NOTWITHSTANDING their change in fortunes,
Roderick and Grant still made the editor’s shack their home—the
old place endeared to them by many fond associations. A few days after
Whitley Adams’ visit they were seated at the breakfast table, and
Grant had proposed that they should go deer hunting.
“Excellent weather,” he explained, “as the snow is just deep
enough up in the mountains to drive the deer down. Finest sport in the
world. Nothing like going after big game.”
“You almost persuade me,” said Roderick, setting down his coffee
and looking at Grant with increased interest. “All the same I hate
to leave the smelter plant even for a day or two. You see I’m just
beginning to get a hang of the business, and I’ve quite made up my
mind to master it.”
“Oh, let it rip. You’re not tied down to the works, are you?”
“Certainly not—you don’t imagine I think myself qualified as yet
to be tied down. ‘But what about guns?”
“Oh, well,” said Grant, “I have a.32 Winchester, one that has
got a record too, by gunnies, as Jim Rankin would say. Its record is
great.”
“How big a record?” inquired Roderick.
“Seven deer,” answered Grant.
“All your own killing?”
“Well, no. To be downright truthful since you force me to
particularize, I’ll admit I never killed but one deer with it.
But that does not interfere with the gun’s record.” And then he
continued: “I have no doubt Major Hampton will be delighted to loan
you his gun. He has a .30 calibre Government Springfield and in his hands
it has accounted for many a buck.”
After breakfast they called on Major Hampton.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Major as he opened the door and
bade them welcome.
“We are going deer hunting,” said Grant, quite enthusiastically.
“I have a gun, but this-would-be-slayer-of-big-game, Roderick, is
gunless and when we return he may be deerless. Was just wondering,
Major, if you would care to loan your famous deer killer to him. Guess
its long record,” he added, “would fill a book.”
“Why, certainly,” replied the Major in an absent-minded way;
and then presently he went on: “Do not interpret my hesitation as
unwillingness to accommodate you. It is well you came just when you did,
for within half an hour I myself will be starting for the mountains and
my mind was pre-occupied with my own little preparations.”
“Can’t you come with us, Major?” asked Grant.
“But I won’t be depriving you of your gun?” enquired Roderick
simultaneously.
“I answer ‘no’ to both questions,” was the smiling response.
“I am going out on one of my lonesome excursions—to commune
with Nature face to face for a brief spell. And when I go I need no
rifle—even the very deer there are my trustful friends.”
Then turning he took down his rifle from its accustomed place and
brought it over to Roderick.
“This old Springfield has served me well,” he said, smiling in his
own magnificent way. “It was my friend in dark days of need. In my
lifetime, gentlemen, I have never spilled the blood of any living thing
wantonly, and I do not believe man is justified in taking the life of
even a worm on the pathway, a rabbit in the hills, cattle or sheep in
the fields, or a deer in the wilds unless it is for food and to sustain
life.”
Then suddenly looking at Grant the Major said: “I understand W. R.
Grady is up in the hills?”
“Yes, so I have heard.”
“What is he doing? Looking for a mine?”
“Possibly. They say he is at the Thomas Boarding House most of the
time up at Battle.”
“Guess,” interrupted Roderick, “that he is not very happy
since the new order of things—your new plan, Major—put him out of
business.”
“Perhaps he is getting in touch again with his old heeler, Bud
Bledsoe,” suggested Grant. “That outlaw gang has been lying low
for quite a while, but I’m expecting to hear about some new bit of
deviltry any day. Am in need of a corking good newspaper story.”
“Well, since you are bent on hunting big game,” laughed the Major,
“these miscreants might provide you with all the exciting sport you
are wanting.”
“Oh, a brace of good fat bucks will be good enough for us. Where’s
the likeliest place to start from, Major? You’re the local authority
on these matters.”
“You know where Spirit River Falls are?” asked Buell Hampton.
“I’ve heard of them but have never been there,” replied Grant.
“I think that I’ve seen them from above,” observed Roderick,
“but I don’t know the way to them.”
“Well, you know where Gid Sutton’s half-way house is located?”
“Certainly,” replied Roderick. “I was there less than a month
ago.”
“Well, Spirit River Falls are located about six or seven miles south
and east of the half-way house. I advise that one of you go up the South
Fork of the Encampment River and the other keep to the right and go over
the hills past Conchshell ranch into a park plateau to the south; then
have your meeting place this evening in an old log structure that you
will find about three-fourths of a mile directly through the timber
southeast from the falls. If you are wise, you will load up two or three
burros, send them with a trusty, and have him make camp for you in this
old deserted hut. You will find a cup of coffee, a rasher of bacon and
a few sandwiches very appetizing by the time you have tramped all day in
your deer-hunting quest And the country all around is full of deer.”
The young men thanked him warmly for his advice.
“In point of fact,” continued Buell Hampton, “I’ll be up in the
same region myself. But I’m travelling light and will have the start
of you. Moreover, we can very easily lose each other in that rugged
country of rocks and timber. But don’t mistake me for a buck,
Roderick, if you catch sight of my old sombrero among the brushwood;”
saying which he reached for the broad-brimmed slouch hat hanging against
the wall.
“I’ll take mighty good care,” replied Roderick. “But I hope
we’ll run up against you, Major, all the same.”
“No, you won’t find me,” answered Buell Hampton, with a quiet
smile. “I’ll be hidden from all the world. Follow the deer, young
men, and the best of luck to you.”
The two comrades started away in high feather, anticipating great
results from the tip given them by the veteran hunter. Going straight to
the livery bam, they rigged out three burros, and sent with them one
of the stablemen who, besides being a fairly good cook, happened to
be familiar with the trail to Spirit River Falls, and also knew the
location of the “hunter’s hut” as they found the old log structure
indicated by Buell Hampton was locally named.
These arrangements concluded, Roderick and Grant started for the hills.
Some half a mile from Encampment they separated—Jones going along
the east bank of the South Fork of the Encampment River and Roderick
following the North Fork until he came to Conchshell canyon. The day was
an ideal one for a deer hunt. There was not a breath of wind. The sky
was overcast in a threatening manner as if it were full of snow that was
liable to flutter down at the slightest provocation.
As Roderick reached the plateau that constituted the Conchshell ranch
he concluded to bear to the left and as he said to himself “Keep away
from temptation.” He was out hunting wild deer that day and he must
not permit himself to make calls on a sweet-throated songster like Gail.
On through the open fields and over the fences and into a thick growth
of pines and firs, where he plodded his way through snow that crunched
and cried loudly under his feet Indeed the stillness of everything
excepting his own walking began to grate on his nerves and he said to
himself that surely a whitetailed deer with ordinary alertness could
hear him walking even if it were half a mile away.
As he trudged along mile after mile he was very watchful for game or
tracks, but nothing stirred, no trace of deer was discernible in any
direction. He was following the rim of a hill surmounting some boxlike
canyons that led away abruptly to the left, while a smooth field or park
reached far to the right where the hills were well covered with timber.
Here and there an opening of several acres in extent occurred without
bush or shrub.
It was perhaps one o’clock in the afternoon and he was becoming a bit
leg-weary. Brushing the snow away from a huge boulder he seated
himself for a short rest. Scarcely had he done so than he noticed that
occasional flakes of snow were falling. “More snow,” he muttered
to himself, “and I am a good ways from a cup of coffee if I am any
judge.”
After he was rested he got up and again moved on. Just then, as he
looked down into a box canyon, he saw three deer—a doe and two
half-grown fawns. Quickly bringing his gun to his shoulder his first
impulse was to fire. But he realized that it would be foolish for
the animals were at least five hundred yards away and far below the
elevation where he was standing.
“No,” he said to himself, “I will leave the rim of this mountain
and get down into the canyon.”
He hastily retreated, and took a circuitous route intending to head off
the deer. In due time he approached the brow of the precipitous bluff
and after walking back and forth finally found a place where he
believed he could work his way down into the canyon. It was a dangerous
undertaking—far more so than Roderick knew—and might have proved his
undoing.
He was perhaps half way down the side of the cliff, working his way back
and forth, when suddenly some loose stones slipped from under his feet
and away he went, sliding in a sitting position down the side of the
mountain. He had sufficient presence of mind to hold his gun well away
from him to prevent any possible accident from an accidental discharge.
The cushioning of the snow under him somewhat slowed his descent, yet he
could not stop. Down and down he went, meeting with no obstruction that
might have given him a momentary foothold. Presently he saw, to his
great relief of mind, that he was headed for a small fir tree that had
rooted itself on a ledge near the bottom of the canyon. A moment later
his feet came thump against its branches, and while the jar and shock of
suddenly arrested motion were very considerable yet they were not enough
to be attended with any serious consequences.
Somewhat dazed, he remained seated for a few moments. But soon he found
his footing, and pulling himself together, brushed away the snow from
his apparel and made sure that his gun was all right. After a glance
around he picked his way down some distance farther into the canyon, and
then turning to the right along a little ledge started in the direction
where he expected to sight the deer higher up the hill.
Suddenly he stopped. There were the deer tracks right before him going
down the gorge.
“By George,” he muttered aloud, “I did not get far enough down.
However, I will follow the tracks.” And forthwith he started on the
trail, cautiously but highly expectant.
The direction was westerly, but he had not gone far until the canyon
made an elbow turn to the south and then a little farther on to the
east. “I wonder,” said Roderick to himself, “what sort of a maze I
am getting into. This canyon is more crooked than an old-fashioned worm
fence or a Wyoming political boss.”
The box canyon continued to grow deeper and the rocky cliffs higher,
zig-zagging first one way and then another until Roderick gave up all
pretense of even guessing at the direction he was travelling.
“Strange I have never heard of this narrow box-canyon before,” he
thought.
After walking briskly along for about an hour, keeping the tracks of the
retreating deer in view, he suddenly came to an opening. A little valley
was spread out before him, and to his amazement there were at least a
hundred deer herded together in the park-like enclosure.
Roderick rubbed his eyes and looked up at the high and abrupt precipices
that surrounded this open valley on every side. It seemed to him that
the walls rose sheer and almost perpendicular several hundred feet to
the rocky rim above. He followed on down, filled with wonderment, and
presently was further astonished by finding several great bubbling
springs. Each basin was fully a hundred feet across, and the agitated
waters evidently defied freezing, for they fairly boiled in their
activity, overflowing and coming together to form quite a big tumbling
mountain stream.
Stealthily following on and keeping the great herd in view he mentally
speculated on the surprise he would give Grant Jones when he came to
display the proofs of his prowess as a hunter of the hills. Surely
with his belt full of cartridges and the large number of deer in sight,
although as yet too far away to risk a shot, he could add several
antlered heads to Grant’s collection. The stream grew larger. There
were a number of other springs feeding their surplus waters into brooks
which eventually all joined the main stream, and he mentally resolved
that the next time Gail and he went trout-fishing they would visit this
identical spot. He laughed aloud and asked the question: “Will she be
mine so that we may come together for a whole week into this beautiful
dell?”
The farther he advanced the less snow he found in the strange,
rock-fenced valley. The grasses had grown luxuriantly in the summer
season, and the deer were browsing in seeming indifference to his
presence yet moving on away from him all the time. He began wondering
if all this were a mirage or a reality. He looked a second time at the
slowly receding herd and again he laughed aloud. “Such foolishness,”
he exclaimed. “It is an absolute reality, and right here I will make
my name and fame as a hunter.”
He stopped suddenly, for just across the stream, standing among the
boulders and pebbles of an old channel, were four deer, not two hundred
feet away. They were looking at him in mild-eyed wonder, one of them a
noble, splendidly antlered buck. Lifting the Major’s Springfield to
his shoulder Roderick sighted along the barrel and fired. Three of the
deer ran away. But the buck jumped high into the air, attempted to climb
the opposite bank, failed and fell backward.
Hurriedly crossing over the stream and slipping in his excitement off
the stones into knee-deep water, he came quickly up to the wounded deer.
Instantly the animal bounded to his feet, but fell again. Roderick fired
a second shot which reached a vital spot. The magnificent denizen of the
hills had been vanquished in the uneven contest with man’s superior
knowledge and deadly skill.
The novice in huntsman’s craft had received all sorts of book
instructions and verbal explanations from Grant Jones. So he at once
drew his hunting knife, thrust it into the jugular vein of the dying
deer, and bled him copiously. Only the hunter knows the exultant
feelings of mingled joy and excitement that possessed Roderick at that
moment. His first deer! Resting the gun against a small cottonwood
tree that grew on a raised bank between the old channel and the flowing
waters, he walked to the stream, washed the crimson from his knife, and
returned the weapon to its sheath.
Then he looked around to get his bearings. He knew he had come with
the waters from what seemed to be a westerly direction. The stream was
evidently flowing toward the east. As he walked along in the old channel
over the sandbar he kicked the rocks and pebbles indifferently, and then
stopped suddenly, gasped and looked about him.
On every side the mountains rose precipitately fully six or seven
hundred feet. There was no visible outlet for the stream.
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed with bated breath, “that I am in
the lost canyon? And this,” he said, stooping down and picking up a
nugget of almost pure gold—“is this the sandbar on which my father
and Uncle Allen Miller found their treasure yeans and years ago?
Marvelous! Marvelous! Marvelous!”
For the moment the slain deer was forgotten. His achievement as a hunter
of big game no longer thrilled him. He was overwhelmed by a mightier
surge of emotion.
“Yes,” he said finally in a low voice of conviction, “this at last
is the lost find!”
And he sank down on the gold-strewn pebbly sandbar, limp and helpless,
completely overcome.
A minute later he had recovered his composure. He stood erect He
gazed down the valley. The startled herd of deer had vanished into the
brushwood and low timber.
But there, slowly ascending along the river bed, was the figure of Buell
Hampton. Roderick stood stockstill, lost in amazement, waiting.