supply the water, I'll supply the land. There! What do you say? Is it a bargain?"

For a moment Dick stood staring thoughtfully at our friend, and then, turning to me, he exclaimed sharply:

"Frank! Let's do it! Here we are, out for the summer. It's true we came out to hunt for a copper mine, but that scheme being 'busted' at the very start, let us turn to and hunt for water instead. What do you think?"

"I'm agreed!" I cried.

"Good! Then we'll do it! And the very first move——"

"The very first move," interrupted Arthur, laughing, "the very first move is—to bed! It's after eleven!"

"Phew!" Dick whistled. "I'd no idea it was so late. To bed, then; and to-morrow we'll work out a plan of action. This has been a pretty long day, and a pretty eventful one, too. So let's get to bed at once, and to-morrow we'll start fair."

In spite of the long day and the lateness of the hour, however, I could not get to sleep at once. Dick, too, seemed to be wakeful. I heard him stir, and opening my eyes, I saw him sitting up in bed with his arms clasped around his blanketed knees, gazing at the fire. Suddenly, he gave his leg a mighty slap with his open hand, and I heard him chuckle to himself.

"What's the matter, Dick?" I whispered. "Got a flea?"

"No," he replied, laughing softly. "I've got an idea. Go to sleep, old chap. I'll tell you in the morning."

CHAPTER XV Dick's Snap Shot

The sun rose late down in that deep crevice, and for that reason, added to the lateness of the hour at which we had gone to bed, we did not wake up next morning till after six o'clock. We found, however, that Pedro had been up a couple of hours at least, for he had a good fire going, had made everything ready to start breakfast, and moreover he had been up on the mountain and had brought down Arthur's horse and his own burro from the little valley where they had been left at pasture.

When I, myself, awoke, I found that Dick was ahead of me. He was standing by the fire, warming himself—for the mornings were still cold—and talking to Pedro, who, I guessed, was explaining something, for he was waving his long arms energetically, first in one direction and then in another.

"Well, Dick," said I, as we sat cross-legged on the ground, eating our breakfast, "what is this idea of yours? Does it still look as favorable as it seemed to do last night?"

"Better," replied Dick, with his mouth full of bacon. "A great deal better. I felt pretty confident last night that I was on the way to earn that half-interest in the Hermanos Grant, and this morning, since talking with Pedro, I feel more confident still."

"Is that so?" cried Arthur. "I hope you're right. What is it you think you have discovered?"

"In the first place," replied Dick, "I have discovered that we are a lot of wiseacres: we have been going around with our eyes shut."

"How?" we both asked.

"If we hadn't had our heads so full of the old copper mine, and if we hadn't been so bent on finding the trail to it, we should never have made the mistake we did."

"What mistake?" I asked. "Hurry up, Dick! Don't take so long about it. What are you driving at?"

"Why, this!" replied my partner, suddenly sitting up straight and wagging his finger at us. "This trail we have been following, all the way from Hermanos up to the edge of the cañon, was not a trail at all—it was a ditch!"

"A ditch!" we both exclaimed.

"Yes, a ditch. A ditch dug by those old Pueblo Indians to carry water down to that wide, level stretch of ground at the back of the Casa. I'm sure of it. If you give up the idea of a trail and consider it as a ditch, all its peculiarities will be explained at once. It will account for its uniform grade, for its unexpected distinctness, and more than everything else, it will account for the fact that the 'trail' never once dipped down a hill or climbed one either, but always—invariably—went round the head of every gully, deep or shallow, that came in its way."

"Upon my word, Dick!" cried Arthur. "I believe you have made a discovery! I believe that it is the line of an old ditch, after all; though the pack-trains doubtless used it as a convenient road as far as the top of the cañon and then switched off down here by that shelf in the wall."

"That's my idea," said Dick, nodding his head.

"But, look here, Dick," Arthur went on, after a moment's thoughtful pause. "Suppose it is an old ditch—where did the water come from? That's the question. A ditch without water isn't much use."

Dick laughed. "No," said he. "I understand that well enough. The water came from this 'island,' up here above our heads, and was carried across the cañon in a flume!"

"Ah!" I cried. "I see! What we at first supposed to have been a bridge up there, built for the accommodation of the pack-trains, was in reality a flume for carrying water."

"That's what I believe," replied Dick.

"Well, but see here, Dick," remarked Arthur again. "Suppose that there was a flume there for carrying water—where's the water now? That's the point. That's what I want to know."

"Ah!" replied my partner. "And that was what I wanted to know, too. That was the very question that bothered me until I talked to Pedro about it just now. I asked him if he had ever seen or heard of a stream of water coming down from the top of this high land, and I can tell you he eased my mind of a load when he told me he had. He says there is a good big waterfall which jumps off the cliff on the north side of the 'island' and falls into this stream we are camped upon now, but about twelve or thirteen miles below this point, following the bends of the creek."

"Is that so? Then the chances are that that is the stream from which the Pueblos used to get their water. Did you ask Pedro if he knew of any way of getting up there?"

"Yes, I did, and I'm sorry to say he doesn't know of any. He says that this 'island' is really an island, being compassed about on all sides by cañons of varying depths; that it includes a large tract of country, part mountain and part plain; and that to the best of his knowledge, no man has ever set foot on it. In that, though, I'm pretty sure he's mistaken. In fact, it is as certain as anything can be that there is a way up somewhere, or else, how did the Pueblos get over there in the first place? They didn't fly across this gorge; and yet they must have worked from both sides at once when they built their flume."

"That's true. Well, Dick, it does look as though you had made a genuine discovery, and one likely to be of great value. What's your idea, then? You and Frank will stay here and hunt for the old Pueblo ditch-head, I suppose, while I dig out for home by myself. I wish I could stay and hunt with you, but there's no knowing how long it may take, and meanwhile my father and mother will be worrying themselves to know what has become of me. I've been here now a good bit longer than I intended. I must get back at once and——"

"Look here, Arthur," Dick interrupted. "Excuse me for cutting in, but I'd like to make a suggestion. There is just a possibility—I don't expect it, I own, but there is a possibility—that if Galvez were informed that you know how he came to be padron of Hermanos, and also of his connection with the Espinosas, he might get scared and skip out of his own accord—which would simplify matters for you very much. Now, here's what I propose—if you really are bound to leave at once."

"Yes," Arthur interjected. "I mustn't stay a minute longer than I can help."

"Well, then, I propose that before you go—it will only make a difference of a couple of hours—before you go, Frank and I will ride down to Hermanos, see old Galvez, tell him what you have told us, and recommend him to take his departure. Perhaps he'll be scared and skip out; but if he won't, why, then you'll know where you stand. How does that strike you?"

"Hm!" muttered Arthur, doubtfully. "I don't much like the idea of running you into danger. Galvez is such a treacherous fellow, there's no knowing what he might do to you."

"That's true enough," said Dick; "though I don't think he would attempt anything on two of us at once, and in broad daylight, too. It might be to his advantage to get rid of you or Pedro or both, but he would surely have sense enough to see that he wouldn't gain anything by hurting either of us."

"That's a fact. Well, suppose you go, then. But be careful."

"We'll be careful," replied my partner. "You needn't worry yourself on that account."

By this time we were ready to start, and accordingly we all rode together up the ledge until we came out again at the point where the old flume used to be—where we pointed out to Arthur the sockets in the rock—and thence, continuing to the foot of the mountain, Dick and I, leaving the others to wait for us, galloped off toward Hermanos.

By good fortune, as we approached the village, we saw Galvez himself down near the creek, where he was directing three of his vaqueros who were engaged in cutting out cows from a bunch of wild Mexican cattle.

Further down stream, only a short distance from the houses, we noticed half-a-dozen Mexican children, very busy making mud pies, quite unconcerned, apparently, at the proximity of the herd of cattle. It happened, however, that just as we came riding up to where Galvez sat on his horse, shouting orders to his men, a gaunt, wild-eyed, long-horned steer broke out of the bunch on the down-stream side. One of the cowmen dashed forward to turn it, when, to his astonishment, the steer, instead of running back into the bunch or attempting to dodge him, charged the rider and knocked him and his little broncho over and over. Then, wildly tossing its head, the beast made straight for the group of unsuspecting and defenceless children.

"Loco! Loco!" shouted Galvez. "Rope him, one of you!"

The two other men galloped forward, swinging their lariats, but the locoed steer, going like a scared antelope, had such a start that it looked as though it would surely reach the children before the men could catch it. Seeing this, Galvez pulled out his revolver and fired six shots at it in quick succession. Whether he hit the steer or not, I cannot say, but even if he did the range was too great for a revolver to be effective—unless by a lucky chance.

The children, hearing the shots, looked up, saw the steer coming, and scattered like a flock of sparrows—all but one of them, that is to say. He, a brown-bodied little three-year-old, without a scrap of clothing upon him except a piece of string tied round his middle, stood stock still, with his little hands full of mud, seemingly too frightened to move, and straight down upon this little bronze statue the crazy beast went charging.

It looked as though a tragedy were imminent!

It was at this moment that my partner and I came riding up behind Galvez, who, sitting on his horse with his back to us, his body interposed between us and the steer, had not seen us yet. It was no time for ceremony. Without wasting words in greetings or explanations, Dick jammed his heels into his pony's ribs; the pony sprang forward; Dick pulled him up short, leaped to the ground, threw up his rifle and fired a snap shot. Down went the steer, heels over head, gave one kick and lay dead—shot through the heart!

It was a grand shot! The three vaqueros, two on their horses and one on foot, carried away by their enthusiasm, forgot for once their habitual dread of the padron, and waving their hats above their heads joined me in a shout of applause; while as for Galvez, himself, he sat on his horse with his empty revolver in his hand, gazing open-mouthed first at Dick and then at the dead steer, seemingly rendered speechless for the moment.

At length he turned to me, who had come up close beside him, and said:

"Can he always do that?"

"Just about," I replied, with a nod. "He is one of the best shots in the State."

"Hm!" remarked the padron, sticking out his lower lip and thoughtfully scratching his chin with his thumb-nail; and though that was all he did say, the muttered exclamation conveyed to me as much meaning as if he had talked for five minutes.

That Dick's remarkable shot had made a great impression on him I felt certain, and it was a matter of much satisfaction to me to think that it had; for if at any time he should entertain the idea of resorting to violence against any of us, the recollection of how that steer had pitched heels over head would probably cause him to think again.

The whole episode had not occupied more than two minutes, at the end of which time Galvez, recovering himself, turned to us and said, in his usual gracious manner:

"Well, you two, what have you come back here for?"

"We have come down to speak to you," replied Dick, as he slipped another cartridge into his Sharp's rifle. "We have just parted with Señor Blake and El Tejon."

The padron scowled at the mention of the two names.

"Oh, you have, eh? Well, what then?" he asked.

"Señor Blake," my partner continued, "wished us to say that he has learned how you came to be padron of Hermanos. Pedro has told him the whole story—everything—the Espinosa business and all."

"Oh! And is that all?"

"That's all," said Dick.

The padron, I have no doubt, had been expecting some such communication and had made up his mind beforehand what to say, for, after sitting for a few seconds looking at Dick without a word, he smiled an unpleasant, toothless smile, and said:

"That's all, is it? Well, you go back to your Señor Blake and tell him that here I am and here I stay, and if he thinks that three beardless boys and a shiftless, half-crazy peon can make me move, why, he's welcome to try. There! That's all on my side." He started to ride off, but after a few steps stopped again to add: "Except this:—I recommend you two boys to get along back home as fast as you can and leave this young Blake—if that is really his name—to manage his own affairs. You may find it dangerous to be mixed up with them."

He said this in an aggressive, menacing tone; but I noticed, all the same, that his eye wandered involuntarily toward the dead steer, and I congratulated myself again on the lucky chance that had given Dick the opportunity to show his skill with a rifle. Galvez, I was convinced, would be exceedingly careful how he provoked a quarrel with any one who could shoot like that.

"Very well, señor," said Dick. "We will deliver your message. That is all we came for." And with that we turned round and rode away again.

In the course of an hour we were back at the foot of the mountain, where we found Arthur sitting on the ground waiting for us.

"Well, what luck?" he cried. "What did Galvez have to say?"

We told him all about our interview with the padron, not forgetting the episode of the wild steer, at hearing which Arthur expressed much gratification.

"That was a very fortunate chance," said he. "Galvez may profess to despise three beardless boys, but after seeing one of them shoot a running steer at three hundred yards, I expect he will think twice before he stirs up a fuss with them. It is just the sort of thing—and the only sort of thing, too—to make an impression on a man like that. What is your idea, Dick? Do you think he intends to stick it out, or was he only 'bluffing'?"

"I don't know," replied my partner. "I'm afraid he means to hold on. But though at present he puts on 'a brag countenance,' as the saying is, when he has had time to reconsider he might change his mind and skip. My impression is, though, that he means to hold on."

"I think so, too," said I. "What is Pedro's opinion?"

"Ah! Yes. Let us ask Pedro."

"Señores," said the Mexican, when Arthur had explained the whole matter to him in Spanish, "the padron is a pig, a mule. He will not move."

"Then that settles it!" cried Arthur, jumping up, walking away a few paces and coming back again. "I never really expected that Galvez would move, though it was worth trying. So now I'll be off at once. As for that old ditch-head, though I should have liked very much to stay and help hunt for it, you three can, as a matter of fact, make the search just as well without me. And whether you find it or whether you don't, makes no difference in one way—the business of getting Galvez out of Hermanos will have to proceed regardless of that or any other consideration. We have two things to do, you see:—To turn out Galvez and to find that ditch-head. The first is my business; the second is yours; and the sooner I get about mine the better, if I am to give you a clear title to your half-interest when you are ready to claim it."

"As to that," remarked Dick, "I don't think we ought to hold you to that bargain. It was made more or less in joke, anyhow."

"No, no, it wasn't!" cried Arthur, emphatically. "Not a bit of it! I meant it then and I mean it still. I'm quite content. You provide the water and I'll provide the land, as I said. It's a fair bargain. I don't want to be let off. But before I can perform my part of it I must prove my own title, and as I can't do it at this end of the line I'll waste no more time here, but get right back home as fast as I can and report the conditions to my father."

"Well," said Dick, after a moment's thoughtful silence, "I believe you are right. I believe that is the best way after all, unless——"

"Unless what?"

"Unless we abandon the whole thing."

"Abandon——!" cried Arthur; but he got no further, for Dick, holding up his hand, said, laughingly:

"All right, old man! All right! You needn't say any more. I only suggested it just to see what you would say. So you are determined to go through with this thing, are you? Very well, then, you may count on us to do our part if it's doable. Eh, Frank?"

I nodded. "We'll find that ditch-head," said I, "if we have to stay here till snow flies."

"Good!" cried Arthur. "Then that does settle it. I'll be off this minute. Bring my horse, Pedro: I'm going to start at once."

"Look here, Arthur," remarked Dick. "I think it would be a good plan if Frank and I were to escort you to the other side of Hermanos. Galvez, I expect, guessed what you were after when you first told him your name, and now he'll be sure of it, and it might be pretty dangerous for you if you should meet him alone; so we'll just ride part way with you and see you safely started."

"Thanks," replied Arthur. "I shall be glad of your company. Well, let us get off, then. Good-bye, Pedro. I expect you'll see me back here before very long. Adios!"

Thus taking leave of the burly Mexican, Arthur started off, Dick and I riding on either side of him.

Keeping about a mile to the north of Hermanos, we circled round that village, and were making our way southeastward toward the Cactus Desert, when we saw off to our right a great cloud of dust, and in the midst of it a bunch of cattle accompanied by three men.

At first we were suspicious that Galvez might be one of them, but pretty soon we discovered that they were the three vaqueros we had seen that morning. They, on their part, quickly detected us, when one of them immediately turned his horse and came riding toward us.

As soon as he had come pretty close I saw that it was the one whose horse had been knocked over by the locoed steer. This man, advancing to Dick, pulled off his hat, and speaking with considerable feeling, said:

"I wish to thank the señor who shoots so straight. It was my little boy who was in danger."

"Was it?" cried Dick. "I'm very glad, then, that I happened to make such a good shot. The steer was locoed, of course."

"Si, señor," replied the man. "It happens sometimes. This one was very bad. It should have been killed long ago, but the padron would not. I am grateful to the señor, and if I can serve him at any time I shall be glad."

"Thank you," said Dick. "What is your name?"

"José Santanna," replied the man.

"Well, José," continued Dick, "I'm much obliged to you for your offer, and if I need your help at any time I'll come and ask you."

"Gracias, señor," replied the man; and with that he turned and galloped after his companions.

"That's a good thing for us," remarked Arthur. "We may find it very handy to have an ally in the enemy's camp. And now, you fellows," he continued, "you may as well turn back. I'm safe enough now, and there is no need for you to come any further. I hope it won't be long before you see me back again. Meanwhile you'll search for that ditch-head, and if there is anything you can do toward getting the water down, you'll go ahead and do it. That's the plan, eh?"

"That's the plan," repeated my partner.

"Very well. Then, good-bye, and good luck to you!"

CHAPTER XVI The Old Pueblo Head-Gate

It was about two in the afternoon that we parted with our friend, and wishing him the best of success, we watched him ride away until the shimmering haze drawn by the heat of the sun from the surface of the valley, finally obscured him from our view altogether. Then, turning our ponies, we rode back up the mountain and once more descended to our camp, where we found Pedro waiting for us.

As it was then too late to begin any fresh enterprise, especially one so difficult as the attempt to climb the cañon-wall was likely to be, we determined to postpone the expedition until next morning. In order, too, that we might be in good fettle for the adventure, we went to bed that night as soon as it got dark; no more late hours for us; late hours at night not being conducive to clear heads in the morning—and it was more than likely that clear heads might be very essential to the success of the task in hand.

About an hour after sunrise we set off on foot down the left bank of the stream, making our way along the steep slope of stone scraps, big and little, which bordered its edge, and after a pretty rough scramble we reached a spot about a mile below camp where Pedro had told us he thought there was a possible way up—a narrow cleft in the rocky wall, none too wide to admit the passage of the Mexican's big body—and following the sturdy hunter, who acted as guide, we began the ascent.

There was no great difficulty about it at first, for the crevice, though still very narrow, was not particularly steep. After climbing up about three hundred feet, however, the ascent became much more abrupt, and presently we came to a place where the bed of the dry watercourse was blocked entirely by a smooth, water-worn mass of rock, twenty feet high, filling the whole width of the crevice, and overhanging in such a manner that even a lizard would have had difficulty in climbing up it.

We were looking about for some means of surmounting this obstacle, when Pedro, who had stepped back a little to survey it, called our attention to what appeared to be a number of steps, or, rather, foot-holes in the rock about ten feet up, just above the bulge.

"Hallo!" cried Dick. "This looks promising. Those holes were made with a purpose. I believe we've struck the original Pueblo highway after all."

"It does look like it," I agreed. "But how are we going to get up there?"

"Señor," said Pedro to Dick, "if you will stand on my shoulders, I think you can reach those holes."

"All right," replied Dick. "Let's try."

It was simple enough. Dick easily reached the lower steps, which, it was hardly to be doubted, had been cut for the purpose, and scrambled up to the top. Then, letting down the rope we had brought for such an emergency, he called to me to come up. With a boost from Pedro, and with the rope to hold on by, I was quickly standing beside my partner, when up came Pedro himself, hand over hand.

If this was really the road by which the Pueblos originally came up—and from those nicks in the rock we felt pretty sure it was—it was the roughest and by long odds the most upended road we had ever traveled over. It was, in fact, a climb rather than a walk: we had to use our hands nearly all the time.

We had come within a hundred feet of the top, when, looking upward, I was startled to see on an overhanging ledge a large, tawny, cat-like animal calmly sitting there looking down at us.

"Look there, Dick!" I cried. "What's that?"

"A mountain-lion!" exclaimed my partner. "My! What a shot!"

It happened, however, that we were at a point where it was necessary to hold on with our hands to prevent ourselves from slipping back; it was impossible to shoot. The "lion" therefore continued to stare at us and we at him, until Dick shouted at him, when the beast leisurely walked off and disappeared round a corner.

"Well!" remarked my companion. "I never saw a mountain-lion so calm and unconcerned before. As a rule they are the shyest of animals."

"All the animals up here are like that," remarked Pedro. "Many times since I have lived on the mountain I have seen them come down to the edge of the cañon to look at me—deer and even mountain-sheep and wolves; yes, many times wolves. They have no fear of man."

"That's queer," said I. "I wonder why not."

"Señor," replied Pedro, looking rather surprised at my lack of intelligence, "it is simple: since the days of the Pueblos there has been no man up here."

"Why, I suppose there hasn't!" cried Dick. "That didn't occur to me before, either. It will be interesting to see how the wild animals behave, Frank. It will be like Robinson Crusoe on his island."

He spoke in Spanish, as we always did when Pedro was in company, not wishing him to feel that he was left out. It was Pedro who replied.

"I know not," said he, "the honorable gentleman, Señor Don Crusoe, of whom you speak, but for ourselves we must have care."

"Why, Pedro. What do you mean?"

"The wolves up here are many, and they will surely smell us out."

"Well, suppose they do, Pedro. What then?" asked Dick, jokingly. "You are not afraid of wolves, are you?"

This seemed a reasonable question, remembering how boldly he had faced them that time at the head of the Mescalero valley.

"Most times I have no fear," replied Pedro, simply, "but up here it is different. These wolves know not what a man is; they will smell us out, and they will think only, 'Here is something to eat;' they do not know enough to be afraid."

"I suppose that is likely," Dick assented. "You are quite right, Pedro: we must take care. I don't suppose there will be anything to fear from them during daylight, but we'll keep a sharp lookout, all the same. Come on, let us get forward."

In another ten minutes we had reached the top, when, turning up-stream, we presently came to the dry gully which led down to where the old flume once stood. Thence, turning "inland," as one might say, we followed up the bed of this gully, finding that it had its head in a little grassy basin which looked as though it had once been a small lake. In crossing this basin we stirred up from among the bushes a band of blacktail deer, which ran off about fifty yards and then stood still to look at us; these usually shy animals being evidently consumed with curiosity at the sight of three strange beasts walking on their hind legs. Undoubtedly, we were the first human beings they had ever encountered.

We did not molest them, but pursuing our course across the little basin, we were about to proceed up a narrow, stony draw at its further end, when a sudden scurry of feet behind us caused us to look back. The band of deer had vanished, and in their stead were four wolves, which, when we turned round, drew up in line and stood staring at us!

As Dick had said, the wild animals up here were making themselves decidedly "interesting."

Pedro had an arrow fitted to his bow in an instant, while Dick and I simultaneously cocked our rifles and stood ready. The wolves, however, remained stationary; it was evidently curiosity and not hunger that inspired them. Seeing this, I picked up a pebble and threw it at them, just to see what they would think of it. The stone struck the ground close under their noses, making them all start, passed between two of them and went hopping along the ground, when, to our great amusement, the whole row of them turned, ran after the stone, sniffed at it, one after the other, and then came back to the old position. It looked so comical that Dick and I burst out laughing; whereupon the wolves, who had doubtless never heard such a sound before, retreated a few paces, where they once more turned round to stare at us.

"Well, Pedro!" cried Dick. "They don't seem to be very dangerous. If all the wolves up here are like that we needn't be afraid of them."

"They are not hungry just now," replied Pedro, so significantly that our merriment was checked; "and you see for yourselves," he added, "that a man is a new animal to them. They know not what to make of us. It is that which makes me uneasy. A big pack of hungry wolves would be very dangerous, for the reason that they have never learned that we are dangerous, too. For me, I am afraid of them."

Such an admission, coming from such a man, one who, we knew, was not lacking in courage, was impressive; so, in order that he should not regard us as merely a pair of careless, light-headed boys, Dick assured him in all earnestness that we had no intention of treating the matter lightly; that we fully understood and agreed with his view of the matter.

"You are quite right, Pedro," said he. "We can't afford to be careless. A pack of wolves is dangerous enough when you know what to expect of them, but when you don't——! It will pay us to be careful, all right; there's no doubt about that. Come on, now. Let us get ahead. Those beasts back there have gone off—to tell the others, perhaps."

Proceeding up the stony draw for about half a mile, we presently came upon a most unexpected sight:—a little lake, covering perhaps a space of twenty acres, its surface, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the trees and rocks surrounding it, and dotted all over with hundreds of wild ducks and geese.

"Here's the head of the ditch!" cried Dick, exultingly. "Here's where the Pueblos got their water! They drew from this lake down the gully we have just come up. The mouth of the draw has been blocked by the caving of the sides, you see, but it will be an easy job to dig a narrow trench through the dam, and then the pitch is so great that the water will soon scour a channel for itself. Don't you think so, Pedro? The water must have run down here, filled the grassy basin where the deer were, flowed out at its lower end down the gully to the flume, and then by the ditch over the foothills to the valley. Wasn't that the way of it, Pedro?"

It was natural that Dick should address his question to the Mexican rather than to me, for Pedro, one of a race that had followed irrigation for centuries, knew far more of its practical possibilities than I did, and his opinion was infinitely more valuable than mine was likely to be. In reply, he nodded his big head and said, gravely:

"That is it. It is not possible to doubt. The Pueblos drew their water from the lake at this point. That is very sure. But——"

"But what?" asked Dick.

"This lake is small, and I see nowhere any stream coming into it," replied Pedro.

"That's a fact," Dick assented. "Perhaps it is fed by underground springs. Let us walk round the lake and see where the water runs out and how much of a stream there is. That is what concerns us. Where it comes from doesn't matter particularly—it's how much of it there is."

Our walk round the little lake, however, resulted in a disappointment which staggered us for the moment. There was no outlet. The lake was land-locked; the one insignificant rivulet we found running into it being evidently no more than enough to counterbalance the daily evaporation.

"Well," remarked Dick, after a long pause, "there is one thing sure: the Pueblos never built a flume and dug that big, long ditch to carry this trifling amount of water. This lake, after all, was not the source of supply, as we were supposing. It was a reservoir, perhaps, but nothing more. The real source was somewhere higher up."

If Dick was right—and there could be hardly a doubt that he was—the most promising direction in which to continue our search would be on the west side of the lake, whence the little rivulet came down. An examination of the ravine in which the stream ran showed evidence that it had at one time carried much more water than at present, so, with hopes renewed, we set off at once along its steep, stony bed.

The country on that side was very rough and precipitous, and the ravine itself, reasonably wide at first, became narrower and narrower, and its sides more and more lofty, until presently it became so contracted that we might have imagined ourselves to be walking up a very narrow lane with rows of ten-story houses on either side. The sky above us was a mere ribbon of blue.

After climbing upward for about half a mile, we began to catch occasional glimpses ahead of us of a frowning cliff which bade fair to bar our further progress altogether, and we were beginning to wonder whether we had not chosen the wrong ravine after all, when suddenly, with one accord, we all stopped short and cocked our ears. There was a sound of running water somewhere close by!