THE TRAIL OF THE BADGER
[Illustration: "DICK PUSHED HIS RIFLE-BARREL THROUGH A CREVICE IN THE
ROCKS."]
The Trail of The Badger
_A STORY OF THE COLORADO BORDER THIRTY YEARS AGO_
BY
SIDFORD F. HAMP
_Author of "Dale and Fraser, Sheepmen,"
"The Boys of Crawford's Basin," etc._
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHASE EMERSON
[Illustration: logo]
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO
_Copyrighted, 1908_ BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY _All rights reserved_
THE TRAIL OF THE BADGER
PREFACE
In writing the adventures of the boys who followed "The Trail of the
Badger" down into that part of Colorado where the fringes of two
discordant civilizations overlapped each other--the strenuous
Anglo-Saxon and the easygoing Mexican--the author has endeavored to show
how two healthy, enterprising young fellows were able to do their little
part in that great work of Desert Reclamation whose importance is now as
well understood by the general public as it always has been by those
whose lot has been cast to the west of meridian one hundred and five.
To some it may appear that the boys are ahead of their time, but to the
author, whose introduction to "the arid region" dates back thirty years
and more, remembering the conditions then prevailing, it seems no more
than natural that they should recognize the unusual opportunity
presented to them of making a career for themselves, and even that they
should be dimly conscious of the fact that if they "could make two ears
of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground where
only one grew before" they would be deserving well of the infant
community of which they formed a part.
That in making this attempt they would meet with adventures--in fact,
that they could hardly avoid them--the author, recalling his own
experiences in that country at that time, feels well assured.
CONTENTS
I. DICK STANLEY 11
II. SHEEP AND CINNAMON 32
III. THE MESCALERO VALLEY 51
IV. RACING THE STORM 68
V. HOW DICK BROUGHT THE NEWS 87
VI. THE PROFESSOR'S STORY 102
VII. DICK'S DIPLOMACY 116
VIII. THE START 129
IX. ANTONIO MARTINEZ 147
X. THE PADRON 165
XI. THE SPANISH TRAIL 179
XII. THE BADGER 191
XIII. THE KING PHILIP MINE 203
XIV. A CHANGE OF PLAN 221
XV. DICK'S SNAP SHOT 241
XVI. THE OLD PUEBLO HEAD-GATE 259
XVII. THE BRIDGE 276
XVIII. THE BIG FLUME 294
XIX. PEDRO'S BOLD STROKE 313
XX. THE MEMORABLE TWENTY-NINTH 333
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Dick pushed his rifle-barrel through a crevice in
the rocks" (_Frontispiece_) 42
"It was a splendid chance; nobody could ask for a
better target" 57
"Passing on our way through the town of Mosby" 137
"Behind him, stood the squat figure of Pedro Sanchez" 213
"I could not think what he was doing it for" 286
The Trail of the Badger
CHAPTER I
DICK STANLEY
"Look out! Look out! Behind you, man! Behind you! Jump quick, or he'll
get you!"
It was a boy, a tall, spare, wiry young fellow of sixteen, who shouted
this warning, his voice, in its frantic urgency, rising almost to a
shriek at the end; and it was another boy, also tall, spare and wiry, to
whom the warning was shouted. The latter turned to look behind him, and
for one brief instant his whole body stiffened with fear--his very hair
stood on end. Nor is this a mere figure of speech: the boy's hair did
actually stand on end: he could feel it "creep" against the crown of his
hat. _I know_--for I was the boy!
That I had good reason to be "scared stiff" I think any other boy will
admit, for, not thirty feet below me, coming quickly and silently up
the rocks, his little gleaming eyes fixed intently upon me, was a grim
old cinnamon bear, an animal which, though less dangerous than his big
cousin, the grizzly, is quite dangerous enough when he is thoroughly in
earnest.
But for my companion's warning shout the bear would surely have caught
me, and my story would have come to an end at the very beginning of the
first chapter.
It was certainly an awkward situation, about as awkward, I should think,
as any boy ever got himself into; and how I, Frank Preston, lately a
schoolboy in St. Louis, happened to find myself on a spur of Mescalero
Mountain, in Colorado, with a cinnamon bear charging up the rocks within
a few feet of me, needs a word of explanation.
I will therefore go back a few steps in order to give myself space for a
preliminary run before jumping head-first into my story, and will tell
not only how I came to be there, but will relate also the curious
incident which first brought me into contact with my future friend, Dick
Stanley; an incident which, while it served as an introduction, at the
same time gave me some idea of the resourcefulness and promptness of
action with which his very peculiar training had endowed him.
It was in the last week of October, 1877, that I was seated one evening
in my room in St. Louis, very busy preparing my studies for next day,
when the door opened suddenly and in walked my Uncle Tom.
When, at the age of seven, I had been left an orphan, Uncle Tom, my
mother's brother, though himself a bachelor, had taken charge of me, and
with him I had lived ever since. He and I, I am glad to say, were the
best of friends--regular chums--for, though twenty years my senior, he
seemed in some respects to be as young as myself, and our relations were
more like those of elder and younger brother than of uncle and nephew.
Uncle Tom was rather short and rather fat, and he was moreover one of
the jolliest of men, being blessed with a disposition which prompted him
always to see the bright side of things, no matter how dark and
threatening they might look. Having at a very early age been pitched out
into the world to "fend for himself," and having by square dealing and
hard work done remarkably well, he had imbibed the idea that
book-learning as a means of getting on in the world was somewhat
overrated; an idea which, right or wrong--and I think myself that Uncle
Tom carried it rather too far--was to have a decided effect in shaping
my own career.
As it was against the rule, laid down by Uncle Tom himself, for any one
to disturb me at my studies, I naturally looked up from my books to
ascertain the cause of the intrusion, when, with a cigar in his mouth
and his hands in his pockets, he came bulging in, half filling the
little room.
That there was something unusual in the wind I felt sure, and my
guardian's first act went far to confirm my suspicion, for, removing one
hand from his pocket, he quietly reached forward and with his finger
tilted my book shut.
"Put 'em away," said he. "You won't need them for a month or more."
As the fall term of school was then in full swing, this declaration was
a good deal of a surprise to me, as any one will suppose, and doubtless
I showed as much in my face.
"I have a scheme in my head, Frank," said he, with a knowing wag of that
member, in reply to my look of inquiry.
"I know _that_," I replied, laughing; for there never was a moment when
Uncle Tom had not a scheme in his head of one sort or another.
"You spider-legged young reptile!" cried he, with perfect good humor,
but at the same time shaking a threatening finger at me. "Don't you dare
to laugh at my schemes; especially this one. For this is a brand-new
idea, and a very important one--to you. I'm leaving to-morrow night for
Colorado."
"Are you?" I cried, a good deal surprised by this sudden announcement.
"When did you decide upon that?"
"To-day. I got a letter this afternoon from my friend, Sam Warren, the
assayer, written from Mosby--if you know where that is."
I shook my head.
"I didn't suppose you did," remarked Uncle Tom. "It is a new mining camp
on one of the spurs of Mescalero Mountain in Colorado, and in the
opinion of Sam Warren--my old schoolmate, you know--it has a great
future before it. So he has written me that if I have the time to spare
I had better come out and take a look at it."
Uncle Tom's business was that of a mining promoter, the middle man
between the prospector and the capitalist, a business in which his
ability and his honorable methods had gained for him an enviable
reputation.
"So you have decided to go out, have you?" said I.
"Yes," he replied. "I leave to-morrow evening--and you are coming with
me."
As may be imagined, I opened my eyes pretty widely at this unfolding of
the "brand-new idea."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Look here, Frank, old chap," said he, seating himself on the edge of
the table and becoming confidential. "You've stuck to your books very
well--if anything, too well. Now, I've had my eye on you ever since the
hot weather last summer, and it strikes me you need a change--you are
too pale and altogether too thin."
Being fat and "comfortable" himself, Uncle Tom was disposed to regard
with pity any one, like myself, whose framework showed through its
covering.
"But----" I began; when Uncle Tom headed me off.
"Now you be quiet," said he, "and let me finish. I've had some such idea
brewing in my head for some time; it isn't a sudden freak, as you
imagine. I've considered the matter carefully, and I've come to the
conclusion that you'll lose nothing by the move. In fact, what you will
lose by missing a month or so of schooling will be more than made up to
you by the eye-opener you will get in making this expedition."
"How so?" I asked.
"You will make the acquaintance of a young State just learning to walk
alone--for, as you know, it was only last year that Colorado came into
the Union; you will see a new mining camp, and rub up against the men,
good, bad and indifferent, who go to make up the community of a frontier
town; and more than that, you will get at first hand, what you never
could get by sitting here and reading about it, a correct idea of the
country traversed by the explorers--Pike, Frémont and the rest of them.
"I am honestly of opinion, Frank," he went on, seriously, "that this is
an opportunity not to be neglected. At the same time, old fellow, as it
is your education and not mine that is under discussion, I consider that
you have a right to a voice in the matter; so I'll leave you to think it
over, and to-morrow at breakfast you can tell me whether you are coming
or not."
With that, Uncle Tom slipped down from the table, walked out and shut
the door behind him. That was his way: he was always as sudden as a clap
of thunder.
Anybody will guess that my books did not receive much more attention
that evening. For an hour I paced up and down the room, considering
Uncle Tom's proposition. It was true that I did feel pulled down by the
effects of the hot weather, combined with a pretty close application to
my books, and I had no doubt that the expedition proposed would do me a
world of good; though whether my education would be benefited in like
manner I was not so sure as Uncle Tom seemed to be.
But though I did my best honestly to consider the question in all its
aspects, there can be little doubt that my inclinations--whether I was
aware of it or not--colored my judgment, so that my final decision was
just what might have been expected in any active boy of sixteen. As the
clock struck ten I ran down-stairs and informed Uncle Tom that I was
going with him.
It is not necessary to go into all the details of our journey, though to
me, who had never before been a hundred miles from home, everything was
new and everything was interesting. It is enough to say that, leaving
the train at the foot of the mountains--for the railroad then went no
further--we engaged places in the mail-carrier's open buckboard, and
after a very rough and very tiring drive of a day and a half we at last
reached our destination and were set down at the door of a house outside
which hung a "shingle" bearing the legend, "Samuel Warren, Assayer and
U. S. Dep. Min. Surveyor."
It will be remembered that one of Uncle Tom's reasons for breaking into
my school term was that I should rub up against the citizens comprising
a frontier settlement. He could hardly have contemplated, however, that
I should come in contact with quite so many of them quite so early in
the day as I did.
We had hardly sat down to the refreshments spread before us by our
host--a big, bearded man, clad in a suit of brown canvas--when we, in
common with the rest of the community, were startled by the sudden
shriek of a woman in distress. To rush to the door was the work of a
moment, when, the first thing we caught sight of was a man, clad only in
his nightshirt, running like a madman up the street, while far behind
him, and losing ground at every step, ran a woman, calling out with all
the breath she had to spare--which was not much--"Stop him! Stop him!"
"It's Tim Donovan!" shouted the assayer. "He's sick with the
mountain-fever! He's crazy! Head him off! Head him off! The poor chap
will die of exposure!"
Warren's house was near the upper end of the street, and just as we
three jumped down the porch steps, the demented fugitive passed the
door, going like the wind. At once we set off in pursuit, while behind
us came all the rest of the population and most of the dogs, by this
time roused to action by the cries of the sick man's wife.
Nobody knows until he has tried it how hard it is to run up-hill at an
elevation of nine thousand feet, especially to one unaccustomed to such
altitudes. Uncle Tom, who was not built for such exercise, fell out in
the first fifty yards, while, of the others, the short-winded barroom
loafers--of whom, as is always the case in a new camp, there were more
than enough--gave out even more quickly, their habits of life being a
fatal handicap in a foot-race. One by one, nearly all the rest came down
to a walk, until presently the only ones left with any run in them were
Jake Peters and Oscar Swansen, both timber-cutters from the hills,
Aleck Smith, a wiry little teamster, and myself.
As for me, having the advantage of a good start over everybody else,
being only sixteen years old, and having a reputation at school as a
long-distance runner, it seemed as though I ought to be able to catch
the unfortunate fugitive, who, having run a quarter of a mile already,
should by this time be out of breath.
Indeed, I believe I should have caught him at the first dash had he not
resorted to tactics which made me chary of coming near him. Not more
than thirty yards separated us and I was gaining steadily, when he,
barefooted himself and making no noise, hearing the clatter of my shoes
behind him, suddenly stopped, picked up a stone and hurled it at me. It
would have taken me square in the chest had I not jumped aside; when,
finding that the man was really dangerous, and knowing very well that I
should have no chance whatever in a personal struggle with him--for he
was a stout young Irish miner with a fore-arm like a leg of mutton--I
contented myself with trotting behind and keeping him in sight; trusting
to the able-bodied men following me to do the tackling when the
opportunity should arise.
The town of Mosby consisted of one steep street about half a mile long
and two houses thick; for it was situated in a valley, or, rather, in a
gorge, so narrow that there was no room for it to spread except at the
two ends. In truth, there was no room for it to grow except southward,
for at the upper, or northern, end the mountains came together, forming
an inaccessible cañon through which rushed the little stream of ice-cold
water coming down from Mescalero.
From the lower end of this cañon the stream fell perpendicularly into a
great hole in the rocks--a sort of natural chimney, or well, about sixty
feet deep. The down-stream side of this "chimney" was split from top to
bottom, and through the narrow crack, only four or five feet wide, the
water leaped foaming down in a series of miniature cascades. The only
way of getting into this deep pit was by taking to the water, scrambling
up the steep, step-like bed of the stream and passing through the crack,
when, once inside, a man might defy the world to come and get him out.
This was exactly what Tim Donovan did. Seeing that he could follow the
stream no further, I was wondering whether he would take to the
mountain on the right or the one on the left, when he suddenly jumped
into the water, ran up the smooth, wet "steps," and disappeared from
sight through the crevice. In ten seconds, however, he showed himself
again. He had found in the driftwood a ragged branch of a pine tree
about three feet long, and with this in one hand and a ten-pound stone
in the other he stood at bay, regardless of the icy water which poured
over his feet, or of the spray from the fall behind him, which in half a
minute had wet his thin single garment through and through.
It was an impregnable stronghold. No one could get in from the rear, and
the place could not be rushed from the front--the ascent was too steep
and slippery and the entrance too narrow. If Tim were determined to stay
there and perish with cold, it appeared to me that nobody could do
anything to prevent him.
One by one the pursuers joined me before the entrance, when Mrs.
Donovan, who was among the last to arrive, advanced as near as she could
without getting into the water, and besought her errant husband to come
down.
But Tim was deaf to entreaty; all the blandishments of his anxious wife
were without effect, and if she could not get him to come down it
appeared as though nobody could.
Tim, though, was a popular young fellow, and it was not in the nature of
a Colorado miner, or of an Irishman either--for they hold together like
burrs in a horse's tail--to desert a comrade in distress. So, Mrs.
Donovan having failed, there stepped to the front a short, thick-set,
red-haired man, Mike O'Brien by name, Tim's partner and particular
crony, who, talking pleasantly and naturally to him, as though his
friend were quite sane and rational, stepped into the water and waded
carefully up the steep slope.
"How are ye, Tim, me boy?" said he, with off-hand cordiality. "It's glad
I am to see ye out again. It's me birthday to-day, Tim; I'm having a bit
of a supper at home an' I come up to ask ye----"
Whack! came the stone from Tim's hand, breaking to pieces against the
rocky wall within an inch of Mike's head. The invitation was declined.
Mike himself, in his effort to dodge the missile, missed his footing,
fell on his back, and in a series of dislocating bumps was swept down
the "steps" to the starting place, wet, as he declared, right through to
his bones.
Up to this time the demented man had kept silence, but on seeing Mike
go tumbling down-stream, he shook his fist after him and cried out:
"Come back and try again, ye devouring baste! Come on, the whole pack of
yez! Don't stand there howling, ye cowardly curs; come up and get me
out--if ye dare!"
"I believe he thinks we are a pack of wolves," said Mr. Warren.
"That's it, Mr. Warren, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, turning to the
assayer. "That's it, entirely. He heard a wolf howl last night, and it
was hard wor-rk I had to kape him from jumping out of his bed and
running off right thin. He thinks it's a pack of them that's hunting
him."
"Poor fellow! No wonder he refuses to come down. What are we going to
do? We _must_ get him out."
Then ensued an eager debate, in which everybody took a share except
Uncle Tom and myself, who, standing a little apart from the rest on the
sloping bank of the stream, were listening and looking on, when some one
touched me on my arm, and a boyish voice said:
"What's the matter? What's it all about?"
Turning round, I saw before me a tall young fellow about my own age,
with reddish hair, very keen gray eyes and a much-freckled face,
carrying in one hand an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, nearly as
long as himself, and in the other three grouse which he appeared to have
shot.
Wondering who the boy might be, I explained the situation, when he
cried:
"What! Tim Donovan! Why he'll die if he's left in there. Poor chap! We
must get him out."
"Yes," said Uncle Tom. "That's just it. But how? The man won't be
persuaded to come out, and no one can get in to drag him out--so what's
to be done?"
The young fellow stood for a minute thinking, and then, suddenly lifting
his head, he exclaimed, with a half laugh:
"I know! I know what we can do! He can't be persuaded out or dragged
out, but he can be driven out."
"How?" asked Uncle Tom.
"If you'll come with me," replied the boy, "I'll show you in two
minutes."
So saying, he jumped across the creek and set off straight up the almost
perpendicular side of the mountain, we two following. Uncle Tom,
however, finding the climb too steep for him, very soon turned back
again, so we two boys went on alone.
About three hundred feet up my companion stopped, and it was well for me
he did, for I could hardly have gone another step, so desperately out of
breath was I.
"Not used to it, are you?" said the boy, who himself seemed to be quite
unaffected. "Well, we don't have to go any higher, fortunately. Look
over there. Do you see that stubby pine tree growing out of the rocks
and overhanging the waterfall?"
"Yes, I see it," I replied. "And what's that big round thing hanging to
it?"
"A wasps' nest."
"A wasps' nest?"
"A wasps' nest," repeated my new acquaintance with peculiar emphasis and
with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. "I see your little game. Good!
You propose to knock down the wasps' nest into the 'well,' and then poor
Tim will just have to vacate."
"That's my idea."
"Great idea, too. But, look here! Are the wasps alive at this time of
year?"
"They are this year. We've had such a wonderfully warm season that they
are just as brisk as ever."
"Well, but there's another thing: how are you going to do it? You can't
get at it: the rocks are too straight-up-and-down; and you can't come
near enough to knock it off with a stone. How are you going to do it?"
The young fellow smiled and patted the stock of his gun.
"Shoot it down!" I exclaimed. "Do you think you can? It won't be any use
plugging it full of holes, you know; you'll have to nip off the little
twig it hangs on. Can you do that?"
"I think I can."
"All right, then, fire away and let's see."
I must confess I felt doubtful. The boy did not look nor talk like a
braggart, but nevertheless, to cut with a bullet the slim little branch,
no bigger than a lead-pencil, upon which the nest hung suspended looked
to me like a pretty ticklish shot.
My companion, however, seemed confident. Cocking his gun, he kneeled
down, and using a big rock as a rest he took careful aim and fired.
It was a perfect shot. The big ball of gray "paper" dropped like a
plumb, struck the rim of the "well," burst open, and emptied upon the
head of the unfortunate Tim about a bucketful of venomous little
yellow-jackets, each and every one of them quivering with rage, and each
and every one bent on taking vengeance on somebody.
The people below were still debating how to get the sick man out of his
fortress, when the sound of the rifle-shot caused them all to look up;
but only for an instant, for the echoes had not yet died away, when,
with a startling yell, out came Tim, frantically waving his club above
his head, seemingly more crazy than ever. Supposing that he was making a
dash for liberty, half a dozen of his particular friends flung
themselves upon him, and down they all went in a heap together.
But this arrangement was of the briefest. In another moment, with
shrieks and yells and whirling arms, the whole population went charging
down the street, Uncle Tom in the lead, running--breath or no breath--as
he had never run before.
Never was there a more complete victory: besiegers and besieged flying
in one general rout before the assaults of the new enemy. And never did
I laugh so extravagantly as I did then, to see the enraged
yellow-jackets "take it out" on an unoffending community, while the real
culprits were all the time sitting safely perched on the mountainside
looking down on the rumpus.
"Well, we got him out all right," remarked my companion, as he calmly
reloaded his rifle. "I thought we could. You're a newcomer, aren't you?
My name's Dick Stanley; I live up-stream, just at the head of the cañon.
Are you expecting to make a long stay?"
"Two or three weeks, I think," I replied. "My uncle, Mr. Tom Allen, is
here to inspect the mines, and he brought me with him. We come from St.
Louis. My name's Frank Preston. We're staying at Mr. Warren's house."
"Well, come up to our house some day. It is in a little clearing just at
the head of the cañon--you can't miss it--and we'll go off for a day's
grouse-shooting up into the mountains if you like."
"All right, I will. That would just suit me. To-morrow?"
"Yes, come up to-morrow, if you like. I'll be on the lookout for you. I
suppose you are going home now," he continued, as we rose to our feet.
"If I were you, I'd keep up here on the side of the mountain--the street
will be full of yellow-jackets--and then, when you come opposite the
assayer's house, make a bolt for his back door, or some of them may get
you yet."
"That's a good idea. I'll do it. Well, good-bye. I'll come up to-morrow
then, if I can."