DOWN THE LONELY CANON.
Glen had been conscious, ever since reaching his haven, of a dull,
distant roar coming up from the canon below him; and now, after an hour
of scrambling, climbing, slipping, but still managing to keep out of the
water, he discovered the fall that he had anticipated, and found himself
on its brink. It was a direct plunge of a hundred feet, and the body of
water very nearly occupied the whole of a narrow chasm between two
cliffs similar to those at the outlet of the lake. A few feet of the
rocky dam, where Glen stood, were bare of water; but its face fell away
as steep and smooth as that over which the stream took its plunge. Only,
in the angle formed by it and the side of the canon, a mass of debris
had collected that reached about half-way up to where Glen stood, or to
within fifty feet of the brink. On it grew a few stunted trees, the
first vegetation he had seen since taking his slide. Below that place
the way seemed more open, and as though it might be possible to
traverse. But how should he get down? He dared not leap; he could not
fly. But he still had the lariat. It was forty feet long. If he could
only fasten it where he stood, he might slide down its length and then
drop.
Vainly he searched for some projecting point of rock about which to make
his rope fast. There was none. All was smooth and water-worn. There was
a crack. If he only had a stout bit of wood to thrust into it he might
fasten the lariat to that. But he had not seen the smallest stick since
leaving his sleeping-place. Some unburned branches were still left
there; but the idea of going back over that perilous road, through the
gloom of the canon, was most unpleasant to contemplate. He hated to
consider it. Still, before long it would be much more unpleasant to
remain where he was, for he was already realizing the first pangs of
starvation.
So he wearily retraced his steps, procured a stout branch, and, after
two hours of the most arduous toil, again stood on the brink of the
waterfall. Forcing the stick as far as possible into the crack, and
wedging it firmly with bits of rock, he attached the raw-hide rope to
it, and flung the loose end over the precipice. Then, hanging over the
edge, he grasped the rope firmly and slowly slid down. As he reached the
end he hesitated for a moment, and glanced below. His feet dangled on a
level with the top of the upmost tree. He dreaded to drop, but there was
nothing else to do, and the next moment he was rolling and scrambling in
the loose gravel and rounded pebbles of the heap of debris. At last he
brought up against a tree-trunk, bruised and shaken, but with unbroken
bones.
He had now overcome the most difficult part of his hazardous trip; and,
though the way was still so rough as to demand the exercise of the
utmost care and skill and the use of every ounce of strength he
possessed, it presented no obstacles that these could not surmount.
Finally, some time in the afternoon, he came to a narrow strip of
meadow-land, where flowers were blooming amid the grass, and on which
warm sunlight was streaming. Here, too, he found a few blueberries,
which he ate ravenously. What should he do for something more
substantial? He was close beside the stream, which here flowed quietly,
with pleasant ripplings, when he was startled by a splash in it. It must
have been a fish jumping. Why had he not thought of fish before? How
should he catch them?
Necessity is the best sharpener of wits, and, in less than half an hour,
Glen was fishing with a line made of fibres from the inner skin of
spruce bark, a hook formed of a bent pin, baited with a grasshopper, and
the whole attached to a crooked bit of branch. Not only was he fishing,
but he was catching the most beautiful brook-trout he had ever seen
almost as fast as he could re-bait and cast his rude tackle. There was
no art required. Nobody had ever fished in these waters before, and the
trout were apparently as eager to be caught as he was to catch them.
Glen had not neglected to light a fire before he began his fishing, and
by the time half a dozen of the dainty little fellows were caught a fine
bed of hot coals was awaiting them. The boy knew very little of the art
of cooking, but what he did know was ample for the occasion. His fish
were speedily cleaned, laid on the coals for a minute, turned, left a
minute longer, and eaten. When the first half-dozen had disappeared he
caught more, and treated them in the same way. He had no salt, no
condiments, no accessories of any kind, save the sauce of a hunger
closely allied to starvation; but that supplied everything. It rendered
that feast of half-cooked brook-trout the most satisfactory meal he had
ever eaten.
When, at last, his hunger was entirely appeased, the sun had set, and
another night without shelter or human companionship was before him; but
what did he care? As he lay in front of his fire, on an elastic,
sweet-scented bed of small spruce boughs, with a semicircle of larger
ones planted in the ground behind him, and their feathery tips drooping
gracefully above his head, he was as happy and well-content as ever in
his life. He had conquered the wilderness, escaped from one of its most
cunningly contrived prison-houses, and won from it the means of
satisfying his immediate wants. He enjoyed a glorious feeling of triumph
and independence. To be sure, he had no idea of where he was, nor where
the stream would lead him; but he had no intention of deserting it. He
realized that his safest plan was to follow it. Eventually it must lead
him to the Rio Grande, and there he would surely be able to rejoin his
party, if he did not find them sooner.
He was in no hurry to leave the pleasant strip of flower-strewn meadow
the next morning, nor did he, until he had caught and eaten a hearty
breakfast, and laid in a supply of trout for at least one more meal.
The third night found him still on the bank of his stream, which was
flowing happily, with many a laugh and gurgle, through a narrow but
wonderfully beautiful valley, carpeted with a luxuriant growth of grass
and dotted with clumps of cedars. For this night's camp he constructed a
rude hut of slender poles and branches, similar to the Indian wick-i-ups
he had seen on the Plains. In it he slept on a bed high heaped with soft
grasses and cedar twigs that was a perfect cradle of luxury.
As Glen emerged from his hut at sunrise he was almost as startled at
seeing a herd of several black-tailed (mule) deer, feeding within a
hundred feet of him, as they were to see him. Pausing for a good stare
at him, for the black-tailed deer is among the most inquisitive animals
in the world, they bounded away with tremendous leaps, and disappeared
behind a cedar thicket. A minute later Glen was again startled; this
time by the report of a rifle from some distance down the valley. He had
just been wishing for his own rifle, the sight of deer having suggested
that venison would be a very pleasant change from a steady fish diet,
and now he hurried away in the direction of the shot.
He walked nearly half a mile before coming so suddenly upon the hunter
who had fired that shot, and was now engaged in dressing one of those
very black-tailed deer, that the latter discovered him at the same
moment, and paused in his work to examine the new-comer keenly. He was a
man past middle age, squarely built, of medium height, and, as he stood
up, Glen saw that he was somewhat bow-legged. His hair was thin and
light in color, and his face was beardless. It was seamed and
weather-beaten, the cheek-bones were high and prominent, and the keen
eyes were gray. He was dressed in a complete hunting-suit of buckskin,
and the rifle, lying beside him, was of an old-fashioned,
long-barrelled, muzzle-loading pattern. He looked every inch, what he
really was, a typical Plainsman of the best kind, possessed of an
honest, kindly nature, brave and just, a man to be feared by an enemy
and loved by a friend. He gazed earnestly at Glen as the latter walked
up to him, though neither by look nor by word did he betray any
curiosity.
"I don't know who you are, sir," said the boy, "but I know I was never
more glad to see anybody in my life, for I've been wandering alone in
these mountains for three days."
"Lost?" asked the other, laconically.
"Well, not exactly lost," replied Glen. Then, as clearly and briefly as
possible, he related his story, which the other followed with close
attention and evident interest.
"You did have a close call, and you've had a blind trail to follow
since, for a fact. It sorter looks as though you'd showed sand, and I
shouldn't wonder if you was the right stuff to make a man of," said the
hunter, approvingly, when the recital was ended. "How old are you?"
"I think I am about sixteen," answered the boy.
"Just the age I was when I first crossed the Mississip and struck for
this country, where I've been ever since. What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to ask you to give me a slice of that venison for my
breakfast, and then tell me the best way to rejoin my party," answered
Glen.
"Of course I'll give you all the deer-meat you can eat, and we'll have
it broiling inside of five minutes. Then, if you'll come along with me
to the fort, I reckon we'll find your outfit there; or, if they ain't,
the commandant will see to it that you do find them. You know him, don't
you?"
"No, I don't even know who he is. What is his name?"
This question seemed, for some reason, to amuse the hunter greatly, and
he laughed silently for a moment before replying: "His name is, rightly,
'Colonel Carson,' and since he's got command of a fort they've given him
the title of 'General Carson;' but all the old Plainsmen and mountainmen
that's travelled with him since he was your age call him 'Kit Carson,'
or just 'Old Kit.' Perhaps you've heard tell of him?"
Indeed, Glen had heard of the most famous scout the Western Plains ever
produced; and, with the prospect of actually seeing and speaking to him,
he felt amply repaid for his recent trials and sufferings.