I
Two weeks later a light buckboard bearing Welton and Bob dashed in the
early morning across the plains, wormed its way ingeniously through gaps
in the foothills, and slowed to a walk as it felt the grades of the
first long low slopes. The air was warm with the sun imprisoned in the
pockets of the hills. High chaparral, scrub oaks, and scattered, unkempt
digger pines threw their thicket up to the very right of way. It was in
general dense, almost impenetrable, yet it had a way of breaking
unexpectedly into spacious parks, into broad natural pastures, into
bold, rocky points prophetic of the mountains yet to come. Every once in
a while the road drew one side to pause at a cabin nestling among fruit
trees, bowered beneath vines, bright with the most vivid of the commoner
flowers. They were crazily picturesque with their rough stone chimneys,
their roofs of shakes, their broad low verandahs, and their split-picket
fences. On these verandahs sat patriarchal-looking men with sweeping
white beards, who smoked pipes and gazed across with dim eyes toward the
distant blue mountains. When Welton, casually and by the way, mentioned
topographical names, Bob realized to what placid and contented
retirement these men had turned, and who they were. Nugget Creek, Flour
Gold, Bear Gulch--these spoke of the strong, red-shirted Argonauts of
the El Dorado. Among these scarred but peaceful foothills had been
played and applauded the great, wonderful, sordid, inspired drama of the
early days, the traces of which had almost vanished from the land.
Occasionally also the buckboard paused for water at a more pretentious
place set in a natural opening. There a low, rambling, white ranch-house
beneath trees was segregated by a picket fence enclosing blossoms like a
basket. At a greater or lesser distance were corrals of all sizes
arranged in a complicated pattern. They resembled a huge puzzle. The
barns were large; a forge stood under an open shed indescribably
littered with scrap iron and fragments of all sorts; saddles hung
suspended by the horn or one stirrup; bright milk pails sunned bottom-up
on fence posts; a dozen horses cropped in a small enclosed pasture or
dozed beneath one or another of the magnificent and spreading live-oak
trees. Children of all sizes and states of repair clambered to the fence
tops or gazed solemnly between the rails. Sometimes women stood in the
doorways to nod cheerfully at the travellers. They seemed to Bob a
comely, healthy-looking lot, competent and good-natured. Beyond an
occasional small field and an invariable kitchen garden there appeared
to be no evidences of cultivation. Around the edges of the natural
opening stretched immediately the open jungle of the chaparral or the
park-like forests of oaks.
"These are the typical mountain people of California," said Welton.
"It's only taken us a few hours to come up this far, but we've struck
among a different breed of cats. They're born, live and die in the
hills, and they might as well be a thousand miles away as forty or
fifty. As soon as the snow is out, they hike for the big mountains."
"What do they do?" inquired Bob.
"Cattle," replied Welton. "Nothing else."
"I haven't seen any men."
"No, and you won't, except the old ones. They've taken their cattle back
to the summer ranges in the high mountains. By and by the women and kids
will go into the summer camps with the horses."
On a steep and narrow grade they encountered a girl of twenty riding a
spirited pinto. She bestrode a cowboy's stock saddle on which was coiled
the usual rope, wore a broad felt hat, and smiled at the two men quite
frankly in spite of the fact that she wore no habit and had been
compelled to arrange her light calico skirts as best she could. The
pinto threw his head and snorted, dancing sideways at sight of the
buckboard. So occupied was he with the strange vehicle that he paid
scant attention to the edge of the road. Bob saw that the passage along
the narrow outside strip was going to be precarious. He prepared to
descend, but at that moment the girl faced her pony squarely at the edge
of the road, dug her little heels into his flanks, and flicked him
sharply with the _morale_ or elongated lash of the reins. Without
hesitation the pony stepped off the grade, bunched his hoofs and slid
down the precipitous slope. So steep was the hill that a man would have
had to climb it on all fours.
Bob gasped and rose to his feet. The pony, leaving a long furrow in the
side of the mountain, caught himself on the narrow ledge of a cattle
trail, turned to the left, and disappeared at a little fox trot.
Bob looked at this companion. Welton laughed.
"There's hardly a woman in the country that doesn't help round up stock.
How'd you like to chase a cow full speed over this country, hey?"
As they progressed, mounting slowly, but steadily, the character of the
country changed. The cañons through which flowed the streams became
deeper and more precipitous; the divides between them higher. At one
point where the road emerged on a bold, clear point, Bob looked back to
the shimmering plain, and was astonished to see how high they had
climbed. To the eastward and only a few miles distant rose the dark mass
of a pine-covered ridge, austere and solemn, the first rampart of the
Sierras. Welton pointed to it with his whip.
"There's our timber," said he simply.
A little farther along the buckboard drew rein at the top of a long
declivity that led down to a broad wooded valley. Among the trees Bob
caught a glimpse of the roofs of scattered houses, and the gleam of a
river. From the opposite edge of the valley rose the mountain-ridge,
sheer and noble. The light of afternoon tinted it with lilac and purple.
"That's the celebrated town of Sycamore Flats," said Welton. "Just at
present we're the most important citizens. This fellow here's the first
yellow pine on the road."
Bob looked upon what he then considered a rather large tree. Later he
changed his mind. The buckboard rattled down the grade, swung over a
bridge, and so into the little town. Welton drew up at a low, broad
structure set back from the street among some trees.
"We'll tackle the mountain to-morrow," said he.
Bob descended with a distinct feeling of pleasure at being able to use
his legs again. He and Welton and the baggage and everything about the
buckboard were powdered thick with the fine, white California dust. At
every movement he shook loose a choking cloud. Welton's face was a dull
gray, ludicrously streaked, and he suspected himself of being in the
same predicament. A boy took the horses, and the travellers entered the
picketed enclosure. Welton lifted up his great rumbling voice.
"O Auntie Belle!" he roared.
Within the dark depths of the house life stirred. In a moment a capable
and motherly woman had taken them in charge. Amid a rapid-fire of
greetings, solicitudes, jokes, questions, commands and admonitions Bob
was dusted vigorously and led to ice-cold water and clean towels. Ten
minutes later, much refreshed, he stood on the low verandah looking out
with pleasure on the little there was to see. Eight dogs squatted
themselves in front of him, ears slightly uplifted, in expectancy of
something Bob could not guess. Probably the dogs could not guess either.
Within the house two or three young girls were moving about, singing and
clattering dishes in a delightfully promising manner. Down the winding
hill, for Sycamore Flats proved after all to be built irregularly on a
slope, he could make out several other scattered houses, each with its
dooryard, and the larger structures of several stores. Over all loomed
the dark mountain. The sun had just dropped below the ridge down which
the road had led them, but still shone clear and golden as an overlay of
colour laid against the sombre pines on the higher slopes.
After an excellent chicken supper, Bob lit his pipe and wandered down
the street. The larger structures, three in number, now turned out to be
a store and two saloons. A dozen saddle horses dozed patiently. On the
platform outside the store a dozen Indian women dressed in bright calico
huddled beneath their shawls. After squatting thus in brute immobility
for a half-hour, one of them would purchase a few pounds of flour or a
half-pound of tea. Then she would take her place again with the others.
At the end of another half-hour another, moved by some sudden and
mysterious impulse, would in turn make her purchases. The interior of
the store proved to be no different from the general country store
anywhere. The proprietor was very busy and occupied and important and
interested in selling a two-dollar bill of goods to a chance prospector,
which was well, for this was the storekeeper's whole life, and he had in
defence of his soul to make his occupations filling. Bob bought a cigar
and went out.
Next he looked in at one of the saloons. It was an ill-smelling, cheap
box, whose sole ornaments were advertising lithographs. Four men played
cards. They hardly glanced at the newcomer. Bob deciphered Forest
Reserve badges on three of them.
As he emerged from this joint, his eyes a trifle dazzled by the light,
he made out drawn up next the elevated platform a buckboard containing a
single man. As his pupils contracted he distinguished such details as a
wiry, smart little team, a man so fat as almost to fill the seat, a
moon-like, good-natured face, a vest open to disclose a vast white
shirt, "Hullo!" the stranger rumbled in a great voice. "Any of my boys
in there?"
"Don't believe I know your boys," replied Bob pleasantly.
The fat man heaved his bulk forward to peer at Bob.
"Consarn your hide!" he roared with the utmost good humour; "stand out
of the light so I can see your fool face. You lie like a hound!
Everybody knows my boys!"
There was no offence in the words.
Bob laughed and obligingly stepped one side the lighted doorway.
"A towerist!" wheezed the fat man. "Say, you're too early. Nothing doing
in the mountains yet. Who sent you this early, anyway?"
"No tourist; permanent inhabitant," said Bob. "I'm with Welton."
"Timber, by God!" exploded the fat man. "Well, you and I are like to
have friendly doings. Your road goes through us, and you got to toe the
mark, young fellow, let me tell you! I'm a hell of a hard man to get on
with!"
"You look it," said Bob. "You own some timber?"
The fat man exploded again.
"Hell, no!" he roared. "Why, you don't even know me, do you? I'm Plant,
Henry Plant. I'm Forest Supervisor."
"My name's Orde," said Bob. "If you're after Forest Rangers, there's
three in there."
"The rascals!" cried Plant. He raised his voice to a bellow. "Oh, you
Jim!"
The door was darkened.
"Say, Jim," said Plant. "They tell me there's a fire over Stone Creek
way. Somebody's got to take a look at it. You and Joe better ride over
in the morning and see what she looks like."
The man stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Oh, hell!" said he
with deep feeling. "Ain't you got any of those suckers that _like_ to
ride? I've had a headache for three days."
"Yes, it's hard luck you got to do anything, ain't it," said Plant.
"Well, I'll see if I can find old John, and if you don't hear from me,
you got to go."
The Supervisor gathered up his reins and was about to proceed when down
through the fading twilight rode a singular figure. It was a thin, wiry,
tall man, with a face like tanned leather, a clear, blue eye and a
drooping white moustache. He wore a flopping old felt hat, a faded
cotton shirt and an ancient pair of copper-riveted blue-jeans overalls
tucked into a pair of cowboy's boots. A time-discoloured cartridge belt
encircled his hips, supporting a holster from which protruded the shiny
butt of an old-fashioned Colt's 45. But if the man was thus nondescript
and shabby, his mount and its caparisons were magnificent. The horse was
a glossy, clean-limbed sorrel with a quick, intelligent eye. The bridle
was of braided rawhide, the broad spade-bit heavily inlaid with silver,
the reins of braided and knotted rawhide. Across the animal's brow ran
three plates of silver linked together. Below its ears were wide silver
_conchas_. The saddle was carved elaborately, and likewise ornamented
with silver. The whole outfit shone--new-polished and well kept.
"Oh, you John!" called Plant.
The old man moved his left hand slightly. The proud-stepping sorrel
instantly turned to the left, and, on a signal Bob could not
distinguish, stopped to statue-like immobility. Then Bob could see the
Forest Ranger badge pinned to one strap of the old man's suspender.
"John," said Plant, "they tell me there's a fire over at Stone Creek.
Ride over and see what it amounts to."
"All right," replied the Ranger. "What help do I get?"
"Oh, you just ride over and see what it amounts to," repeated Plant.
"I can't do nothing alone fighting fire."
"Well I can't spare anybody now," said Plant, "and it may not amount to
nothing. You go see."
"All right," said John. "But if it does amount to something, it'll get
an awful start on us."
He rode away.
"Old California John," said Plant to Bob with a slight laugh. "Crazy old
fool." He raised his voice. "Oh, you Jim! John, he's going to ride over.
You needn't go."
Bob nodded a good night, and walked back up the street. At the store he
found the sorrel horse standing untethered in the road. He stopped to
examine more closely the very ornate outfit. California John came out
carrying a grain sack half full of provisions. This he proceeded to tie
on behind the saddle, paying no attention to the young man.
"Well, Star, you got a long ways to go," muttered the old man.
"You aren't going over those mountains to-night, are you?" cried Bob.
The old man turned quite deliberately and inspected his questioner in a
manner to imply that he had committed an indiscretion. But the answer
was in a tone that implied he had not.
"Certain sure," he replied. "The only way to handle a fire is to stick
to it like death to a dead nigger."
Bob returned to the hotel very thoughtful. There he found Mr. Welton
seated comfortably on the verandah, his feet up and a cigar alight.
"This is pretty good medicine," he called to Bob. "Get your feet up, you
long-legged stork, and enjoy yourself. Been exploring?"
"Listening to the band on the plaza," laughed Bob. He drew up a chair.
At that moment the dim figure of California John jingled by. "I wouldn't
like that old fellow's job. He's a ranger, and he's got to go and look
up a forest fire."
"Alone?" asked Welton. "Couldn't they scare up any more? Or are they
over there already?"
"There's three playing poker at the saloon. Looked to me like a fool
way to do. He's just going to take a look and then come back and
report."
"Oh, they're heavy on reports!" said Welton. "Where is the fire; did you
hear?"
"Stone Creek--wherever that is."
"Stone Creek!" yelled Welton, dropping the front legs of his chair to
the verandah with a thump. "Why, our timber adjoins Stone Creek! You
come with me!"