THE DRAINING OF THE "FORTY RODS"
As soon as Yetmore was out of sight, Joe and I turned into the house,
where we found that Peter, wise man, had gone to bed; an example we
speedily followed. But, tired though we were, we could neither of us go
to sleep. For a long time we lay talking over the exciting events of the
day, and going over the probable consequences, if, as now seemed
certain, we had indeed discovered the source of our underground stream.
First and foremost, by diverting it we should dry up the "forty rods"
and render productive a large piece of land which at present was more
bane than benefit; we should bring the county road past our door; we
should more than double our supply of water for irrigation purposes--a
fact which, by itself, would be of immense advantage to us.
At present we had no more than enough water--sometimes hardly enough--to
irrigate our crops, but by doubling the supply we could bring into use
another hundred acres or more. On either side of our present cultivated
area, and only three feet above it, spread the first of the old
lake-benches, a fine, level tract of land, capable of growing any crop,
but which, for lack of water, we had hitherto utilized only as a dry
pasture for our stock. By a test we had once made of a little patch of
it, we had found that it was well adapted to the cultivation of wheat;
and as I lay there thinking--Joe having by this time departed to the
land of dreams--I pictured in my mind the whole area converted into one
flourishing wheat-field; I built a castle in the air in the shape of a
flour-mill which I ran by power derived from our waterfall; and with a
two-ton load of flour I was in imagination driving down to San Remo over
the splendid road which traversed the now solid "forty rods," when a
light shining in my face disturbed me.
It was the sun pouring in at our east window!
Half-past seven! And we still in bed! Such a thing had not happened to
me since that time when, a rebellious infant, I had been kept in bed
perforce with a light attack of the measles.
Needless to say, we were up and dressed in next to no time, when, on
descending to the kitchen, we found another surprise in store for us.
Peter was gone! He must have been gone some hours, too, for the fire in
the range had burned out. He had not deserted us, however, for on the
table was a bit of paper upon which he had written, "Back pretty soon.
Wait for me"--a behest we duly obeyed, not knowing what else to do.
About an hour later I heard the trampling of horses outside the front
door, and going out, there I saw Peter stiffly descending from the back
of our gray pony; while beside him, with a broad grin on his jolly face,
stood Tom Connor.
"Why, Tom!" I cried. "What brings you here?"
Tom laughed. "Didn't expect to see me, eh, Phil," said he. "It's Peter's
doing. While you two lazy young rascals were snoring away in bed, he
started out at four-thirty this morning and rode all the way up to my
camp to borrow my tools for you. And when he told me what you wanted 'em
for, I decided to come down, too. You did me a good turn in finding the
Big Reuben for me--and 'big' is the word for it, Phil, I can tell
you--and so I thought I couldn't do less than come down here for a day
or two and give you a hand. It's probable I can help you a good bit
with your trench-cutting."
"There's no doubt about that, Tom," I replied. "We shall be mighty glad
of your help. You can give us a starter, anyhow. But you, Peter, we
couldn't think what had become of you. Don't you think it was a bit
risky to go galloping about the country with that game leg of yours?"
"I couldn't very well go without it," replied our guest, laughing. "No,
I don't think so," he added, more seriously. "It was easy enough, all
except the mounting and dismounting. In fact, Phil, I'm so nearly all
right again that I should have no excuse to be hanging around here any
longer if it were not that I can be of use to you by taking all the
chores off your hands, thus leaving you and Joe free to get about your
work in the crater."
"That will be a great help," I replied. "Though as to letting you go,
Peter, we don't intend to do that, at least till my father and mother
get home."
"When _do_ they get home?" asked Tom. "Have you heard from them since
they left?"
"Why!" I cried, suddenly remembering the letter Yetmore had brought up
from San Remo the previous evening. "I have a letter from my father in
my pocket now. I'd forgotten all about it."
Quickly tearing it open, I read it through. It was very short, being
written mainly with the object of informing me that he was delayed and
would not be home until the afternoon of the following Wednesday. This
was Friday.
"Joe!" I shouted; and Joe, who was in the stable, came running at the
call. "Joe," I cried, "we have till Wednesday afternoon to turn that
stream. Four full days. Tom is going to help us. Peter will take the
chores. Can we make it?"
"Good!" cried Joe. "Great! Make it? I should think so. We'll do it if we
have to work night and day. My! But this is fine!"
He rubbed his hands in anticipation of the task ahead of him. I never
did know a fellow who took such delight in tackling a job which had
every appearance of being just a little too big for him.
We did not waste any time, you may be sure. Having picked out the
necessary tools, we went off at once, taking our dinners with us, and
arriving at the foot of the "bubble," we carried up into the crater the
drills, hammers and other munitions of war we had brought with us.
"I thought you said there was a driblet of water running out at the
crevice," remarked Tom. "I don't see it."
"There was yesterday," I replied, "but it seems to have stopped. I
wonder why."
"That's easily accounted for," said Joe. "It was those sacks lying in
the channel which backed up the water and made it overflow, and when
Long John cleared the course by pulling out the sacks it didn't overflow
any more."
"Then it's to Long John you owe this discovery!" cried Tom. "If 'The
Wolf' hadn't blocked that channel the water would not have run down to
the cañon, and the other wolf would not have got his feet wet; and if
the other wolf had not got his feet wet, you would never have thought of
coming up here."
"That's all true," I assented. "In fact, you may go further than that
and say that if John had not stolen the ore he would not have blocked
the channel with it, and we should not have found the spring; if Yetmore
had not given John leave to blow up your house, John would not have
stolen the ore; if you had not bored a hole in Yetmore's oil-barrel,
Yetmore would not have given John leave--it's like the story of 'The
House that Jack Built.' And so, after all, it is to you we owe this
discovery, Tom."
"Well, that's one way of getting at it," said Tom, laughing. "But, come
on! Let's pick out our line and get to work."
"This won't be so much of a job," he remarked, when we had gone over the
ground. "You ought to make quick work of it. We'll follow the wet mark
left by the overflow, throw all these rocks out of the way, and then
pitch in and cut our trench. Come on, now; let's begin at once. Phil,
you throw aside all the rocks you can lift; Joe, take the sledge and
crack all those too heavy to handle; I'll take the single-hand drill and
hammer and put some shots into the big ones. Now, boys, blaze away, and
let's see how much of a mark we can make before sunset."
Blaze away we did! Never before had Joe and I worked so hard for so long
a stretch; not a minute did we lose, except on those four or five
occasions when Tom, having put down a hole into one of the large
pieces, called out to us to get to cover, when, running for shelter, we
crouched behind some friendly rock until a sharp, cracking explosion
told us that another of the big obstructions was out of the way.
So hard did we work, in fact, and so systematically, that by sunset we
had cleared a path six feet wide. There remained only one more of the
big rocks to break up, and into this Tom put a three-foot hole, which he
charged and tamped, when, sending us ahead to hitch up the horse, he
touched off the fuse, the explosion following just as we started
homeward.
"A great day's work, boys!" cried Tom. "If it wasn't for the training
you've had all winter handling rocks, you never could have done it.
There is a good chance now, I think, of getting the trench cut before
Wednesday evening. I'll work with you all day to-morrow--I must get back
to my camp then--and that will leave you two days and a half to finish
up the job. You ought to do it if you keep hard at it."
By sunrise next morning we were at it again, working under Tom's
direction, in the same systematic manner.
"Take the sledge, Joe," said he, "and crack up the fragments of that
big rock we shot to pieces last night. Phil, you and I will put down our
first hole, beginning here at the crevice and working upward. Now! Let's
get to work!"
Tom and I, therefore, went to work with drill and hammer, Tom taking the
larger share of the striking; for though the swinging of the seven-pound
hammer is the harder part of the work, the turning of the drill is the
more particular, and as our instructor justly remarked, it was as well I
should have all the practice I could get while he was on hand to
superintend.
The hole being deep enough, Tom made me load and tamp it with my own
hands, using black powder, which, though perhaps less effective for this
particular kind of work than giant powder would have been, he regarded
as safer for novices like ourselves to handle.
Our first shot broke out the rock in very good style, and then, while I
busied myself cracking up the big pieces and throwing them aside, Joe
took my place.
The second hole was loaded and tamped by Joe, under Tom's supervision;
after which my partner once more took the sledge, while I turned drill
again.
In this order we worked all day, making, before quitting time, such
encouraging progress that we felt very hopeful of getting the task
completed before my father's return.
Tom having fairly started us, went back to his camp on Lincoln, leaving
Joe and me to continue the work by ourselves; and sorely did we miss our
expert miner when, on the Monday morning, we returned to the crater.
Though we kept steadily at it all day, our progress was noticeably
slower than it had been the first day, for, besides the fact that there
were only two of us, and those the least skilful, as we ascended towards
the stream each hole was a little deeper than the last, each charge a
little stronger, and each shot blew out a greater amount of rock to be
broken up and cast aside.
Nevertheless, we made very satisfactory headway, and continuing our work
the next two days with unabated energy and some increase of skill with
every hole we put down, we made such progress that by two o'clock on the
Wednesday afternoon there remained but three feet of rock to be shot out
to make connection with the channel.
I was for blasting this out forthwith, but Joe on the other hand
suggested that we trim up our trench a little before turning in the
water; for, hitherto, we had merely thrown out the loose pieces, and
there were in consequence many projections and jagged corners both in
the sides and bottom of our proposed water-course. These we attacked
with sledge and crowbar, and in two hours or so had them pretty well
cleared out of the way, when we went to work putting down our last hole.
As we wanted to make a sure thing of it, we sank this hole rather
deeper than any of the others, charging it with an extra allowance
of powder. Then, the tools having been removed, I touched off the fuse
and ran for shelter behind the big rock where Joe was already crouching,
making himself as small as possible. Presently there was a tremendous
bang! Rocks of every size and shape were flung broadcast all over
the crater--some of them coming down uncomfortably close to our
hiding-place--but as soon as the clatter ceased, up we both jumped and
ran to see the result.
Nothing could have been better. Our last shot had torn a great hole,
extending across almost the whole width of the old channel, and our
trench being six inches or more below the original level, the whole
stream at once rushed into it, leaving its former bed high and dry.
"Hooray, for us!" shouted Joe. "Come on, Phil! Let us run down and see
it go into the cañon."
Away we went; but as the crater-side was pretty steep we had to descend
with some caution; whereas the water, having no neck to break, went down
headlong. The consequence was that the stream beat us to the cañon by a
hundred yards, and by the time we arrived it was pouring over the edge
in a sixty-foot cascade.
We were in time, however, to see a wall of foam flying down the cañon; a
sight which, while it delighted us, at the same time gave us something
of a start.
"Joe!" I cried. "How about our bridge?"
"Pht!" Joe whistled. "I never thought of it. It will go out, I'm afraid.
Let us get down there at once."
Off we ran to where our horse was standing, eating hay out of the back
of the buckboard, threw on the harness, hitched him up, and scrambling
in, one on either side, away we went as fast as we dared over the
uneven, rocky stretch of the mesa which lay between us and home.
The course of the stream being more circuitous than the one we took
across country, we beat the water down to the ranch; but only by a few
seconds. We had hardly reached the bridge when the swollen stream leaped
into the pool in such volume that I felt convinced it would sweep it
clear of all the sand in it whether black or yellow; rushed under the
bridge, and went tearing down the valley--a sight to see! Luckily the
creek-bed was fairly wide and straight, so that the banks did not suffer
much.
As to the bridge, the stringers being very long and well set, and the
floor being composed of stout poles roughly squared and firmly spiked
down, it did not go out, though the water came squirting up between the
poles in a way which made us fear it might tear them loose at any
moment.
To prevent this, we ran quickly to the stable, harnessed up the mules to
the wood-sled, loaded the sled with some of our big flat lava-rocks, and
driving back to the bridge, we laid these rocks upon the ends of the
poles, leaving a causeway between them wide enough for the passage of a
wagon.
We had just finished this piece of work, when we heard a rattle of
wheels, and looking up the road we saw coming down the hill an
express-wagon, driven by Sam Tobin, a San Remo liveryman, and in the
wagon sat my father and mother.
"Why, what's all this?" cried the former, as the driver pulled up on the
far side of the bridge. "Where does all this water come from?"
Then did the pent-up excitement of the past week burst forth. The flood
of water going under the bridge was a trifle compared with the flood of
words we poured out upon my bewildered parents; both of us talking at
the same time, interrupting each other at every turn, explaining each
other's explanations, and tumbling over each other, as it were, in our
eagerness. All the details of the strenuous days since the snow-slide
came down--the discovery of the Big Reuben, the recovery of the stolen
ore, and above all the heading-off of the underground stream--were set
forth with breathless volubility; so that if the hearers were a little
dazed by the recital and a trifle confused as to the particulars, it
was not to be wondered at. One thing, at least, was clear to them: we
had found and turned the underground stream; and when he understood
that, my father leaped from the wagon, and shaking hands with both of us
at once, he cried:
"Boys, you certainly _have_ done a stroke of work! If it had taken you a
year instead of a week it would have been more than worth the labor. As
to its actual money value, it is hard to judge yet; but whether that
shall turn out to be much or little, there is one thing sure:--we have
our work cut out for us for years to come--a grand thing by itself for
all of us. And now, let us go on up to the house: Sam Tobin wants to get
back home as soon as possible."
This the driver was able to do at once, for the livery horses,
frightened by the water which came spurting up through the floor of the
bridge, declined to cross, so Joe and I, taking out the trunk, placed it
on the wood-sled and thus drew it up to the house.
As we walked along, my mother said:
"So the hermit has been staying with you, has he? And what sort of a man
_is_ your wild man now you've caught him?"
"He isn't a wild man at all," cried Joe, somewhat indignantly. "He's a
fine fellow--isn't he, Phil? He has been of great help to us these last
few days. We could never have finished our trench in time if he hadn't
taken the chores off our hands. He is in the kitchen now, getting the
supper ready. I'll run and bring him out."
So saying, Joe ran forward--we others walking on more leisurely--and as
we approached the house the pair came out of the front door side by
side.
In spite of Joe's assurance to the contrary, my parents still had in
their minds the idea that any one going by the name of "Peter, the
Hermit" must be a rough, hirsute, unkempt specimen of humanity. Great
was their surprise, therefore, when Peter, always clean and tidy, his
hair and beard neatly trimmed in honor of their return, issued from the
doorway, looking, with his clear gray eyes, his ruddy complexion and his
spare, erect figure, remarkably young and alert.
There was an added heartiness in their welcome, therefore, when Joe
proudly introduced him; and though Peter threw out hints about sleeping
in the hay-loft that night and taking himself off the first thing in the
morning, my mother scouted the idea, telling him how she had long
desired to make his acquaintance, and intimating that she should take it
as a very poor compliment to herself if he should run off the moment she
got home.
So Peter, set quite at his ease, said no more about it, but went back
into the kitchen, whence he presently issued again to announce that
supper was ready.
A very hearty and a very merry supper it was, too, and long and animated
was the talk which followed, as we sat before the open fire that
evening.
"I feel almost bewildered," said my father, "when I think of the amount
and the variety of the work we have before us; it is astonishing that
the turning of that stream should carry with it so many consequences, as
I foresee it will--that and Tom Connor's strike."
"There's no end to it!" cried Joe, jumping out of his chair, striding up
and down the room, and, for the last time in this history, rumpling his
hair in his excitement. "There's no end to it! There's the hay-corral to
enlarge--rock hauling all winter for you and me, Phil! We shall need a
new ice-pond; for this new water-supply won't freeze up in winter like
the old one did! Then, when the 'forty rods' dries up, there will be the
extension of our ditches down there; besides making a first-class road
to bring all the travel our way--plenty of work in that, too! Then, when
we bring the old lake-benches under cultivation, there will be new
headgates needed and two new ditches to lay out, besides breaking the
ground! Then----Oh, what's the use? There's no end to it--just no end to
it!"
Joe was quite right. There was, and there still seems to be, no end to
it.
* * * * *
The effect of Tom Connor's strike on Mount Lincoln was just what my
father had predicted: our whole district took a great stride forward;
the mountains swarmed with prospectors; the town of Sulphide hummed with
business; our new friend, Yetmore, doing a thriving trade, while our old
friend, Mrs. Appleby, followed close behind, a good second.
As for Tom, himself, he is one of our local capitalists now, but he is
the same old Tom for all that. Just as he used to do when he was poor,
so he continues to do now he is rich: any tale of distress will empty
his pocket on the spot. Though my father remonstrates with him
sometimes, Tom only laughs and remarks that it is no use trying to teach
old dogs new tricks; and moreover he does not see why he should not
spend his money to suit himself. And so he goes his own way, more than
satisfied with the knowledge that every man, woman and child in the
district counts Tom Connor as a friend.
The fate of those two poor ore-thieves was so horrible that I hesitate
to mention it. It was six months later that a prospector on one of the
northern spurs of Lincoln came upon two dead bodies. One, a club-footed
man, had been shot through the head; the other, unmistakably Long John,
was lying on his back, an empty revolver beside him, and one foot caught
in a bear-trap. Though the truth will never be known, the presumption is
that, setting the stolen trap in a deer run in the hope of catching a
deer, they had got into a quarrel; Clubfoot, striking at his companion,
had caused him to step backward into the trap, when, in his pain and
rage, Long John had whipped out his revolver and shot the other. What
his own fate must have been is too dreadful to contemplate.
And the Crawford ranch? Well, the Crawford ranch is the busiest place in
the county.
Peter, for whom my parents, like ourselves, took a great liking, quickly
thawed out under my mother's influence, and related to us briefly the
reason for his having taken to his solitary life. He had been a
school-teacher in Denver, but losing his wife and two children in an
accident, he had fled from the place and had hidden himself up in our
mountains, where for several years he had spent a lonely existence with
no company but old Socrates. Now, however, his house destroyed and his
mountain overrun with prospectors, he needed little inducement to
abandon his old hermit-life; and accepting gladly my father's suggestion
that he stay and work on the ranch, he built for himself a good log
cabin up near the waterfall, and there he and Socrates took up their
residence.
There was plenty of work for him and for all of us--indeed, for the
first two years there was almost more than we could do. It took that
length of time for the "forty rods" to drain off thoroughly, but by the
middle of the third summer we were cutting hay upon it; the ore wagons
from Sulphide and from the Big Reuben were passing through in a
continuous stream; the stage-coach was coming our way; the old hill road
was abandoned.
In fact, everybody is busy, and more than busy--with one single
exception.
The only loafer on the place is old Sox--tolerated on account of his
advanced age. That veteran, whose love of mischief and whose unfailing
impudence would lead any stranger to suppose he had but just come out of
the egg, spends most of his time strutting about the ranch, stealing the
food of the dogs and chickens; awing them into submission by his
supernatural gift of speech. And as though that were not enough, his
crop distended with his pilferings to the point of bursting, he comes
unabashed to the kitchen door and blandly requests my mother, of all
people, to give him a chew of tobacco!
But the mail-coach has just gone through, and I hear Joe shouting for
me; I must run.
"Yetmore wants fifty-hundred of oats, Phil," he calls out. "You and I
are to take it up. We must dig out at once if we are to get back
to-night. To-morrow we break ground on our new ditches. A month or more
of good stiff work for us, old chap!"
He rubs his hands in anticipation; for the bigger he grows--and he has
grown into a tremendous fellow now--the more work he wants. There is no
satisfying him.
We have been very fortunate, wonderfully fortunate; but I am inclined to
set apart as pre-eminently our lucky day that one in the summer of '79,
when young Joe Garnier, the blacksmith's apprentice, stopped at our
stable-door to ask for work!
THE END
_By Amy E. Blanchard_
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Boys of Crawford's Basin, by Sidford F. Hamp