The full situation, as far as the wires could tell it, was laid before
Jack Orde in Washington. A detailed letter followed. Toward evening of
that day the mill crews began to come in with the four and six-horse
teams provided for their transportation. They were a dusty but hilarious
lot. The teams drew up underneath the solitary sycamore tree that gave
the place its name, and at once went into camp. Bob strolled down to
look them over.
They proved to be fresh-faced, strong farm boys, for the most part, with
a fair sprinkling of older mountaineers, and quite a contingent of half
and quarter-bred Indians. All these people worked on ranches or in the
towns during the off season when the Sierras were buried under winter
snows. Their skill at woodsmanship might be undoubted, but the
intermittent character of their work precluded any development of
individual type, like the rivermen and shanty boys of the vanished
North. For a moment Bob experienced a twinge of regret that the old,
hard, picturesque days of his Northern logging were indeed gone. Then
the interest of this great new country with its surging life and its new
problems gripped him hard. He left these decent, hard-working,
self-respecting ranch boys, these quiet mountaineers, these stolid,
inscrutable breeds to their flickering camp fire. Next morning the
many-seated vehicles filled early and started up the road. But within a
mile Welton and Bob in their buckboard came upon old California John
square in the middle of the way. Star stood like a magnificent statue
except that slowly over and over, with relish, he turned the wheel of
the silver-mounted spade-bit under his tongue. As the ranger showed no
indication of getting out of the way, Welton perforce came to a halt.
"Road closed to trespass by the Wolverine Company," the ranger stated
impassively.
Welton whistled.
"That mean I can't get to my own property?" he asked.
"My orders are to close this road to the Wolverine Company."
"Well, you've obeyed orders. Now get out the way. Tell your chief he can
go ahead on a trespass suit."
But the old man shook his head.
"No, you don't understand," he repeated patiently. "My orders were to
_close_ the road to the Company, not just to give notice."
Without replying Welton picked up his reins and started his horses. The
man seemed barely to shift his position, but from some concealment he
produced a worn and shiny Colt's. This he laid across the horn of his
saddle.
"Stop," he commanded, and this time his voice had a bite to it.
"Millions for defence," chuckled Welton, who recognized perfectly the
tone, "and how much did you say for tribute?"
"What say?" inquired the old man.
"What sort of a hold-up is this? We certainly can't do this road any
damage driving over it once. How much of an inducement does Plant want,
anyway?"
"This department is only doing its sworn duty," replied the old man. His
blue eyes met Welton's steadily; not a line of his weatherbeaten face
changed. For twenty seconds the lumberman tried to read his opponent's
mind.
"Well," he said at last. "You can tell your chief that if he thinks he
can annoy and harass me into bribing him to be decent, he's left."
By this time the dust and creek of the first heavily laden vehicle had
laboured up to within a few hundred yards.
"I have over a hundred men there," said Welton, "that I've hired to
work for me at the top of that mountain. It's damn foolishness that
anybody should stop their going there; and I'll bet they won't lose
their jobs. My advice to you is to stand one side. You can't stop a
hundred men alone."
"Yes, I can," replied the old man calmly. "I'm not alone."
"No?" said Welton, looking about him.
"No; there's eighty million people behind that," said California John,
touching lightly the shield of his Ranger badge. The simplicity of the
act robbed it of all mock-heroics.
Welton paused, a frown of perplexity between his brows. California John
was watching him calmly.
"Of course, the _public_ has a right to camp in all Forest
Reserves--subject to reg'lation," he proffered.
Welton caught at this.
"You mean--"
"No, you got to turn back, and your Company's rigs have got to turn
back," said California John. "But I sure ain't no orders to stop no
campers."
Welton nodded briefly; and, after some difficulty, succeeding in turning
around, he drove back down the grade. After he had bunched the wagons he
addressed the assembled men.
"Boys," said he, "there's been some sort of a row with the Government,
and they've closed this road to us temporarily. I guess you'll have to
hoof it the rest of the way."
This was no great and unaccustomed hardship, and no one objected.
"How about our beds?" inquired some one.
This presented a difficulty. No Western camp of any description--lumber,
mining, railroad, cow--supplies the bedding for its men. Camp blankets
as dealt out in our old-time Northern logging camp are unknown. Each man
brings his own blankets, which he further augments with a pair of
quilts, a pillow and a heavy canvas. All his clothing and personal
belongings he tucks inside; the canvas he firmly lashes outside. Thus
instead of his "turkey"--or duffle-bag--he speaks of his "bed roll,"
and by that term means not only his sleeping equipment but often all his
worldly goods.
"Can't you unhitch your horses and pack them?" asked Bob.
"Sure," cried several mountaineers at once.
Welton chuckled.
"That sounds like it," he approved; "and remember, boys, you're all
innocent campers out to enjoy the wonders and beauties of nature."
The men made short work of the job. In a twinkling the horses were
unhitched from the vehicles. Six out of ten of these men were more or
less practised at throwing packing hitches, for your Californian brought
up in sight of mountains is often among them. Bob admired the dexterity
with which some of the mountaineers improvised slings and drew tight the
bulky and cumbersome packs. Within half an hour the long procession was
under way, a hundred men and fifty horses. They filed past California
John, who had drawn one side.
"Camping, boys?" he asked the leader.
The man nodded and passed on. California John sat at ease, his elbow on
the pommel, his hand on his chin, his blue eyes staring vacantly at the
silent procession filing before him. Star stood motionless, his head
high, his small ears pricked forward. The light dust peculiar to the
mountain soils of California, stirred by many feet, billowed and rolled
upward through the pines. Long rays of sunlight cut through it like
swords.
"Now did you ever see such utter damn foolishness?" growled Welton.
"Make that bunch walk all the way up that mountain! What on earth is the
difference whether they walk or ride?"
But Bob, examining closely the faded, old figure on the magnificent
horse, felt his mind vaguely troubled by another notion. He could not
seize the thought, but its influence was there. Somehow the irritation
and exasperation had gone from the episode.
"I know that sort of crazy old mossback," muttered Welton as he turned
down the mountain. "Pin a tin star on them and they think they're as
important as hell!"
Bob looked back.
"I don't know," he said vaguely. "I'm kind of for that old coon."
The bend shut him out. After the buckboard had dipped into the horseshoe
and out to the next point, they again looked back. The smoke of marching
rose above the trees to eddy lazily up the mountain. California John, a
tiny figure now, still sat patiently guarding the portals of an empty
duty.