THE CAMP IN THE FOOT-HILLS.
“I say, perfessor, I reckon ye had an idee, mebbe, that I was kinder
goin’ back on ye, when we was down thar to Ike Barker’s, didn’t ye?”
The nearest approach to a smile that Big Thompson could command
overspread his face, as he removed his pipe from his mouth long enough
to address this question to his employer.
It was the first time he had in any way referred to the incidents that
had happened at the ranchman’s dug-out.
The guide was seated on his blanket in front of a cheerful fire; and
Oscar stood in front of the open door, watching the storm that was
raging.
The air was filled with snow-flakes, and the evergreens behind the cabin
were bending low before a furious gale.
The short winter’s day was drawing to a close, and as the young hunter
gazed at the fading landscape before him, and listened to the howling of
the wind, he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, shivered almost
involuntarily, and thanked his lucky stars that he was comfortably
sheltered.
Big Thompson’s question aroused him from his revery. He stepped back
into the cabin, closed the door behind him, and dropped the heavy bar
that secured it in its place.
“Yes, I did think so,” said he, as he turned down his coat-collar and
shook the snow-flakes from his cap. “All you did for me was to take that
gun out of Ike Barker’s hands. After you had done that, you stood and
looked on with the utmost indifference.”
“Wal, no,” answered the guide slowly. “I heard every word he said to ye,
an’ if I hadn’t knowed the man I might have jined in the talk ye had
with him. But, ye see, I knowed him. I knowed the mu-el was his’n, kase
he said so; but that didn’t pester me none, fur I was sartin that when
he found out who ye was an’ all about ye, he wouldn’t make no furse
about the critter. That’s why I kept my mouth shet. I knowed ye wasn’t
in no danger.”
Oscar and his guide were now fairly settled in their camp in the
foot-hills; and if Leon Parker could have looked in upon them that
stormy night he would have gone into ecstasies.
Their journey from Ike Barker’s ranch had been accomplished without the
occurrence of any incident worthy of note.
The weather was all they could have desired, and Oscar and Big Thompson
got on very well together.
The guide no longer held himself aloof, as he did at the beginning of
the journey. He admired the courage the boy had exhibited, and used his
best endeavors to prove himself an agreeable and entertaining companion.
The first thing he did was to take Oscar’s place in the wagon, and give
the boy his pony to ride.
They made rapid progress after that, for the mule was not long in
finding out that in Big Thompson he had a driver who knew how to manage
him.
The guide had an almost inexhaustible fund of stories at his command,
and enlivened many a weary mile of the way by relating them to his
employer, who was always glad to listen.
This camp was located in a pleasant valley in the very heart of the
foot-hills; and they supposed that there was not a human being within a
hundred miles of them.
The valley, so the guide informed Oscar, was twenty miles long and half
as wide. A deep and rocky ravine gave entrance to it; and it was in a
sheltered nook, about halfway between the mouth of this ravine and the
opposite end of the valley, that the camp had been made.
This was the place for which Big Thompson had been aiming ever since
leaving the fort. He assured Oscar that it was a fine hunting-ground;
and they had not been in the valley twenty-four hours, before the boy
saw enough with his own eyes to convince him that such was the fact.
The game, which always retreats to the foot-hills on the approach of
cold weather, seemed to have flocked here for shelter; and a better
winter abode could not have been found.
The high and thickly wooded hills, that arose on every side, effectually
shut off the icy blasts that came roaring down from the mountains; the
pasturage was rich and abundant; and the clear, dancing trout-brook that
wound through the valley afforded a never failing supply of water.
Oscar had discovered an otter-slide on the banks of the stream; and that
indicated that fur-bearing animals were to be found in the vicinity.
He had seen a big-horn watching him from the summit of a distant hill;
the first blow he struck with his axe, when he went out to cut logs for
the cabin, had frightened from his concealment in the bushes the first
mule-deer he had ever seen; and a herd of lordly elk, led by a
magnificent buck, which Oscar resolved he would one day secure, had fled
precipitately at the sight of their first camp-fire.
But such harmless animals as these were not the only inhabitants of the
valley. The fierce carnivora that preyed upon them had followed them
from the mountains; and the first night that Oscar passed in the valley
had been enlivened by a chorus from a pack of gray wolves, followed by a
solo from a panther.
A trap, baited with a muskrat, which Oscar had set for a mink, was
robbed by a wolverine; and one morning, while they were out hunting for
their breakfast, Big Thompson showed him where a bear had crossed the
brook. All these things seemed to indicate that their opportunities for
sport and excitement would prove to be excellent.
The hunters’ first care, on arriving at their camping-ground, was to
provide a house for themselves, which they did by erecting a neat and
roomy log cabin in the sheltered nook before spoken of.
It was different from those erected by the early settlers, in that it
had no windows and no chimney; all the light, during the daytime, being
admitted through the door, and through an opening in the roof, at which
the smoke passed out.
Under this opening a hole about two feet square had been dug in the dirt
floor, and this served as the fireplace.
Oscar and his guide had been exceedingly busy during the last three
days; but now their work was all done, and they were securely housed for
the winter.
Although it was cold and bleak outside, the interior of the cabin was
warm and cheerful. A fire burned merrily on the hearth; and, by the aid
of the light it threw out, one could easily see that the hunters had not
neglected to provide for their comfort in various ways.
The cabin was provided with a table, a cupboard for the dishes, and a
stool for each of its occupants—all made of slabs split from pine-logs,
hewn smooth with an axe; and the various articles comprising their
outfit were disposed about the room in orderly array.
There were no buffalo-robes for beds, but there were fragrant
pine-boughs instead, blankets in abundance, and a joint of venison
hanging from the rafters overhead.
One end of the cabin was occupied by the wagon, which had been taken to
pieces and stored there for protection from the weather.
In the rear of this cabin was another, not quite so carefully built,
into which the pony and mule were driven every night. During the day
they were allowed to roam at will in the valley (the guide said that
when the snow came and covered the grass they would be obliged to cut
down cottonwood trees for them to browse upon); and, as soon as it began
to grow dark, they were shut up for security.
All the “signs” indicated that beasts of prey were abundant in the
valley; and, if a pack of wolves or a hungry grizzly should chance to
make a meal of the mule, how would they get Oscar’s specimens and chest
of tools back to the fort in the spring?
Taken altogether, it was just such a camp as he had often read of; and
Oscar, as he rubbed his hands over the fire and gazed about their
comfortable quarters, grew enthusiastic.
“Now, this is what I call comfort,” said he. “With plenty to eat, a good
supply of firewood close at hand, a tight roof to shelter us from the
storm, and no enemies to trouble us—what more could a couple of hunters
ask for? I don’t think spending a winter in the foot-hills is so bad
after all.”
The guide smiled and nodded his head significantly, but made no other
reply. He knew that this was the poetry of a hunter’s life, and that the
prose would come soon enough.
Having arranged his blankets and thrown a few sticks of wood upon the
fire, Oscar removed his boots and coat and lay down to rest, leaving Big
Thompson to the companionship of his pipe and his own thoughts.
He lay for a long time watching the sparks as they ascended toward the
opening in the roof, and listening to the roaring storm, which seemed to
increase in violence every moment; and finally, while he was laying
elaborate plans for the capture of some of the wolves, whose mournful
howls now and then came faintly to his ears, he passed quietly into the
land of dreams.
He did not know that there was another camp in the valley, and that
other ears besides his own were listening to the howls of those same
wolves, but such was the fact.