SHEEP AND CINNAMON
"That was the funniest thing I ever saw," exclaimed Uncle Tom, laughing
in spite of himself, while at the same time, with a comically rueful
twist of his countenance, he rubbed the back of his neck where one of
the wasps had "got" him. "The way poor Tim bolted out of his stronghold
after defying the whole population to come and get him out, was the very
funniest thing I ever did see. That was a smart trick of that young
rascal; though I wish he had given me notice beforehand of what he
intended to do. I'd have started to run a good five minutes earlier if
I'd known what was coming. Who is the boy, Warren?"
"Well, that is not easy to say," replied our host, "for, as a matter of
fact, he does not know himself. His history, what there is of it, is a
peculiar one. He lives up here at the head of the cañon with an old
German named Bergen--commonly known as the Professor--and his Mexican
servant, a man of forty whom the professor brought up with him from
Albuquerque, I believe. If Frank's object in coming here was to rub up
against all sorts and conditions of men, he could hardly have chosen a
better place. Certainly he cannot expect to find a more remarkable
character than the professor.
"The old fellow is regarded by the people here as a harmless
lunatic--which, in a community like this, where muscle is at a premium
and scientific attainments at a discount, is not to be wondered at--for
it is incomprehensible to them that any man in his right mind should
spend his life as the professor spends his.
"The old gentleman is an enthusiastic naturalist. He is making a
collection of the butterflies, beetles and such things, of the Rocky
Mountain region, and with true German thoroughness he has spent years in
the pursuit. Choosing some promising spot, he builds a log cabin, and
there he stays one year--or two if necessary--until that district is
'fished out,' as you may say, when he packs up and moves somewhere else,
to do the same thing over again."
"Well, that is certainly a queer character to come across," was Uncle
Tom's comment. "But how about the boy, Sam? How does he happen to be in
such company?"
"Why, about twelve or thirteen years ago, old Bergen was 'doing' the
country somewhere northwest of Santa Fé, when he made a very strange
discovery. It was a bad piece of country for snowslides, which were
frequent and dangerous in the spring, and one day, being anxious to get
to a particular point quickly, the professor was crossing the tail of a
new slide--a risky thing to do--as being the shortest cut, when his
attention was attracted by some strange object lodged half way up the
great bank of snow. Climbing up to it, he found to his astonishment that
the strange object was a wagon-bed, while, to his infinitely greater
astonishment, inside it on a mattress, fast asleep, was a three-year-old
boy--young Dick!"
"That was an astonisher, sure enough!" exclaimed I, who had been an
eager listener. "And was that all the professor found?"
"That was all. The running-gear of the wagon had vanished; the horses
had vanished; and the boy's parents or guardians had vanished--all
buried, undoubtedly, under the snow."
"And what did the professor do?"
"The only thing he could do: took the boy with him--and a fortunate
thing it was for young Dick that the old gentleman happened to find
him. But though he inquired of everybody he came across--they were not
many, for white folks were scarce in those parts then--the professor
could learn nothing of the party; so, not knowing what else to do, he
just carried off the youngster with him, and with him Dick has been ever
since."
"That's a queer history, sure enough," remarked Uncle Tom. "And was
there nothing at all by which to identify the boy?"
"Just one thing. I forgot to say that in the wagon-bed was a single
volume of Shakespeare--one of a set: volume two--on the fly-leaf of
which was written the name, 'Richard Livingstone Stanley, from Anna,'
and as the boy was old enough to tell his own name--Dick Stanley--the
professor concluded that the owner of the book was his father. Moreover,
as the boy made no mention of his mother, though he now and then spoke
of his 'Daddy' and his 'Uncle David,' the old gentleman formed the
theory that the mother was dead and that the father and uncle, bringing
the boy with them, had come west to seek their fortunes, and being very
likely tenderfeet, unacquainted with the dangerous nature of those great
snow-masses in spring time, they had been caught in a slide and
killed."
"Poor little chap," said Uncle Tom. "And he has been wandering about
with the old gentleman ever since, has he? He must be a sort of Wild Man
of the West in miniature."
"Not a bit of it. The professor is a man of learning, and he has not
neglected his duty. Dick has a highly respectable education, including
some items rather out of the common for a boy: he speaks German and
Spanish; he has a pretty intimate knowledge of the wild animals of the
Rocky Mountains; and he is one of the best woodsmen and quite the best
shot of anybody in these immediate parts."
"Well, they are an odd pair, certainly. I should like to go up and see
the professor--that is, if he ever receives visitors."
"Oh, yes. He's a sociable old fellow. He and I are very good friends.
I'll take you up there and introduce you some day. He is well worth
knowing. If there is any information you desire concerning the Rocky
Mountain country from here southward to the border, Herr Bergen can give
it you. You are to be congratulated, Frank, on making Dick's
acquaintance so early: he will be a fine companion for you while you
stay here. You propose to go grouse-shooting to-morrow, do you? Well,
you can take my shotgun--it hangs up there on the wall--and make a day
of it; for your uncle and I are proposing to ride up to inspect a mine
on Cape Horn, which will take us pretty well all afternoon."
I thanked our host for his offer, and next morning, gun in hand, I set
off immediately after breakfast for Dick's dwelling.
Passing the "well" where Tim Donovan had taken refuge the day before, I
ascended by a clearly-marked trail to the edge of the cañon, and
following along it through the woods for about a mile, I presently came
in sight of a little clearing, in which stood a neat log cabin of two or
three rooms. Outside was a Mexican, chopping wood, while in the doorway
stood Dick, evidently looking out for me, for, the moment I appeared, he
ran forward to meet me.
"How are you?" he cried. "Glad you came early: I have a new plan for the
day, if it suits you. I've been spying around with a field-glass and
I've just seen a band of sheep up on that big middle spur of Mescalero;
they are working their way up from their feeding-ground, and I propose
that we go after them instead of hunting grouse. What do you say?"
"All right; that will suit me."
"Come on, then. Just come into the house for a minute first and see the
professor, and then we'll dig out at once."
From the fact that Mr. Warren had so frequently spoken of the professor
as "the old gentleman," I was prepared to see a bent old man, with a
white beard and big round spectacles--the typical "German professor," of
my imagination. I was a good deal surprised, then, to find a small,
active man of sixty, perhaps, a little gray, certainly, but with a clear
blue eye and a wide-awake manner I was far from anticipating. He was in
the inner room when I entered--evidently the sanctum where he prepared
and stored his specimens--but the moment he heard our steps he came
briskly out, and, on Dick's introducing me, shook hands with me very
heartily.
"And how's poor Tim this morning?" he asked, as soon as the formalities,
if they can be called so, were over.
"He is all right, sir," I replied. "I went down there before breakfast
this morning at Mr. Warren's request to inquire. In fact, Tim was so
much better apparently that Mrs. Donovan declares that if he ever gets
the fever again she intends to apply iced water to his feet and
wasp-stings to the rest of his anatomy, as being a sure cure. She is
immensely grateful to Dick for having discovered and applied a remedy
that has worked so well."
"Then if Tim is wise," remarked the professor, laughing, "he won't get
the fever again, for I should think the cure would be worse than the
disease. But you want to be off, don't you? Do you understand the
working of a Winchester repeater? Well," as I shook my head, "then you
had better take the Sharp's and Dick the Winchester. And, Dick, you'd
better have an eye on the weather. Romero says there is a change coming,
and he is generally pretty reliable. So, now, off you go; and good luck
to you."
Leaving the cabin, we went straight on up the narrow valley for about
three miles--the pine-clad mountains rising half a mile high on either
side of us--going as quickly as we could, or, to be more exact, going as
quickly as I could. For the elevation, beginning at nine thousand feet,
increased, of course, at every step, and I, being unused to such
altitudes, found myself much distressed for breath--a fact which was
rather a surprise to me, considering that in our track-meets at school
the mile run was my strong point. I did not understand then that to get
enough oxygen out of that thin mountain air it was necessary to take two
breaths where one would suffice at sea-level.
We had ascended about a thousand feet, I think, when, at the base of the
bare ridge for which we had been making, we slackened our pace, and my
companion, who knew the country, taking the lead, we went scrambling up
over the rocks and snow for an hour or more.
The quantity of snow we found up there was a surprise to me, for, from
below the amount seemed trifling. There had been a heavy fall up in the
range a month before, and this snow, drifting into the gullies, had
settled into compact masses, the surface of which, on this, the southern
face of the mountain, being every day slightly softened by the heat of
the sun, and every night frozen solid again, made the footing
exceedingly treacherous. Whenever, therefore, we found it necessary to
cross one of these steep-tilted snow-beds we did so with the greatest
caution.
We had been climbing, as I have said, for more than an hour, and were
nearing the top of the ridge, when Dick stopped and silently beckoned to
me to come up to where he lay, crouching under shelter of a little
ledge.
"Smell anything?" he whispered.
I gave a sniff and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.
"Sheep?" said I, softly.
My companion nodded.
"They must be somewhere close by," said he, in a voice hardly audible.
"Go very carefully and keep your eyes wide open. If you see anything,
stop instantly."
We were lying side by side upon the rocks, Dick considerately waiting a
moment while I got my breath again, and were just about to crawl
forward, when there came the sound of a sudden rush of hoofs and a
clatter of stones from some invisible point ahead of us, and then dead
silence again.
"They've winded us and gone off," whispered Dick. But the next moment he
added eagerly, "There they are! Look! There they are! Up there! See? My!
What a chance!"
Immediately on our left was a deep gorge, so narrow and precipitous that
we could not see the bottom of it from where we lay. The sheep, having
seemingly got wind of us, with that agility which is always so
astonishing in such heavy animals, had rushed down one side of the
precipitous gorge and up the other, and now, there they were, all
standing in a row--eleven of them--on the opposite summit, looking down,
not at us, but at something immediately below them.
"What do you suppose it is, Dick?" I whispered.
"Don't know," my companion replied. "Mountain-lion, perhaps: they are
very partial to mutton. Anyhow," he continued, "if we want to get a shot
we must shoot from here: we can't move without the sheep seeing us, and
they'd be off like a flash if they did. You take a shot, Frank. Take the
nearest one. Sight for two hundred yards."
"No," I replied. "You shoot. I shall miss: I'm too unsteady for want of
breath."
"All right."
Raising himself a fraction of an inch at a time until he had come to a
kneeling position, Dick pushed his rifle-barrel through a crevice in the
rocks, took aim and fired. The nearest sheep, a fine fellow with a
handsome pair of horns, pitched forward, fell headlong from the ledge
upon which he had been standing and vanished from our sight among the
broken rocks below; while the others turned tail and fled up the
mountain, disappearing also in a minute or less.
"Come on!" cried Dick, springing to his feet. "Let's go across and get
him. Round this way. Don't trust to that slope of ice: you may slip and
break your neck."
"But the mountain-lion, Dick," I protested. "Suppose there's a
mountain-lion down there."
"Oh, never mind him!" Dick exclaimed. "If there was one, he's gone by
this time. And even if he should be there yet, he'd skip the moment he
saw us. We needn't mind him. Come on!"
Away we went, therefore, Dick in the lead, and scrambling quickly though
carefully down the rocky wall, we made our way up the bed of the ravine
until we found ourselves opposite the ledge upon which the sheep had
been standing. Here we discovered that the wall of the gorge was split
from top to bottom by a narrow cleft--previously invisible to us--filled
with hard snow, and whether the sheep had been standing on the right
side or the left of this crevice, and therefore on which side the big
ram had fallen, we could not tell; for the wall of the gorge, besides
being exceedingly rough, was littered with great masses of rock against
any of which the body of the sheep might have lodged.
"I'll tell you what, Frank," said my companion. "It might take us an
hour or two to search all the cracks and crannies here. The best plan
will be to climb straight up to the ledge where the sheep stood and look
down. Then, if he is lodged against the upper side of any of these
rocks, we shall be able to see him. But as we can't tell whether he was
standing on the right or the left of this crevice, suppose you climb up
one side while I go up the other."
"All right," said I. "You take the one on the left and I'll go up on
this side."
It was a laborious climb for both of us--and how those sheep got up
there so quickly is a wonder to me still--but as my side of the crevice
happened to be easier of ascent than Dick's I got so far ahead of him
that I presently found myself about fifty yards in the lead.
At this point, however, I met with an obstruction which at first seemed
likely to stop me altogether. The fallen rocks were so big, and piled so
high, that I could not get over them, and for a moment I thought I
should be forced to go back and try another passage. Before resorting
to this measure, though, I thought I would attempt to get round the
barrier by taking to the snow-bank, supporting myself by holding on to
the rocks. To do this I should need the use of both my hands, so, as my
rifle had no strap by which to hang it over my shoulder, I took out my
handkerchief, tied one end to the trigger-guard, took the other end in
my teeth, and slinging the weapon behind me, I seized the rock with both
hands and set one foot on the snow.
It was at this moment that Dick, down below me on the other side of the
crevice, while in the act of crawling up over a big rock, caught a
glimpse of something moving over on my side, and the next instant, out
from between two great fragments of granite rushed a cinnamon bear and
went charging up the slope after me.
The bear--as we discovered afterward--had found our sheep, and was
agreeably engaged in tearing it to pieces, when he caught a whiff of me.
He was an old bear, and had very likely been chased and shot at more
than once in the past few years--since the white men had begun to invade
his domain--and having conceived a strong antipathy for those
interfering bipeds which walked on their hind legs and carried
"thunder-sticks" in their fore paws, he decided instantly that, before
finishing his dinner, he would just dash out and finish me.
And very near he came to doing it. It was only Dick's quick sight and
his equally quick shout that saved me.
My companion's warning cry to jump could have but one meaning: there was
nowhere to jump except out upon the snow-bank; and recovering from my
first momentary panic, I let go my rifle and sprang out from the rocks.
My hope was that I should be able to keep my footing long enough to
scramble across to the rocks on the other side; but in this I was
disappointed. The snow-bed lay at an angle as steep as a church roof,
and while its surface was slightly softened by the sun, just beneath it
was as hard and as slippery as glass. Consequently, the moment my feet
struck it they slipped from under me, down I went on my face, and in
spite of all my frantic clawing and scratching I began to slide briskly
and steadily down-hill.
The bear--most fortunately for me--seemed to be less cunning than most
of his fellows. Had he paused for a moment to reason it out, he would
have seen that by waiting five seconds he might leap upon my back as I
went by. Luckily, however, he did not reason it out, but the instant he
saw me jump he jumped too, and he, too, began sliding down the icy slope
ahead of me; for being, as I said, an old bear, his blunted claws could
get no hold.
It was an odd situation, and "to a man up a tree," as the saying is, it
might have been entertaining. Here was the pursuer retreating backward
from the pursued, while the pursued, albeit with extreme reluctance, was
pursuing the pursuer--also backward.
It was like a nightmare--and a real, live, untamed broncho of a
nightmare at that--but luckily it did not last long. Finding that no
efforts of mine would arrest my downward progress, and knowing that the
bear, reaching the bottom first, need only stand there with his mouth
wide open and wait for me to fall into it, I whirled myself over and
over sideways, until presently my hand struck the rocks, my finger-tips
caught upon a little projection, and there I hung on for dear life, not
daring to move a muscle for fear my hold should slip.
But from this uncomfortable predicament I was promptly relieved. I had
not hung there five seconds ere the sharp report of a rifle rang out,
and then another, and next came Dick's voice hailing me:
"All right, Frank! I've got him! Hold on: I'm coming up!"
Half a minute later, as I lay there face downward on the ice, I heard
footsteps just above me, a firm hand grasped my wrist, and a cheerful
voice said:
"Come on up, old chap. I can steady you."
"But the bear, Dick! The bear!" I cried, as I rose to my knees.
"Dead as a door-nail," he replied, calmly. "Look."
I glanced over my shoulder down the slope. There, on his back among the
rocks, lay the cinnamon, his great arms spread out and his head hanging
over, motionless. As the snarling beast had slid past him, not ten feet
away, Dick, with his Winchester repeater, had shot him once through the
heart and once in the base of the skull, so that the bear was stone dead
ere he fell from the little two-foot ice-cliff at the bottom of the
slope.
As for myself, I had had such a scare and was so completely exhausted by
my vehement struggles during the past couple of minutes, that for a
quarter of an hour I lay on the rocks panting and gasping ere I could
get my lungs and my muscles back into working order again.
As soon as I could do so, however, I sat up, and holding out my hand to
my companion, I said:
"Thanks, old chap. I'm mighty glad you were on hand, or, I'm afraid, it
would have been all up with me."
"It was a pretty close shave," replied Dick; "rather too close for
comfort. He meant mischief, sure enough. Well, he's out of mischief now,
all right. Let's go down and look at him."
"I suppose," said I, "it was the bear that the sheep were looking down
at when they stood up there on the ledge all in a row."
"Yes, that was it. If I'd known it was a bear they were staring at I'd
have left them alone. A mountain-lion I'm not afraid of: he'll run
ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But a cinnamon bear is quite another
thing: the less you have to do with them, the better."
"Well, as far as I'm concerned," said I, "the less I have to do with
them, the better it will suit me. If this fellow is a sample of his
tribe I'm very willing to forego their further acquaintance: my first
interview came too unpleasantly near to being my last. Come on; let's go
down."