CHAPTER XVII

We cleaned up at the ranch and herded our prisoners together and rode

back to Box Springs. The seven men who had been segregated from the rest

by Buck Johnson were not among them. I never found out what had become

of them nor who had executed whatever decrees had been pronounced

against them. There at the home ranch we found Miss Emory very anxious,

excited, and interested. Buck and the others in authority left me to

inform her of what had taken place.

I told you some time back that this is no love story; but I may as well

let you in on the whole sequel to it, and get it off my chest. Windy's

scheme brought immediate results. The partnership agreement was

recorded, and after the usual legal red-tape Miss Emory came into the

property. She had to have a foreman for the ranch, and hanged if she

didn't pick on me! Think of that; me an ordinary, forty-dollar cow

puncher! I tried to tell her that it was all plumb foolishness, that

running a big cattle ranch was a man-sized job and took experience, but

she wouldn't listen. Women are like that. She'd seen me blunder in and

out of a series of adventures and she thought that settled it, that I

was a great man. After arguing with her quite some time about it, I had

to give in; so I spit on my hands and sailed in to do my little

darndest. I expected the men who realized fully how little I knew about

it all would call me a brash damn fool or anyway give me the horse

laugh; but I fooled myself. They were mightily decent. Jed Parker or Sam

Wooden or Windy Bill were always just happening by and roosting on the

corral rails. Then if I listened to them--and I always did--I learned a

heap about what I ought to do. Why, even Buck Johnson himself came and

stayed at the ranch with me for more than a week at the time of the fall

round-up: and he never went near the riding, but just projected around

here and there looking over my works and ways. And in the evenings he

would smoke and utter grave words of executive wisdom which I treasured

and profited by.

If a man gives his whole mind to it, he learns practical things fast.

Even a dumb-head Wop gets his English rapidly when he's where he has to

talk that or nothing. Inside of three years I had that ranch paying, and

paying big. It was due to my friends whom I had been afraid of, and I'm

not ashamed to say so. There's Herefords on our range now instead of

that lot of heady long-horns Old Man Hooper used to run; and we're

growing alfalfa and hay in quantity for fattening when they come in off

the ranges. Got considerable hogs, too, and hogs are high--nothing but

pure blood Poland. I figure I've added fully fifty per cent., if not

more, to the value of the ranch as it came to me. No, I'm not bragging;

I'm explaining how came it I married my wife and figured to keep my

self-respect. I'd have married her anyhow. We've been together now

fifteen years, and I'm here to say that she's a humdinger of a girl,

game as a badger, better looking every day, knows cattle and alfalfa

and sunsets and sonatas and Poland hogs--but I said this was no love

story, and it isn't!

The day following the taking of the ranch and the death of Old Man

Hooper we put our prisoners on horses and started along with them toward

the Mexican border. Just outside of Soda Springs whom should we meet up

with but big Tom Thorne, the sheriff.

"Evenin', Buck," said he.

"Evenin'," replied the señor.

"What you got here?"

"This is a little band of religious devotees fleein' persecution," said

Buck.

"And what are you up to with them?" asked Thorne.

"We're protecting them out of Christian charity from the dangers of the

road until they reach the Promised Land."

"I see," said Thorne, reflectively. "Whereabouts lays this Promised

Land?"

"About sixty mile due south."

"You sure to get them all there safe and sound--I suppose you'd be

willing to guarantee that nothing's going to happen to them, Buck?"

"I give my word on that, Tom."

"All right," said Thorne, evidently relieved. He threw his leg over the

horn of his saddle. "How about that little dispossession matter, deputy?

You ain't reported on that."

"It's all done and finished."

"Have any trouble?"

"Nary trouble," said Señor Buck Johnson, blandly, "all went off quiet

and serene."

THE ROAD AGENT

CHAPTER I

The Sierra Nevadas of California are very wide and very high. Kingdoms

could be lost among the defiles of their ranges. Kingdoms have been

found there. One of them was Bright's Cove.

It happened back in the seventies. Old Man Bright was prospecting. He

had come up from the foothills accompanied by a new but stolid Indian

wife. After he had grubbed around a while on old Italian bar and had

succeeded in washing out a little colour, she woke up and took a slight

interest in the proceedings.

"You like catch dat?" she grunted, contemptuously. "Heap much over

dere!"

She waved an arm. Old Man Bright girded his loins and packed his

jackass. After incredible scramblings the two succeeded in surmounting

the ranges and in dropping sheer to the mile-wide round valley through

which flowed the river--the broad, swift mountain river, with the

snow-white rapids and the swirling translucent green of very thick

grass. They were very glad to reach the grass at the bottom, but a

little doubtful on how to get out. The big mountains took root at the

very edge of the tiny round valley; the river flowed out of a gorge at

one end and into a gorge at the other.

"Guess the sun don't rise here 'til next morning," commented Old Man

Bright. The squaw was too busy even to grunt.

In six years Old Man Bright was worth six million dollars, all taken

from the ledges of Bright's Cove. Of this amount he had been forced to

let go of a small proportion for mill machinery and labour. He had also

invested twenty-five thousand dollars in a road. It was a steep road,

and a picturesque. It wound in and out and around, by loops, lacets, and

hairpins, dropping down the face of the mountain in unheard-of grades

and turns. Nothing was ever hauled up it, save yellow bars of

bullion--so that did not matter. Down it, with a shriek of brakes, a

cloud of dust, a clank of harness and a rumble of oaths, came divers

matters, such as machinery, glassware, whiskey, mirrors, ammunition, and

pianos. From any one of a dozen bold points on this road one could see

far down and far up its entire white, thread-like length. The tiny

crawling teams each with its puff of dust crawling with it; the great

tumbled peaks of the Sierras; the river so far below as to resemble a

little stream, the round Cove with its toy houses and its distant

ant-like industry--all these were plainly to be seized by a glance of

whatever eye cared to look.

As time went on a great many teams and pack trains and saddle animals

climbed up and down that road. Bright's Cove became quite a town. Old

Man Bright made six millions; other men aggregated nearly four millions

more; still others acquired deep holes and a deficit. It might be

remarked in passing that the squaw acquired experience, a calico dress

or so, and a final honourable discharge. Being an Indian she quite

cheerfully went back to pounding acorns in a _metate_.

In the fifth year of prosperity there drifted into camp two men,

possessed of innocence, three mules, and a thousand dollars. They

retained the mules; and, it is to be presumed, at least a portion of the

innocence.

The thousand dollars went to the purchase of the Lost Dog from Barney

Fallan. The Lost Dog consisted quite simply of a hole in the ground

guarded by an excellent five stamp-mill. The latter's existence could

only be explained by the incurable optimism of Barney Fallan--certainly

not by the contents of the hole in the ground. To the older men of the

camp it seemed a shame, for the newcomers were nice, fresh-cheeked,

clear-eyed lads to whom everything was new and strange and wonderful,

their enthusiasm was contagious, and their cheerful command of

vernacular exceedingly heart-warming. California John, then a man in his

forties, tried to head off the deal.

"Look here, son," said he to Gaynes. "Don't do it. There's nothin' in

it. Take my word."

"But Fallan's got a good stamp-mill all ready for business, and the

ledge----"

"Son," said California John, "every once in a while the Lord gets to

experimentin' makin' brains for a new species of jackass, and when he

runs out of donkeys to put 'em in----"

"Meaning me?" demanded Gaynes, his fair skin turning a deep red.

"Not at all. Meanin' Barney Fallan."

Nevertheless the Babes, as the Gaynes brothers were speedily nicknamed,

paid over their good thousand for Barney's worthless prospect with the

imposing but ridiculous stamp-mill. There they set cheerfully to work.

After a week's desperate and clanking experiment they got the machinery

under way and began to run rock through the crushers.

"It ain't even ore!" expostulated California John. "Why, son, it's only

country rock. Go down on your shaft until you strike a pan test, anyway!

You're wasting time and fuel and--Oh, hell!" he broke off hopelessly at

the sight of the two cherubic faces upturned respectful but unconvinced.

"But you never can tell where you will find gold," broke in Jimmy,

eagerly. "That's been proved over and over again. I heard one fellow say

once that they thought they'd never find gold in hornblende. But they

did."

California John stumped home in indignant disgust.

"Damn little ijits!" he exploded. "Pigheaded! Stubborn as a pair of

mules!" The recollection of the scrubbed red cheeks, the clear,

puppy-dog, frank brown eyes, the close-curling brown hair, forced his

lips to a wry grin. "Just like I was at that age," he admitted. He

sighed. "Well, they'll drop their little pile, of course. The only ray

of hope's the experience that old Bible fellow had with them turkey

buzzards--or was it ravens?"

The Babes pecked away for about a month, full of tribulation and

questions. They seemed to depend almost equally on optimism and chance,

in both of which they had supreme faith. A huge horseshoe was tacked

over the door of the stamp-mill. Jimmy Gaynes always spat over his right

shoulder before doing a day's work. They never walked under the short

ladders leading to the hoppers. Neither would they permit visitors to

their shafts. To California John and his friend Tibbetts they interposed

scandalized objections.

"It's bad luck to let another man in your shaft!" cried George. "I'm no

high-brow on this mining proposition, but I know enough for that."

"Bad as playing opposite a cross-eyed man," said Jimmy.

"Or holding Jacks full on Eights," supplemented George, conclusively.

"You're about as wise as a treeful of owls," said California John,

sarcastically. "But, Lord love you, I ain't cherishin' any very burnin'

ambition to crawl down your snake hole."

The Babes used up their provisions; they went about as far as they could

on credit; they harrowed the feelings of the community--and then, in a

very mild way, they struck it. Together they drifted down the single

street of the camp, arm in arm, an elaborate nonchalance steadying their

steps. Near the horse trough they paused.

"Gold," said Jimmy, oracularly, to George, "is where you find it."

"Likewise horse sense," quoth George.

Whereupon they whooped wildly and descended on the astonished group. To

it they exhibited yellow dust to the value of an hundred dollars. "And

more where that came from," said they.

"What kind of rock did you find it in?" demanded Tibbetts, after he had

recovered his breath from the youngsters' enthusiastic man-handling.

"Oh, a kind of red, pasty-looking rock," said they.

"Show us," demanded the miners.

"What?" cried Jimmy, astounded, "and give Old Man Luck the backhand slap

just when he's decided to buy a corner lot in the Gaynes Addition? Not

on your saccharine existence!"

"But we'll show you some more of this to-morrow Q.M.," said George.

They bought drinks all round, and paid their various bills, and departed

again feverishly to the Lost Dog whence rose smoke and clankings. And

next day, sure enough, they left their work just long enough to exhibit

another respectable little clean-up of fifty dollars or so.

"And we're just getting into it!" said George, triumphantly.

California John and all the rest of his good friends rejoiced

exceedingly and genuinely. They liked the Babes. The little strike of

the Lost Dog quite overshadowed in importance the fact that old man

Bright's "Clarice" had run into a fabulously rich pocket.

The end of the month drew near. The Lost Dog had produced nearly eight

hundred dollars. The Babes waxed important and talked largely of their

moneyed interests.

"I think," said Jimmy, importantly, "that we will decide to keep three

hundred dollars to boost the game; and nail down the rest where moths

won't corrupt. Where do you fellows salt your surplus, anyway?"

"There's an express goes out pretty soon," someone explained, "with the

clean-up of the Clarice. We send our dust out with that; and I reckon

you can fix it with Bright."

They saw Bright, but ran up against an unexpected difficulty. Old Man

Bright received them with considerable surliness. He considered himself

as the originator, discoverer, inventor, and almost the proprietor of

Bright's Cove and all it contained. Therefore, when he first heard of

the new strike, he walked up to the Lost Dog to see what it looked like.

The Babes, panic stricken at the intended affront to "Old Man Luck,"

headed him off. Bright had not the least belief in the reason given. He

surveyed them with disfavour.

"I can't take your package," he told them. "Send it out yourself."

"And that old skunk has cleaned up a hundred thousand this month!"

complained Jimmy, pathetically, to the group around the horse trough.

"And he won't even take a pore little five hundred package of dust out

to some suffering bank! I suppose I'll have to cache it in a tomato can

for Johnson's old billy goat to chew up."

"Bring it over and I'll shove it in with mine," suggested California

John.

So it was done. The express, carrying nearly four hundred pounds of gold

dust, set forth over the steep road. In two hours the driver and

messenger sailed in, bung-eyed with excitement. They had been held up by

a single road agent.

"He come out right on that point of rocks where you can see the whole

valley," said the driver in answer to many questions, "right where the

heavy grade is and the thick chaparral. We was busy climbing; and he had

us before we could wink. Made us drop off the dust and 'bout face. He

was a big, tall feller; and had a sawed-off Winchester. Once, when we

stopped, he dropped a bullet right behind us. He must have watched us

all the way to camp."

The camp turned out. As the men passed the Lost Dog someone yelled to

the Babes. George, covered with mud, came to the door of the mill.

"Gee!" said he. "Lucky we saved out that three hundred. I'm powerful

sorry for that suffering bank. I'll join you as soon as I can get Jimmy

up out of the shaft." Before the party had gone a mile they were joined

by the brothers boyishly eager over this new excitement.

The men toiled up the road to where the robbery had taken place. Plainly

to be seen were the marks of the man's boots. The tracks of a single

horse, walking, followed the man.

"He packed off the dust, and he had an almighty big horse to carry it,"

pronounced someone.

They followed the trail. It led a half mile to a broad sheet of rock.

There it disappeared. On one side the bank rose twenty or thirty feet.

On the other it fell away nearly a hundred. On the other side of the

sheet of rock stretched the dusty road unbroken by anything more recent

than the wheel-tracks of the day before. It was as though man and horse

had taken unto themselves wings.

Immediately Bright took active charge of the posse.

"Stand here, on this rock," he commanded. "This road's been tracked up

too much already. You, John, and Tibbetts and Simmins, there, come 'long

with me to see what you can make out."

The old mountaineers retraced their steps, examining carefully every

inch of the ground. They returned vastly puzzled.

"No sabe," California John summed up their investigations. "There's the

man's track leadin' his hoss. The hoss had on new shoes, and the robber

did his own shoeing. So we ain't got any blacksmiths to help us."

"How do you know he shod the horse himself?" asked Jimmy Gaynes.

"Shoes just alike on front and back feet. Shows he must just have tacked

on ready-made shoes. A blacksmith shapes 'em different. Those tracks

leads right up to this rock: and here they quit. If you can figger how a

horse, a man, and nigh four hundredweight of gold dust got off this

rock, I'll be obleeged."

The men looked up at the perpendicular cliff to their right; over the

sheer precipice at their left; and upon the untracked deep, white dust

ahead.

"Furthermore," California John went on, impressively, after a moment,

"where did that man and that hoss come from in the beginning? Not from

up this way. They's no fresh tracks comin' down the road no more than

they's fresh tracks goin' up. Not from camp. They's no tracks

whatsomever on the road below, except our'n and the stage outfit's."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Jimmy, his eyes shining with interest.

"Sartin sure," replied California John, positively. "We didn't take no

chances on that."

"Then he must have come into the road from up the mountain or down the

mountain."

"Where?" demanded California John. "A man afoot might scramble down in

one or two places; but not a hoss. They ain't no tracks either side the

muss-up where the express was stopped. And at that p'int the mountain is

straight up and down, like it is here."

They talked it over, and argued it, and reexamined the evidence, but

without avail. The stubborn facts remained: Between the hold-up and the

sheet of rock was one set of tracks going one way; elsewhere, nothing.

CHAPTER II

Nearly a year passed. If it had not been for the very tangible loss of a

hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the little community at Bright's

Cove might almost have come to doubt the evidence of their senses and

the accuracy of their memories, so fantastic on sober reflection did all

the circumstances become. Even the indisputable four hundred pounds of

gold could not quite avert an unconfessed suspicion of the uncanny.

Miners are superstitious folk. Old Man Bright remembered the parting and

involved curses of his squaw before she went back to her acorns and pine

nuts. To Tibbetts alone he imparted a vague hint of the imaginings into

which he had fallen. But he brooded much, seeking a plausible theory

that would not force him back on the powers of darkness. This he did not

find.

Nor did any other man. It remained a mystery, a single bizarre anomaly

in the life of the camp. For some time thereafter the express went

heavily guarded. The road was patrolled. Jimmy or George Gaynes in

person accompanied each shipment of dust. Their pay streak held out,

increased steadily in value. They would hire no assistance for the

actual mining in the shaft, although they had several hands to work at

the mill. One month they cleaned up twelve thousand dollars.

"You bet I'm going," said Jimmy, "I don't care if it is only a little

compared to what Bright and you fellows are sending. It's a heap sight

to us, and I'm going to see it safe to the city. No more spooks in mine.

I got my fingers crossed. Allah skazallalum! I don't know what a ghost

would want with cash assets, but they seemed to use George's and my

little old five hundred, all right."

Twelve months went by. Two expresses a month toiled up the road. Nothing

happened. Finally Jimmy decided that four good working days a month were

a good deal to pay for apparently useless supervision. Three men

comprised the shot-gun guard. They, with the driver, were considered

ample.

"You'll have to get on without me," said Jimmy to them in farewell. "Be

good boys. We've got the biggest clean-up yet aboard you."

They started on the twenty-fifth trip since the hold-up. After a time,

far up the mountain was heard a single shot. Inside of two hours the

express drew sorrowfully into camp. The driver appeared to be alone. In

the bottom of the wagon were the three guards weak and sick. The gold

sacks were very much absent.

"Done it again," said the driver. "Ain't more than got started afore the

whole outfit's down with the belly-ache. Too much of that cursed salmon.

Told 'em so. I didn't eat none. That road agent hit her lucky this trip

sure. He was all organized for business. Never showed himself at all.

Just opened fire. Sent a bullet through the top of my hat. He's either a

damn good shot or a damn poor one. I hung up both hands and yelled we

was down and out. What could I do? This outfit couldn't a fit a bumble

bee. And I couldn't git away, or git hold of no gun, or see anything to

shoot, if I did. He was behind that big rock."

The men nodded. They were many of them hard hit, but they had lived too

long in the West not to recognize the justice of the driver's implied

contention that he had done his best.

"He told me to throw out them sacks, and to be damn quick about it,"

went on the driver. "Then I drove home."

"What sort of a lookin' fellow was he?" asked someone. "Same one as last

year?"

"I never seen him," said the driver. "He hung behind his rock. He was

organized for shoot, and if the messengers hadn't happened to' a' been

out of it, I believe he could have killed us all."

"What did his hoss look like?" inquired California John.

"He didn't have no horse," stated the driver. "Leastways, not near him.

There was no cover. He might have been around a p'int. And I can sw'ar

to this: there weren't no tracks of no kind from there to camp."

They caught up horses and started out. When they came to the Lost Dog,

they stopped and looked at each other.

"Poor old Babes," said Simmins. "Biggest clean-up yet; and first time

one of 'em didn't go 'long."

"I'm glad they didn't," said Tibbetts. "That agent would have killed 'em

shore!"

They called out the Gaynes brothers and broke the news. For once the

jovial youngsters had no joke to make.

"This is getting serious," said Jimmy, seriously. "We can't afford to

lose that much."

George whistled dolefully, and went into the corral for the mules.

The party toiled up the mountain. Plainly in the dust could be made out

the trail of the express ascending and descending. Plain also were the

signs where the driver had dumped out the gold bags and turned around.

From that point the tracks of a man and a horse led to the sheet of

rock. Beyond that, nothing.

The men stared at each other a little frightened. Somebody swore softly.

"Boys," said Bright in a strained voice, "do you know how much was in

that express? A half million! There's nary earthly hoss can carry over

half a ton! And this one treads as light as a saddler."

They looked at each other blankly. Several even glanced in apprehension

at the sky.

In a perfunctory manner, for the sake of doing something, those skilled

in trail-reading went back over the ground. Nothing was added to the

first experience. At the point of robbery magically had appeared a man

and--if the stage driver's solemn assertion that at the time of the

hold-up no animal was in sight could be believed--subsequently, when

needed, a large horse. Whence had they come? Not along the road in

either direction: the unbroken, deep dust assured that. Not down the

mountain from above, for the cliff rose sheer for at least three hundred

feet. Jimmy Gaynes, following unconsciously the general train of

conjecture, craned his neck over the edge of the road. The broken jagged

rock and shale dropped off an hundred feet to a tangle of manzanita and

snowbrush.

California John looked over, too.

"Couldn't even get sheep up that," said he, "let alone a sixteen-hand

horse."

Old Man Bright was sunk in a superstitious torpor. He had lost hundreds

of thousands where he would have hated to spend pennies; yet the

financial part of the loss hardly touched him. He mumbled fearfully to

himself, and took not the slightest interest in the half-hearted

attempts to read the mystery. When the others moved, he moved with them,

because he was afraid to be left alone.

After the men had assured themselves again and again that the horse and

the man had apparently materialized from thin air exactly at the point

of robbery, they again followed the tracks to the broad sheet of rock.

Whither had the robber gone? Back into the thin air whence he had come.

There was no other solution. No tracks ahead; an absolute and physical

impossibility of anything without wings getting up or down the flanking

precipices--these were the incontestable facts.

After this second robbery a gloom descended on Bright's Cove which

lasted through many months. Old Man Bright hunted out the squaw with

whom he had first discovered the diggings, and set her up in an

establishment with gay curtains, glass danglers and red doileys. Each

month he paid for her provisions and sent to her a sum of money. In this

manner, at least, the phantom road agent had furthered the ends of

justice. The sop to the powers of darkness appeared to be effective in

this respect: no more hold-ups occurred; no more mysterious tracks

appeared in the dust; gradually men's minds swung back to the balanced

and normal, and the life of the camp went forward on its appointed way.

Nevertheless, certain effects remained. Each express went out heavily

guarded, and preceded and followed by men on horseback. Strangely enough

the gamblers left camp. In a little more than a year Old Man Bright fell

into a settled melancholia from which his millions never helped him to

the very day of his death a little more than a year later.

In the meantime, however varied the fortunes of the other mines and

prospects, the Lost Dog continued to work toward a steadily increasing

paying basis. It never reached the proportions of the Clarice, but

turned out an increasing value of dust at each clean-up. The Gaynes boys

two years before had been in debt for their groceries. Now they were

said to have shipped out something like three or four hundred thousand

dollars' worth of gold. Their friends used to wander down for the

regular clean-up, just to rejoice over the youngsters' deserved good

luck. The little five stamp-mill crunched away steadily; the water

flowed; and in the riffles the heavy gold dust accumulated.

"Why don't you-all put up a big mill, throw in a crew of men, and get

busy?" they were asked.

"I'll tell you," replied George, "it's because we know a heap sight more

about mining than we did when we came here. We have just one claim, and

from all indications it's only a pocket. The Clarice is on a genuine

lode; but we're likely to run into a 'horse' or pinch out most any

minute. When we do, it's all over but a few faint cries of fraud. And we

can empty that pocket just as well with a little jerkwater outfit like

this as we could with a big crew and a real mill. It'll take a little

longer; but we're pulling it and quick enough."

"Those Babes have more sense than we gave 'em credit for," commented

California John. "Their heads are level. They're dead right about it's

bein' a pocket. The stuff they run through there is the darndest mixture

_I_ ever see gold in."

Two months after this conversation the Babes drifted into camp to

announce that the expected pinch had come.

"We're going," said Jimmy. "We have a heap plenty dust salted away; and

there's not a colour left in the Lost Dog. The mill machinery is for

sale cheap. Any one can have the Lost Dog who wants it. We're going out

to see what makes the wheels go 'round. You boys have a first claim on

us wherever you find us. You've sure been good to us. If you catch that

spook, send us one of his tail feathers. It would be worth just twelve

thousand five hundred to us."

They sold the stamp-mill for almost nothing; packed eight animals with

heavy things they had accumulated; and departed up the steep white road,

over the rim to the outer world whence came no word of them more. The

camp went on prospering. Old Man Bright died. The heavily guarded

express continued to drag out yellow gold by the hundredweight.

About six weeks after the departure of the Babes, California John

saddled up his best horse, put on his best overalls, strapped about him

his shiny worn Colt's .45 and departed for his semi-annual visit to the

valleys and the towns. A week later he returned. It was about dusk. At

the water trough he dismounted.

"Boys," said he, quietly, "I've been held up." He eyed them quizzically.

"Up by the slide rock," he continued, "and by the spook."

"Who was he?" "What was it?" they cried, starting to their feet.

"It was Jimmy Gaynes," replied California John.

"The Babe?" someone broke the stunned silence at last.

"Precisely."

"Well, I'll be damned!" cried Tibbetts.

"Did he get much off you?" asked a miner after another pause.

"He never took a thing."

And on that, being much besieged, California John sat him down and told

of his experience.

CHAPTER III

California John was discursive and interested and disinclined to be

hurried. He crossed one leg over the other and lit his pipe.

"I was driftin' down the road busy with my own idees--which ain't many,"

he began, "when I was woke up all to once by someone givin' me advice. I

took the advice. Wasn't nothin' else to do. All I could see was a rock

and a gun barrel. That was enough. So I histed my hands as per commands

and waited for the next move." He chuckled. "I wasn't worryin'. Had to

squeeze my dust bag to pay my hotel bill when I left the city."

"'Drop yore gun in the road,' says the agent.

"I done so.

"'Now dismount.'

"I climbed down. And then Jimmy Gaynes rose up from behind that rock and

laughed at me.

"'The joke's on me!' said I, and reached down for my gun.

"'Better leave that!' said Jimmy pretty sharp. I know that tone of

voice, so I straightened up again.

"'Well, Jimmy,' said I, 'she lays if you say so. But where'd you come

from: and what for do you turn road agent and hold up your old friends?'

"'I'm holdin' you up,' Jimmy answered, 'because I want to talk to you

for ten minutes. As for where I come from, that's neither here nor

there.'

"'Of course,' said I, 'I'm one of these exclusive guys that needs a gun

throwed on him before he'll talk with the plain people like you.'

"'Now don't get mad,' says Jimmy. 'But light yore pipe, and set down on

that rock, and you'll see in a minute why I _pre_ferred to corner the

gatling market.'

"Well, I set down and lit up, and Jimmy done likewise, about ten feet

away.

"'I've come back a long ways to talk to one of you boys, and I've shore

hung around this road some few hours waitin' for some of you terrapins

to come along. Ever found out who done those two hold-ups?'

"'Nope,' said I, 'and don't expect to.'

"'Well, I done it,' says he.

"I looked him in the eye mighty severe.

"'You're one of the funniest little jokers ever hit this trail,' I told

him. 'If that's your general line of talkee-talkee I don't wonder you

don't want me to have no gun.'

"'Never_the_less,' he insists, 'I done it. And I'll tell you just how it

was done. Here's yore old express crawlin' up the road. Here I am behind

this little old rock. You know what happened next I reckon--from

experience.'

"'I reckon I know that,' says I, 'but how did you get behind that rock

without leavin' no tracks?'

"I climbed up the cliff out of the cañon, and I just walked up the cañon

from the Lost Dog through the brush.'

"'Yes,' says I, 'that might be: a man could make out to shinny up. But

how----'

"'One thing to a time. Then I ordered them dust sacks throwed out, and

the driver to 'bout-face and retreat.'

"'Sure,' says I, 'simple as a wart on a kid's nose. There was you with a

half ton of gold to fly off with! Come again.'

"'I then dropped them sacks off the edge of the cliff where they rolled

into the brush. After a while I climbed down after them, and was on hand

when your posse started out. Then I carried them home at leisure.'

"'What did you do with your hoss?' I asked him, mighty sarcastic. 'Seems

to me you overlook a few bets.'

"'I didn't have no hoss,' says he.

"'But the real hold-up----

"'You mean them tracks. Well, just to amuse you fellows, I walked in the

dust up to that flat rock. Then I clamped a big pair of horseshoes on

hind-side before and walked back again.'"

California John's audience had been listening intently. Now it could no

longer contain itself, but broke forth into exclamations indicative of

various emotions.

"That's why them front and back tracks was the same size!" someone

cried.

"Gee, you're bright!" said California John. "That's what I told him. I

also told him he was a wonder, but how did he manage to slip out near a

ton of dust up that road without our knowing it?

"'You did know it,' says he. 'Did you fellows really think there was any

gold-bearing ore in the Lost Dog? We just run that dust through the mill

along with a lot of worthless rock, and shipped it out open and above

board as our own mill run. There never was an ounce of dust come out of

the Lost Dog, and there never will.' Then he give me back my

gun--emptied--we shook hands, and here I be."

After the next burst of astonishment had ebbed, and had been succeeded

by a rather general feeling of admiration, somebody asked California

John if Jimmy had come back solely for the purpose of clearing up the

mystery. California John had evidently been waiting for this question.

He arose and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"Bring a candle," he requested the storekeeper, and led the way to the

abandoned Lost Dog. Into the tunnel he led them, to the very end. There

he paused, holding aloft his light. At his feet was a canvas which,

being removed, was found to cover neatly a number of heavy sacks.

"Here's our dust," said California John, "every ounce of it, he said. He

kept about six hundred thousand or so that belonged to Bright: but he

didn't take none of ours. He come back to tell me so."

The men crowded around for closer inspection.

"I wonder why he done that?" Tibbetts marvelled.

"I asked him that," replied California John, grimly, "He said his

conscience never would rest easy if he robbed us babes."

Tibbetts broke the ensuing silence.

"Was 'babes' the word he used?" he asked, softly.

"'Babes' was the word," said California John.

THE TIDE

A short story, say the writers of text books and the teachers of

sophomores, should deal with but a single episode. That dictum is

probably true; but it admits of wider interpretation than is generally

given it. The teller of tales, anxious to escape from restriction but

not avid of being cast into the outer darkness of the taboo, can in

self-justification become as technical as any lawyer. The phrase "a

single episode" is loosely worded. The rule does not specify an episode

in one man's life; it might be in the life of a family, or a state, or

even of a whole people. In that case the action might cover many lives.

It is a way out for those who have a story to tell, a limit to tell it

within, but who do not wish to embroil themselves too seriously with the

august Makers of the Rules.

CHAPTER I

The time was 1850, the place that long, soft, hot dry stretch of blasted

desolation known as the Humboldt Sink. The sun stared, the heat rose in

waves, the mirage shimmered, the dust devils of choking alkali whirled

aloft or sank in suffocation on the hot earth. Thus it had been since in

remote ages the last drop of the inland sea had risen into a brazen sky.

But this year had brought something new. A track now led across the

desert. It had sunk deep into the alkali, and the soft edges had closed

over it like snow, so that the wheel marks and the hoof marks and the

prints of men's feet looked old. Almost in a straight line it led to the

west. Its perspective, dwindling to nothingness, corrected the deceit of

the clear air. Without it the cool, tall mountains looked very near. But

when the eye followed the trail to its vanishing, then, as though by

magic, the Ranges drew back, and before them denied dreadful forces of

toil, thirst, exhaustion, and despair. For the trail was marked. If the

wheel ruts had been obliterated, it could still have been easily

followed. Abandoned goods, furniture, stores, broken-down wagons,

bloated carcasses of oxen or horses, bones bleached white, rattling

mummies of dried skin, and an almost unbroken line of marked and

unmarked graves--like the rout of an army, like the spent wash of a wave

that had rolled westward--these in double rank defined the road.

The buzzards sailing aloft looked down on the Humboldt Sink as we would

look upon a relief map. Near the centre of the map a tiny cloud of white

dust crawled slowly forward. The buzzards stooped to poise above it.

Two ox wagons plodded along. A squirrel--were such a creature

possible--would have stirred disproportionately the light alkali dust;

the two heavy wagons and the shuffling feet of the beasts raised a

cloud. The fitful furnace draught carried this along at the slow pace of

the caravan, which could be seen only dimly, as through a dense fog.

The oxen were in distress. Evidently weakened by starvation, they were

proceeding only with the greatest difficulty. Their tongues were out,

their legs spread, spasmodically their eyes rolled back to show the

whites, from time to time one or another of them uttered a strangled,

moaning bellow. They were white with the powdery dust, as were their

yokes, the wagons, and the men who plodded doggedly alongside. Finally,

they stopped. The dust eddied by; and the blasting sun fell upon them.

The driver of the leading team motioned to the other. They huddled in

the scanty shade alongside the first wagon. Both men were so powdered

and caked with alkali that their features were indistinguishable. Their

red-rimmed, inflamed eyes looked out as though from masks.

The one who had been bringing up the rear looked despairingly toward the

mountains.

"We'll never get there!" he cried.

"Not the way we are now," replied the other. "But I intend to get

there."

"How?"

"Leave your wagon, Jim; it's the heaviest. Put your team on here."

"But my wagon is all I've got in the world!" cried the other, "and we've

got near a keg of water yet! We can make it! The oxen are pulling all

right!"

His companion turned away with a shrug, then thought better of it and

turned back.

"We've thrown out all we owned except bare necessities," he explained,

patiently. "Your wagon is too heavy. The time to change is while the

beasts can still pull."

"But I refuse!" cried the other. "I won't do it. Go ahead with your

wagon. I'll get mine in, John Gates, you can't bulldoze me."

Gates stared him in the eye.

"Get the pail," he requested, mildly.

He drew water from one of the kegs slung underneath the wagon's body.

The oxen, smelling it, strained weakly, bellowing. Gates slowly and

carefully swabbed out their mouths, permitted them each a few swallows,

rubbed them pityingly between the horns. Then he proceeded to unyoke the

four beasts from the other man's wagon and yoked them to his own. Jim

started to say something. Gates faced him. Nothing was said.

"Get your kit," Gates commanded, briefly, after a few moments. He parted

the hanging canvas and looked into the wagon. Built to transport much

freight it was nearly empty. A young woman lay on a bed spread along the

wagon bottom. She seemed very weak.

"All right, honey?" asked Gates, gently.

She stirred, and achieved a faint smile.

"It's terribly hot. The sun strikes through," she replied. "Can't we let

some air in?"

"The dust would smother you."

"Are we nearly there?"

"Getting on farther every minute," he replied, cheerfully.

Again the smothering alkali rose and the dust cloud crawled.

Four hours later the traveller called Jim collapsed face downward. The

oxen stopped. Gates lifted the man by the shoulders. So exhausted was he

that he had not the strength nor energy to spit forth the alkali with

which his fall had caked his open mouth. Gates had recourse to the

water keg. After a little he hoisted his companion to the front seat.

At intervals thereafter the lone human figure spoke the single word that

brought his team to an instantaneous dead stop. His first care was then

the woman, next the man clinging to the front seat, then the oxen.

Before starting he clambered to the top of the wagon and cast a long,

calculating look across the desolation ahead. Twice he even further

reduced the meagre contents of the wagon, appraising each article long

and doubtfully before discarding it. About mid-afternoon he said

abruptly:

"Jim, you've got to walk."

The man demurred weakly, with a touch of panic.

"Every ounce counts. It's going to be a close shave. You can hang on to

the tail of the wagon."

Yet an hour later Jim, for the fourth time, fell face downward, but now

did not rise. Gates, going to him, laid his hand on his head, pushed

back one of his eyelids, then knelt for a full half minute, staring

straight ahead. Once he made a tentative motion toward the nearly empty

water keg, once he started to raise the man's shoulders. The movements

were inhibited. A brief agony cracked the mask of alkali on his

countenance. Then stolidly, wearily, he arose. The wagon lurched

forward. After it had gone a hundred yards and was well under way in its

painful forward crawl, Gates, his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes fixed and

glazed, drew the revolver from its holster and went back.

At sundown he began to use the gad. The oxen were trying to lie down.

If one of them succeeded, it would never again arise. Gates knew this.

He plied the long, heavy whip in both hands. Where the lash fell it bit

out strips of hide. It was characteristic of the man that though

heretofore he had not in all this day inflicted a single blow on the

suffering animals, though his nostrils widened and his terrible red eyes

looked for pity toward the skies, yet now he swung mercilessly with all

his strength.

Dusk fell, but the hot earth still radiated, the powder dust rose and

choked. The desert dragged at their feet; and in the twilight John Gates

thought to hear mutterings and the soft sound of wings overhead as the

dread spirits of the wastes stooped low. He had not stopped for nearly

two hours. This was the last push; he must go straight through or fail.

And when the gleam of the river answered the gleam of the starlight he

had again to rouse his drained energies. By the brake, by directing the

wagon into an obstruction, by voice and whip he fought the frantic

beasts back to a moaning standstill. Then pail by pail he fed them the

water until the danger of overdrinking was past. He parted the curtains.

In spite of the noise outside the woman, soothed by the breath of cooler

air, had fallen asleep.

Some time later he again parted the curtains.

"We're here, honey," he said, "good water, good grass, shade. The desert

is past. Wake up and take a little coffee."

She smiled at him.

"I'm so tired."

"We're going to rest here a spell."

She drank the coffee, ate some of the food he brought her, thrust back

her hair, breathed deep of the cooling night.

"Where's Jim?" she asked at last.

"Jim got very tired," he said, "Jim's asleep."

* * * * *

Three months later. The western slant of the Sierras just where the

cañon clefts begin to spread into foothills. On a flat near--too

near--the stream-bed was a typical placer-mining camp of the day. That

is, three or four large, rough buildings in a row, twenty or thirty log

cabins scattered without order, and as many tents.

The whole population was gathered interestedly in the largest structure,

which was primarily a dance hall. Ninety-five per cent. were men, of

whom the majority were young men. A year ago the percentage would have

been nearer one hundred, but now a certain small coterie of women had

drifted in, most of them with a keen eye for prosperity. The red or blue

shirt, the nondescript hat, and the high, mud-caked boots of the miner

preponderated. Here and there in the crowd, however, stood a man dressed

in the height of fashion. There seemed no middle ground. These latter

were either the professional gamblers, the lawyers, or the promoters.

A trial was in progress, to which all paid deep attention. Two men

disputed the ownership of a certain claim. Their causes were represented

by ornate individuals whose evident zest in the legal battle was not

measured by prospective fees. Nowhere in the domain and at no time in

the history of the law has technicality been so valued, has the game of

the courts possessed such intellectual interest, has substantial

justice been so uncertain as in the California of the early 'fifties.

The lawyer could spread himself unhampered; and these were so doing.

In the height of the proceedings a man entered from outside and took his

position leaning against the rail of the jury box. That he was a

stranger was evident from the glances of curiosity, cast in his

direction. He was tall, strong, young, bearded, with a roving, humorous

bold eye.

The last word was spoken. A rather bewildered-looking jury filed out.

Ensued a wait. The jury came back. It could not agree; it wanted

information. Both lawyers supplied it in abundance. The foreman, who

happened to be next the rail against which the newcomer was leaning,

cast on him a quizzical eye.

"Stranger," said he, "mout you be able to make head er tail of all that

air?"

The other shook his head.

"I'm plumb distracted to know what to do; and dear knows we all want to

git shet of this job. Thar's a badger fight----"

"Where is this claim, anyway?"

"Right adown the road. Location notice is on the first white oak you

come to. Cain't miss her."

"If I were you," said the stranger after a pause, "I'd just declare the

claim vacant. Then neither side would win."

At this moment the jury rose to retire again. The stranger unobtrusively

gained the attention of the clerk and from him begged a sheet of paper.

On this he wrote rapidly, then folded it, and moved to the outer door,

against the jamb of which he took his position. After another and

shorter wait, the jury returned.

"Have you agreed on your verdict, gentlemen?" inquired the judge.

"We have," replied the lank foreman. "We award that the claim belongs to

neither and be declared vacant."

At the words the stranger in the doorway disappeared. Two minutes later

the advance guard of the rush that had comprehended the true meaning of

the verdict found the white oak tree in possession of a competent

individual with a Colt's revolving pistol and a humorous eye.

"My location notice, gentlemen," he said, calling attention to a paper

freshly attached by wooden pegs.

"Honey-bug claim'," they read, "'John Gates'," and the usual

phraseology.

"But this is a swindle, an outrage!" cried one of the erstwhile owners.

"If so it was perpetrated by your own courts," said Gates, crisply. "I

am within my rights, and I propose to defend them."

Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members of

this community. His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento. An

incident stopped him here.

The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine--time would

show--but it was certainly a wonderful location. Below the sloping bench

on which it stood the country fell away into the brown heat haze of the

lowlands, a curtain that could lift before a north wind to reveal a

landscape magnificent as a kingdom. Spreading white oaks gave shade, a

spring sang from the side hill on which grew lofty pines, and back to

the east rose the dark or glittering Sierras. The meadow at the back was

gay with mariposa lilies, melodious with bees and birds, aromatic with

the mingled essences of tarweed, lads-love, and the pines. At this happy

elevation the sun lay warm and caressing, but the air tasted cool.

"I could love this," said the woman.

"You'll have a chance," said John Gates, "for when we've made our pile,

we'll always keep this to come back to."

At first they lived in the wagon, which they drew up under one of the

trees, while the oxen recuperated and grew fat on the abundant grasses.

Then in spare moments John Gates began the construction of a house. He

was a man of tremendous energy, but also of many activities. The days

were not long enough for him. In him was the true ferment of

constructive civilization. Instinctively he reached out to modify his

surroundings. A house, then a picket fence, split from the living trees;

an irrigation ditch; a garden spot; fruit trees; vines over the porch;

better stables; more fences; the gradual shaping from the wilderness of

a home--these absorbed his surplus. As a matter of business he worked

with pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then he

started a store on credit. Therein he sold everything from hats to 42

calibre whiskey. To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit that

had fashioned his home.

"I'm making a very good living," he answered a question; "that is, if

I'm not particular on how well I live," and he laughed his huge laugh.

He was very popular. Shortly they elected him sheriff. He gained this

high office fundamentally, of course, by reason of his courage and

decision of character; but the immediate and visible causes were the

Episode of the Frazzled Mule, and the Episode of the Frying Pan. The one

inspired respect; the other amusement.

The freight company used many pack and draught animals. One day one of

its mules died. The _mozo_ in charge of the corrals dragged the carcass

to the superintendent's office. That individual cursed twice; once at

the mule for dying, and once at the _mozo_ for being a fool. At

nightfall another mule died. This time the _mozo_, mindful of his

berating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent to

see the sad remains.

"Bury it," ordered the superintendent, disgustedly. Two mules at

$350--quite a loss.

But next morning another had died; fairly an epidemic among mules. This

carcass also was ordered buried. And at noon a fourth. The

superintendent, on his way to view the defunct, ran across John Gates.

"Look here, John," queried he, "do you know anything about mules?"

"Considerable," admitted Gates.

"Well, come see if you can tell me what's killing ours off."

They contemplated the latest victim of the epidemic.

"Seems to be something that swells them up," ventured the superintendent

after a while.

John Gates said nothing for some time. Then suddenly he snatched his

pistol and levelled it at the shrinking _mozo_.

"Produce those three mules!" he roared, "_mucho pronto_, too!" To the

bewildered superintendent he explained. "Don't you see? this is the same

old original mule. He ain't never been buried at all. They've been

stealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over and

over as proof!"

This proved to be the case; but John Gates was clever enough never to

tell how he surmised the truth.

"That mule looked to me pretty frazzled," was all he would say.

The frying-pan episode was the sequence of a quarrel. Gates was bringing

home a new frying pan. At the proper point in the discussion he used his

great strength to smash the implement over his opponent's head so

vigorously that it came down around his neck like a jagged collar! Gates

clung to the handle, however, and by it led his man all around camp, to

the huge delight of the populace.

As sheriff he was effective, but at times peculiar in his

administration. No man could have been more zealous in performing his

duty; yet he never would mix in the affairs of foreigners. Invariably in

such cases he made out the warrants in blank, swore in the complaining

parties themselves as deputies, and told them blandly to do their own

arresting! Nor at times did he fail to temper his duty with a little

substantial justice of his own. Thus he was once called upon to execute

a judgment for $30 against a poor family. Gates went down to the

premises, looked over the situation, talked to the man--a

poverty-stricken, discouraged, ague-shaken creature--and marched back to

the offices of the plaintiffs in the case.

"Here," said he, calmly, laying a paper and a small bag of gold dust on

their table, "is $30 and a receipt in full."

The complainant reached for the sack. Gates placed his hand over it.

"Sign the receipt," he commanded. "Now," he went on after the ink had

been sanded, "there's your $30. It's yours legally; and you can take it

if you want to. But I want to warn you that a thousand-dollar licking

goes with it!"

The money--from Gates's own pocket--eventually found its way to the poor

family!

They had three children, two boys and a girl of which one boy died.

In five years the placers began to play out. One by one the more

energetic of the miners dropped away. The nature of the community

changed. Small hill ranches or fruit farms took the place of the mines.

The camp became a country village. Old time excitement calmed, the pace

of life slowed, the horizon narrowed.

John Gates, clear-eyed, energetic, keen brained, saw this tendency

before it became a fact.

"This camp is busted," he told himself.

It was the hour to fulfill the purpose of the long, terrible journey

across the plains, to carry out the original intention to descend from

the Sierras to the golden valleys, to follow the struggle.

"Reckon it's time to be moving," he told his wife.

But now his own great labours asserted their claim. He had put four

years of his life into making this farm out of nothing, four years of

incredible toil, energy, and young enthusiasm. He had a good dwelling

and spacious corrals, an orchard started, a truck garden, a barley

field, a pasture, cattle, sheep, chickens, his horses--all his creation

from nothing. One evening at sundown he found his wife in the garden

weeping softly.

"What is it, honey?" he asked.

"I was just thinking how we'd miss the garden," she replied.

He looked about at the bright, cheerful flowers, the vine-hung picket

fence, the cool verandah, the shady fig tree already of some size.

Everything was neat and trim, just as he liked it. And the tinkle of

pleasant waters, the song of a meadow lark, the distant mellow lowing of

cows came to his ears; the smell of tarweed and of pines mingled in his

nostrils.

"It's a good place for children," he said, vaguely.

Neither knew it, but that little speech marked the ebb of the wave that

had lifted him from his eastern home, had urged him across the plains,

had flung him in the almost insolent triumph of his youth high toward

the sun. Now the wash receded.

CHAPTER II

It was indeed a good place for children. Charley and Alice Gates grew

tall and strong, big boned, magnificent, typical California products.

They went to the district school, rode in the mountains, helped handle

the wild cattle. At the age of twelve Charley began to accompany the

summer incursions into the High Sierras in search of feed. At the age of

sixteen he was entrusted with a bunch of cattle. In these summers he

learned the wonder of the high, glittering peaks, the blueness of the

skies in high altitudes, the multitude of the stars, the flower-gemmed

secret meadows, the dark, murmuring forests. He fished in the streams,

and hunted on the ridges. His camp was pitched within a corral of heavy

logs. It was very simple. Utensils depending from trees, beds beneath

canvas tarpaulins on pine needles, saddlery, riatas, branding irons

scattered about. No shelter but the sky. A wonderful roving life.

It developed taciturnity and individualism. Charley Gates felt no

necessity for expression as yet; and as his work required little

coöperation from his fellow creatures he acknowledged as little

responsibility toward them. Thus far he was the typical mountaineer.

But other influences came to him; as, indeed, they come to all. But

young Charley was more susceptible than most, and this--on the impulse

of the next tide resurgent--saved him from his type. He liked to read;

he did not scorn utterly and boisterously the unfortunate young man who

taught the school; and, better than all, he possessed just the

questioning mind that refuses to accept on their own asseveration only

the conventions of life or the opinions of neighbours. If he were to

drink, it would be because he wanted to; not because his companions

considered it manly. If he were to enter the sheep war, it would be

because he really considered sheep harmful to the range; not because of

the overwhelming--and contagious--prejudice.

In one thing only did he follow blindly his sense of loyalty: He hated

the Hydraulic Company.

Years after the placers failed someone discovered that the wholesale use

of hydraulic "giants" produced gold in paying quantities. Huge streams

of water under high pressure were directed against the hills, which

melted like snow under the spring sun. The earth in suspension was run

over artificial riffles against which the heavier gold collected. One

such stream could accomplish in a few hours what would have cost hand

miners the better part of a season.

But the débris must go somewhere. A rushing mud and boulder-filled

torrent tore down stream beds adapted to a tenth of their volume. It

wrecked much of the country below, ripping out the good soil, covering

the bottomlands many feet deep with coarse rubble, clay, mud, and even

big rocks and boulders. The farmers situated below such operations

suffered cruelly. Even to this day the devastating results may be seen

above Colfax or Sacramento.

John Gates suffered with the rest. His was not the nature to submit

tamely, nor to compromise. He had made his farm with his own hands, and

he did not propose to see it destroyed. Much money he expended through

the courts; indeed the profits of his business were eaten by a

never-ending, inconclusive suit. The Hydraulic Company, securely

entrenched behind the barriers of especial privilege, could laugh at his

frontal attacks. It was useless to think of force. The feud degenerated

into a bitter legal battle and much petty guerrilla warfare on both

sides.

To this quarrel Charley had been bred up in a consuming hate of the

Hydraulic Company, all its works, officers, bosses, and employees. Every

human being in any way connected with it wore horns, hoofs, and a tail.

In company with the wild youths of the neighbourhood he perpetrated many

a raid on the Company's property. Beginning with boyish openings of

corrals to permit stock to stray, these raids progressed with the years

until they had nearly arrived at the dignity of armed deputies and bench

warrants.

The next day of significance to our story was October 15, 1872. On that

date fire started near Flour Gold and swept upward. October is always a

bad time of year for fires in foothill California--between the rains,

the heat of the year, everything crisp and brown and brittle. This

threatened the whole valley and water shed. The Gateses turned out, and

all their neighbours, with hoe, mattock, axe, and sacking, trying to

beat, cut, or scrape a "break" wide enough to check the flames. It was

cruel work. The sun blazed overhead and the earth underfoot. The air

quivered as from a furnace. Men gasped at it with straining lungs. The

sweat pouring from their bodies combined with the parching of the

superheated air induced a raging thirst. No water was to be had save

what was brought to them. Young boys and women rode along the line

carrying canteens, water bottles, and food. The fire fighters snatched

hastily at these, for the attack of the fire permitted no respite. Twice

they cut the wide swath across country; but twice before it was

completed the fire crept through and roared into triumph behind them.

The third time the line held, and this was well into the second day.

Charley Gates had fought doggedly. He had summoned the splendid

resources of youth and heritage, and they had responded. Next in line to

his right had been a stranger. This latter was a slender, clean-cut

youth, at first glance seemingly of delicate physique. Charley had

looked upon him with the pitying contempt of strong youth for weak

youth. He considered that the stranger's hands were soft and effeminate,

he disliked his little trimmed moustache, and especially the cool,

mocking, appraising glance of his eyes. But as the day, and the night,

and the day following wore away, Charley raised his opinion. The slender

body possessed unexpected reserve, the long, lean hands plied the tools

unweariedly, the sensitive face had become drawn and tired, but the

spirit behind the mocking eyes had not lost the flash of its defiance.

In the heat of the struggle was opportunity for only the briefest

exchanges. Once, when Charley despairingly shook his empty canteen, the

stranger offered him a swallow from his own. Next time exigency crowded

them together, Charley croaked:

"Reckon we'll hold her."

Toward evening of the second day the westerly breeze died, and shortly

there breathed a gentle air from the mountains. The danger was past.

Charley and the stranger took long pulls from their recently replenished

canteens. Then they sank down where they were, and fell instantly

asleep. The projecting root of a buckthorn stuck squarely into Charley's

ribs, but he did not know it; a column of marching ants, led by a

non-adaptable commander, climbed up and over the recumbent form of the

stranger, but he did not care.

They came to life in the shiver of gray dawn, wearied, stiffened, their

eyes swelled, their mouths dry.

"You're a sweet sight, stranger," observed Charley.

"Same to you and more of 'em," rejoined the other.

Charley arose painfully.

"There's a little water in my canteen yet," he proffered. "What might

you call yourself? I don't seem to know you in these parts."

"Thanks," replied the other. "My name's Cathcart; I'm from just above."

He drank, and lowered the canteen to look into the flaming, bloodshot

eyes of his companion.

"Are you the low-lived skunk that's running the Hydraulic Company?"

demanded Charley Gates.

The stranger laid down the canteen and scrambled painfully to his feet.

"I am employed by the Company," he replied, curtly, "but please to

understand I don't permit you to call me names."

"Permit!" sneered Charley.

"Permit," repeated Cathcart.

So, not having had enough exercise in the past two days, these young

game cocks went at each other. Charley was much the stronger

rough-and-tumble fighter; but Cathcart possessed some boxing skill.

Result was that, in their weakened condition, they speedily fought

themselves to a standstill without serious damage to either side.

"Now perhaps you'll tell me who the hell you think you are!" panted

Cathcart, fiercely.

At just beyond arm's length they discussed the situation, at first

belligerently with much recrimination, then more calmly, at last with a

modicum of mutual understanding. Neither seceded from his basic opinion.

Charley Gates maintained that the Company had no earthly business

ruining his property, but admitted that with all that good gold lying

there it was a pity not to get it out. Cathcart stoutly defended a man's

perfect right to do as he pleased with his own belongings, but conceded

that something really ought to be done about overflow waters.

"What are you doing down here fighting fire, anyway?" demanded Charley,

suddenly. "It couldn't hurt your property. You could turn the 'giants'

on it, if it ever came up your way."

"I don't know. I just thought I ought to help out a little," said

Cathcart, simply.

For three years more Charley ran his father's cattle in the hills. Then

he announced his intention of going away. John Gates was thunderstruck.

By now he was stranded high and dry above the tide, fitting perfectly

his surroundings. Vaguely he had felt that his son would stay with him

always. But the wave was again surging upward. Charley had talked with

Cathcart.

"This is no country to draw a salary in," the latter had told him, "nor

to play with farming or cows. It's too big, too new, there are too many

opportunities. I'll resign, and you leave; and we'll make our fortunes."

"How?" asked Charley.

"Timber," said Cathcart.

They conferred on this point. Cathcart had the experience of business

ways; Charley Gates the intimate knowledge of the country; there only

needed a third member to furnish some money. Charley broke the news to

his family, packed his few belongings, and the two of them went to San

Francisco.

Charley had never seen a big city. He was very funny about it, but not

overwhelmed. While willing, even avid, to go the rounds and meet the

sporting element, he declined to drink. When pressed and badgered by his

new acquaintances, he grinned amiably.

"I never play the other fellows' game," he said. "When it gets to be my

game, I'll join you."

The new partners had difficulty in getting even a hearing.

"It's a small business," said capitalists, "and will be. The demand for

lumber here is limited, and it is well taken care of by small concerns

near at hand."

"The state will grow and I am counting on the outside market," argued

Cathcart.

But this was too absurd! The forests of Michigan, Wisconsin, and

Minnesota were inexhaustible! As for the state growing to that extent;

of course we all believe it, but when it comes to investing good money

in the belief----

At length they came upon one of the new millionaires created by the

bonanzas of Virginia City.

"I don't know a damn thing about your timber, byes," said he, "but I

like your looks. I'll go in wid ye. Have a seegar; they cost me a dollar

apiece."

The sum invested was absurdly, inadequately small.

"It'll have to spread as thin as it can," said Cathcart.

They spent the entire season camping in the mountains. By the end of the

summer they knew what they wanted; and immediately took steps to acquire

it. Under the homestead laws each was entitled to but a small tract of

Government land. However, they hired men to exercise their privileges in

this respect, to take up each his allotted portion, and then to convey

his rights to Cathcart and Gates. It was slow business, for the show of

compliance with Government regulations had to be made. But in this

manner the sum of money at their disposal was indeed spread out very

thin.

For many years the small, nibbling lumbering operations their limited

capital permitted supplied only a little more than a bare living and the

taxes. But every available cent went back into the business. It grew.

Band saws replaced the old circulars; the new mills delivered their

product into flumes that carried it forty miles to the railroad. The

construction of this flume was a tremendous undertaking, but by now the

firm could borrow on its timber. To get the water necessary to keep the

flume in operation the partners--again by means of "dummies"--filed on

the water rights of certain streams. To take up the water directly was

without the law; but a show of mineral stain was held to justify a

"mineral claim," so patents were obtained under that ruling. Then

Charley had a bright idea.

"Look here, Cliff," he said to Cathcart. "I know something about

farming; I was brought up on a farm. This country will grow anything

anywhere if it has water. That lower country they call a desert, but

that's only because it hasn't any rainfall. We're going to have a lot of

water at the end of that flume----"

They bought the desert land at fifty cents an acre; scraped ditches and

checks; planted a model orchard, and went into the real estate business.

In time a community grew up. When hydro-electric power came into its own

Cathcart & Gates from their various water rights furnished light for

themselves, and gradually for the towns and villages round-about. Thus

their affairs spread and became complicated. Before they knew it they

were wealthy, very wealthy. Their wives--for in due course each had his

romance--began to talk of San Francisco.

All this had not come about easily. At first they had to fight tooth and

nail. The conditions of the times were crude, the code merciless. As

soon as the firm showed its head above the financial horizon, it was

swooped upon. Business was predatory. They had to fight for what they

got; had to fight harder to hold it. Cathcart was involved continually

in a maze of intricate banking transactions; Gates resisted aggression

within and without, often with his own two fists. They learned to trust

no man, but they learned also to hate no man. It was all part of the

game. More sensitive temperaments would have failed; these succeeded.

Cathcart became shrewd, incisive, direct, cold, a little hard; Charley

Gates was burly, hearty, a trifle bullying. Both were in all

circumstances quite unruffled; and in some circumstances ruthless.

About 1900 the entire holdings of the Company were capitalized, and a

stock company was formed. The actual management of the lumbering, the

conduct of the farms and ranches, the running of the hydro-electric

systems of light and transportation, were placed in the hands of active

young men. Charley Gates and his partner exercised over these activities

only the slightest supervision; auditing accounts, making an occasional

trip of inspection. Affairs would quite well have gone on without them;

though they would have disbelieved and resented that statement.

The great central offices in San Francisco were very busy--all but the

inner rooms where stood the partners' desks. One day Cathcart lit a

fresh cigar, and slowly wheeled his chair.

"Look here, Charley," he proposed, "we've got a big surplus. There's no

reason why we shouldn't make a killing on the side."

"As how?" asked Gates.

Cathcart outlined his plan. It was simply stock manipulation on a big

scale; although the naked import was somewhat obscured by the

complications of the scheme. After he had finished Gates smoked for some

time in silence.

"All right, Cliff," said he, "let's do it."

And so by a sentence, as his father before him, he marked the farthest

throw of the wave that had borne him blindly toward the shore. In the

next ten years Cathcart and Gates made forty million dollars. Charley

seemed to himself to be doing a tremendous business, but his real work,

his contribution to the episode in the life of the commonwealth, ceased

there. Again the wave receded.

CHAPTER III

The third generation of the Gates family consisted of two girls and a

boy. They were brought up as to their early childhood in what may be

called moderate circumstances. A small home near the little mill town, a

single Chinese servant, a setter dog, and plenty of horses formed their

entourage. When Charles, Jr., was eleven, and his sisters six and eight,

however, the family moved to a pretentious "mansion" on Nob Hill in San

Francisco. The environment of childhood became a memory: the reality of

life was comprised in the super-luxurious existence on Nob Hill.

It was not a particularly wise existence. Whims were too easily

realized, consequences too lightly avoided, discipline too capricious.

The children were sent to private schools where they met only their own

kind; they were specifically forbidden to mingle with the "hoodlums" in

the next street; they became accustomed to being sent here and there in

carriages with two servants, or later, in motor cars; they had always

spending money for the asking.

"I know what it is like to scrimp and save, and my children are going to

be spared that!" was Mrs. Gates's creed in the matter.

The little girls were always dressed alike in elaborately simple

clothes, with frilly, starched underpinnies, silk stockings, high boots

buttoned up slim legs; and across their shoulders, from beneath

wonderful lingerie hats, hung shining curls. The latter were not

natural, but had each day to be elaborately constructed. They made a

dainty and charming picture.

"Did you ever see anything so sweet in all your life!" was the

invariable feminine exclamation.

Clara and Ethel-May always heard these remarks. They conducted

themselves with the poise and _savoir faire_ of grown women. Before they

were twelve they could "handle" servants, conduct polite conversations

in a correctly artificial accent, and adapt their manners to another's

station in life.

Charley Junior's development was sharply divided into two periods, with

the second of which alone we have to do. The first, briefly, was

repressive. He was not allowed to play with certain boys, he was not

permitted to stray beyond certain bounds, he was kept clean and

dressed-up, he was taught his manners. In short, Mrs. Gates

tried--without knowing what she was doing--to use the same formula on

him as she had on Ethel-May and Clara.

In the second period, he was a grief to his family. Roughly speaking,

this period commenced about the time he began to be known as "Chuck"

instead of Charley.

There was no real harm in the boy. He was high spirited, full of life,

strong as a horse, and curious. Possessed of the patrician haughty good

looks we breed so easily from shirtsleeves, free with his money, known

as the son of his powerful father, a good boxer, knowing no fear, he

speedily became a familiar popular figure around town. It delighted him

to play the prince, either incognito or in person; to "blow off the

crowd," to battle joyously with longshoremen; to "rough house" the

semi-respectable restaurants. The Barbary Coast knew him, Taits,

Zinkands, the Poodle Dog, the Cliff House, Franks, and many other

resorts not to be spoken of so openly. He even got into the police

courts once or twice; and nonchalantly paid a fine, with a joke at the

judge and a tip to the policeman who had arrested him. There was too

much drinking, too much gambling, too loose a companionship, altogether

too much spending; but in this case the life was redeemed from its usual

significance by a fantastic spirit of play, a generosity of soul, a

regard for the unfortunate, a courtliness toward all the world, a

refusal to believe in meanness or sordidness or cruelty. Chuck Gates was

inbred with the spirit of _noblesse oblige_.

As soon as motor cars came in Chuck had the raciest possible. With it he

managed to frighten a good many people half out of their wits. He had no

accidents, partly because he was a very good heady driver, and partly

because those whom he encountered were quick witted. One day while

touring in the south he came down grade around a bend squarely upon a

car ascending. Chuck's car was going too fast to be stopped. He tried

desperately to wrench it from the road, but perceived at once that this

was impossible without a fatal skid. Fortunately the only turnout for a

half mile happened to be just at that spot. The other man managed to

jump his car out on this little side ledge and to jam on his brakes at

the very brink, just as Chuck flashed by. His mud guards slipped under

those at the rear of the other car.

"Close," observed Chuck to Joe Merrill his companion, "I was going a

little too fast," and thought no more of it.

But the other man, being angry, turned around and followed him into

town. At the garage he sought Chuck out.

"Didn't you pass me on the grade five miles back?" he inquired.

"I may have done so," replied Chuck, courteously.

"Don't you realize that you were going altogether too fast for a

mountain grade? that you were completely out of control?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to admit that that is so."

"Well," said the other man, with difficulty suppressing his anger. "What

do you suppose would have happened if I hadn't just been able to pull

out?"

"Why," replied Chuck, blandly, "I suppose I'd have had to pay heavily;

that's all."

"Pay!" cried the man, then checked himself with an effort, "so you

imagine you are privileged to the road, do whatever damage you

please--and _pay!_ I'll just take your number."

"That is unnecessary. My name is Charles Gates," replied Chuck, "of San

Francisco."

The man appeared never to have heard of this potent cognomen. A month

later the trial came off. It was most inconvenient. Chuck was in Oregon,

hunting. He had to travel many hundreds of miles, to pay an expensive

lawyer. In the end he was fined. The whole affair disgusted him, but he

went through with it well, testified without attempt at evasion. It was

a pity; but evidently the other man was no gentleman.

"I acknowledged I was wrong," he told Joe Merrill. He honestly felt that

this would have been sufficient had the cases been reversed. In answer

to a question as to whether he considered it fair to place the burden of

safety on the other man, he replied:

"Among motorists it is customary to exchange the courtesies of the

road--and sometimes the discourtesies," he added with a faint scorn.

The earthquake and fire of 1906 caught him in town. During three days

and nights he ran his car for the benefit of the sufferers; going

practically without food or sleep, exercising the utmost audacity and

ingenuity in getting supplies, running fearlessly many dangers.

For the rest he played polo well, shot excellently at the traps, was

good at tennis, golf, bridge. Naturally he belonged to the best clubs

both city and country. He sailed a yacht expertly, was a keen fisherman,

hunted. Also he played poker a good deal and was noted for his accurate

taste in dress.

His mother firmly believed that he caused her much sorrow; his sisters

looked up to him with a little awe; his father down on him with a

fiercely tolerant contempt.

For Chuck had had his turn in the offices. His mind was a good one; his

education both formal and informal, had trained it fairly well; yet he

could not quite make good. Energetic, ambitious, keen young men,

clambering upward from the ruck, gave him points at the game and then

beat him. It was humiliating to the old man. He could not see the

perfectly normal reason. These young men were striving keenly for what

they had never had. Chuck was asked merely to add to what he already had

more than enough of by means of a game that itself did not interest him.

Late one evening Chuck and some friends were dining at the Cliff House.

They had been cruising up toward Tomales Bay, and had had themselves put

ashore here. No one knew of their whereabouts. Thus it was that Chuck

first learned of his father's death from apoplexy in the scareheads of

an evening paper handed him by the majordomo. He read the article

through carefully, then went alone to the beach below. It had been the

usual sensational article; and but two sentences clung to Chuck's

memory: "This fortunate young man's income will actually amount to about

ten dollars a minute. What a significance have now his days--and

nights!"

He looked out to sea whence the waves, in ordered rank, cast themselves

on the shore, seethed upward along the sands, poised, and receded. His

thoughts were many, but they always returned to the same point. Ten

dollars a minute--roughly speaking, seven thousand a day! What would he

do with it? "What a significance have now his days--and nights!"

His best friend, Joe Merrill, came down the path to him, and stood

silently by his side.

"I'm sorry about your governor, old man," he ventured; and then, after a

long time:

"You're the richest man in the West."

Chuck Gates arose. A wave larger than the rest thundered and ran hissing

up to their feet.

"I wonder if the tide is coming in or going out," said Chuck, vaguely.

CLIMBING FOR GOATS

CHAPTER I

Near the point at which the great Continental Divide of the Rocky

Mountains crosses the Canadian border another range edges in toward it

from the south. Between these ranges lies a space of from twenty to

forty miles; and midway between them flows a clear, wonderful river

through dense forests. Into the river empty other, tributary, rivers

rising in the bleak and lofty fastnesses of the mountains to right and

left. Between them, in turn, run spur systems of mountains only a little

less lofty than the parent ranges. Thus the ground plan of the whole

country is a good deal like that of a leaf: the main stem representing

the big river, the lateral veins its affluents; the tiny veins its

torrents pouring from the sides of its mountains and glaciers; and the

edges of the leaf and all spaces standing for mountains rising very

sheer and abrupt from the floor of the densely forested stream valleys.

In this country of forty miles by five hundred, then, are hundreds of

distinct ranges, thousands of peaks, and innumerable valleys, pockets,

and "parks." A wilder, lonelier, grander country would be hard to find.

Save for the Forest Service and a handful of fur trappers, it is

uninhabited. Its streams abound in trout; its dense forests with elk

and white-tailed deer; its balder hills with blacktail deer; its upper

basins with grizzly bears; its higher country with sheep and that dizzy

climber the Rocky Mountain goat.

He who would enter this region descends at a little station on the Great

Northern, and thence proceeds by pack train at least four days,

preferably more, out into the wilderness. The going is through forests,

the tree trunks straight and very close together, so that he will see

very little of the open sky and less of the landscape. By way of

compensation the forest itself is remarkably beautiful. Its undergrowth,

though dense, is very low and even, not more than a foot or so off the

ground; and in the Hunting Moon the leaves of this undergrowth have

turned to purest yellow, without touch or trace of red, so that the

sombre forest is carpeted with gold. Here and there shows a birch or

aspen, also bright, pure light yellow, as though a brilliant sun were

striking down through painted windows. Groups of yellow-leafed larches

add to the splendour. And close to the ground grow little flat plants

decked out with red or blue or white wax berries, Christmas fashion.

In this green-and-gold room one journeys for days. Occasionally a chance

opening affords a momentary glimpse of hills or of the river sweeping

below; but not for long. It is a chilly room. The frost has hardened the

mud in the trail. One's feet and hands ache cruelly. At night camp is

made near the banks of the river, whence always one may in a few moments

catch as many trout as are needed, fine, big, fighting trout.

By the end of three or four days the prospect opens out. Tremendous

cliffs rise sheer from the bottom of the valley; up tributary cañons one

can see a dozen miles to distant snow ranges glittering and wonderful.

Nearer at hand the mountains rise above timber line to great buttes and

precipices.

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST CLIMB

Fisher, Frank, and I had been hunting for elk in the dense forests along

the foot of one of these mountains; and for a half day, drenched with

sweat, had toiled continuously up and down steep slopes, trying to go

quietly, trying to keep our wind, trying to pierce the secrets of the

leafy screen always about us. We were tired of it.

"Let's go to the top and look for goats," suggested Frank. "There are

some goat cliffs on the other side of her. It isn't very far."

It was not very far, as measured by the main ranges, but it was a two

hours' steady climb nearly straight up. We would toil doggedly for a

hundred feet, or until our wind gave out and our hearts began to pound

distressingly; then we would rest a moment. After doing this a few

hundred times we would venture a look upward, confidently expecting the

summit to be close at hand. It seemed as far as ever. We suffered a

dozen or so of these disappointments, and then learned not to look up.

This was only after we had risen above timber line to the smooth,

rounded rock-and-grass shoulder of the mountain. Then three times we

made what we thought was a last spurt, only to find ourselves on a

"false summit." After a while we grew resigned, we realized that we were

never going to get anywhere, but were to go on forever, without

ultimate purpose and without hope, pushing with tired legs, gasping with

inadequate lungs. When we had fully made up our minds to that, we

arrived. This is typical of all high-mountain climbing--the dogged,

hard, hopeless work that can never reach an accomplishment; and then at

last the sudden, unexpected culmination.

We topped a gently rounding summit; took several deep breaths into the

uttermost cells of our distressed lungs; walked forward a dozen

steps--and found ourselves looking over the sheer brink of a precipice.

So startlingly unforeseen was the swoop into blue space that I recoiled

hastily, feeling a little dizzy. Then I recovered and stepped forward

cautiously for another look. As with all sheer precipices, the lip on

which we stood seemed slightly to overhang, so that in order to see one

had apparently to crane away over, quite off balance. Only by the

strongest effort of the will is one able to rid oneself of the notion

that the centre of gravity is about to plunge one off head first into

blue space. For it was fairly blue space below our precipice. We could

see birds wheeling below us; and then below them again, very tiny, the

fall away of talus, and the tops of trees in the basin below. And

opposite, and all around, even down over the horizon, were other

majestic peaks, peers of our own, naked and rugged. From camp the great

forests had seemed to us the most important, most dominant, most

pervading feature of the wilderness. Now in the high sisterhood of the

peaks we saw they were as mantles that had been dropped about the feet.

Across the face of the cliff below us ran irregular tiny ledges;

buttresses ended in narrow peaks; "chimneys" ran down irregularly to the

talus. Here were supposed to dwell the goats.

We proceeded along the crest, spying eagerly. We saw tracks; but no

animals. By now it was four o'clock, and past time to turn campward. We

struck down the mountain on a diagonal that should take us home. For

some distance all went well enough. To be sure, it was very steep, and

we had to pay due attention to balance and sliding. Then a rock wall

barred our way. It was not a very large rock wall. We went below it.

After a hundred yards we struck another. By now the first had risen

until it towered far above us, a sheer, gray cliff behind which the sky

was very blue. We skirted the base of the second and lower cliff. It led

us to another; and to still another. Each of these we passed on the

talus beneath it; but with increasing difficulty, owing to the fact that

the wide ledges were pinching out. At last we found ourselves cut off

from farther progress. To our right rose tier after tier of great

cliffs, serenely and loftily unconscious of any little insects like

ourselves that might be puttering around their feet. Straight ahead the

ledge ceased to exist. To our left was a hundred-foot drop to the talus

that sloped down to the cañon. The cañon did not look so very far away,

and we desired mightily to reach it. The only alternative to getting

straight down was to climb back the weary way we had come; and that

meant all night without food, warm clothing, or shelter on a

snow-and-ice mountain.

Therefore, we scouted that hundred-foot drop to our left very

carefully. It seemed hopeless; but at last I found a place where a point

of the talus ran up to a level not much below our own. The only

difficulty was that between ourselves and that point of talus extended a

piece of sheer wall. I slung my rifle over my back, and gave myself to a

serious consideration of that wall. Then I began to work out across its

face.

The principle of safe climbing is to maintain always three points of

suspension: that it to say, one should keep either both footholds and

one handhold, or both handholds and one foothold. Failing that, one is

taking long chances. With this firmly in mind, I spidered out across the

wall, testing every projection and cranny before I trusted any weight to

it. One apparently solid projection as big as my head came away at the

first touch, and went bouncing off into space. Finally I stood, or

rather sprawled, almost within arm's length of a tiny scrub pine growing

solidly in a crevice just over the talus. Once there, our troubles were

over; but there seemed no way of crossing. For the moment it actually

looked as though four feet only would be sufficient to turn us back.

At last, however, I found a toehold half way across. It was a very

slight crevice, and not more than two inches deep. The toe of a boot

would just hold there without slipping. Unfortunately, there were no

handholds above it. After thinking the matter over, however, I made up

my mind to violate, for this occasion only, the rules for climbing. I

inserted the toe, gathered myself, and with one smooth swoop swung

myself across and grabbed that tiny pine!

Fisher now worked his way out and crossed in the same manner. But Frank

was too heavy for such gymnastics. Fisher therefore took a firm grip on

the pine, inserted his toe in the crevice, and hung on with all his

strength while Frank crossed on his shoulders!

CHAPTER III

THE SECOND AND THIRD CLIMBS

Once more, lured by the promise of the tracks we had seen, we climbed

this same mountain, but again without results. By now, you may be sure,

we had found an easier way home! This was a very hard day's work, but

uneventful.

Now, four days later, I crossed the river and set off above to explore

in the direction of the Continental Divide. Of course I had no intention

of climbing for goats, or, indeed, of hunting very hard for anything. My

object was an idle go-look-see. Equally, of course, after I had rammed

around most happily for a while up the wooded stream-bed of that cañon,

I turned sharp to the right and began to climb the slope of the spur,

running out at right angles to the main ranges that constituted one wall

of my cañon. It was fifteen hundred nearly perpendicular feet of hard

scrambling through windfalls. Then when I had gained the ridge, I

thought I might as well keep along it a little distance. And then,

naturally, I saw the main peaks not so _very_ far away; and was in for

it!

On either side of me the mountain dropped away abruptly. I walked on a

knife edge, steeply rising. Great cañons yawned close at either hand,

and over across were leagues of snow mountains.

In the cañon from which I had emerged a fine rain had been falling.

Here it had turned to wet sleet. As I mounted, the slush underfoot grew

firmer, froze, then changed to dry, powdery snow. This change was

interesting and beautiful, but rather uncomfortable, for my boots,

soaked through by the slush, now froze solid and scraped various patches

of skin from my feet. It was interesting, too, to trace the change in

bird life as the altitude increased. At snow line the species had

narrowed down to a few ravens, a Canada jay, a blue grouse or so,

nuthatches, and brown creepers. I saw one fresh elk track, innumerable

marten, and the pad of a very large grizzly.

The ridge mounted steadily. After I had gained to 2,300 feet above the

cañon I found that the ridge dipped to a saddle 600 feet lower. It

really grieved me to give up that hard-earned six hundred, and then to

buy it back again by another hard, slow, toilsome climb. Again I found

my way barred by some unsuspected cliffs about sixty feet in height.

Fortunately, they were well broken; and I worked my way to the top by

means of ledges.

Atop this the snow suddenly grew deeper and the ascent more precipitous.

I fairly wallowed along. The timber line fell below me. All animal life

disappeared. My only companions were now at spaced-out and mighty

intervals the big bare peaks that had lifted themselves mysteriously

from among their lesser neighbours, with which heretofore they had been

confused. In spite of very heavy exertions, I began to feel the cold; so

I unslung my rucksack and put on my buckskin shirt. The snow had become

very light and feathery. The high, still buttes and crags of the main

divide were right before me. Light fog wreaths drifted and eddied

slowly, now concealing, now revealing the solemn crags and buttresses.

Over everything--the rocks, the few stunted and twisted small trees, the

very surface of the snow itself--lay a heavy rime of frost. This rime

stood out in long, slender needles an inch to an inch and a half in

length, sparkling and fragile and beautiful. It seemed that a breath of

wind or even a loud sound would precipitate the glittering panoply to

ruin; but in all the really awesome silence and hushed breathlessness of

that strange upper world there was nothing to disturb them. The only

motion was that of the idly-drifting fog wreaths; the only sound was

that made by the singing of the blood in my ears! I felt as though I

were in a world holding its breath.

It was piercing cold. I ate a biscuit and a few prunes, tramping

energetically back and forth to keep warm. I could see in all directions

now: an infinity of bare peaks, with hardly a glimpse of forests or

streams or places where things might live. Goats are certainly either

fools or great poets.

After a half hour of fruitless examination of the cliffs I perforce had

to descend. The trip back was long. It had the added interest in that it

was bringing me nearer water. No thirst is quite so torturing as that

which afflicts one who climbs hard in cold, high altitudes. The throat

and mouth seem to shrivel and parch. Psychologically, it is even worse

than the desert thirst because in cold air it is unreasonable. Finally

it became so unendurable that I turned down from the spur-ridge long

before I should otherwise have done so, and did a good deal of extra

work merely to reach a little sooner the stream at the bottom of the

cañon. When I reached it, I found that here it flowed underground.

CHAPTER IV

OTHER CLIMBS

For ten days we hunted and fished. When the opportunity offered, we made

a goat-survey of a new place. Finally, as time grew short, we realized

that we must concentrate our energies in one effort if we were to get

specimens of this most desirable of all American big game. Therefore

Fisher, Frank, Harry, and I, leaving our other two companions and the

majority of the horses at the base camp, packed a few days' provisions

and started in for the highest peaks of all.

We journeyed up an unknown cañon eighteen miles long, heavily wooded in

the bottoms, with great mountains overhanging, and with a beautiful

clear trout stream singing down its bed. The first day we travelled ten

hours. One man was always in front cutting out windfalls or other

obstructions. I should be afraid to guess how many trees we chopped

through that day. Another man scouted ahead for the best route amid

difficulties. The other two performed the soul-destroying task of

getting the horses to follow the appointed way. After three o'clock we

began to hope for horse feed. At dark we reluctantly gave it up. The

forest remained unbroken. We had to tie the poor, unfed horses to trees,

while we ourselves searched diligently and with only partial success for

tiny spots level enough and clear enough for our beds. It was very cold

that night; and nobody was comfortable; the horses least of all.

Next morning we were out and away by daylight. If we could not find

horse feed inside of four hours, we would be forced to retreat. Three

hours of the four went by. Then Harry and I held the horses while our

companions scouted ahead rapidly. We nearly froze, for in that deep

valley the sun did not rise until nearly noon. Through an opening we

could see back to a tremendous sheer butte rising more than three

thousand feet[C] by a series of very narrow terraced ledges. We named it

the Citadel, so like was it to an ancient proud fortress.

Fisher reported first. He had climbed a tree, but had seen no feed. Ten

minutes later Frank returned. He had found the track of an ancient

avalanche close under the mountain, and in that track grew coarse

grasses. We pushed on, and there made camp.

It was a queer enough camp. Our beds we spread in the various little

spots among the roots and hummocks we imagined to look the most even.

The fire we had to build in quite another place. All around us the

lodge-pole pines, firs, and larches grew close and dark and damp. Only

to the west the snow ranges showed among the treetops like great,

looming white clouds.