ALMOST TRAMPLED TO DEATH
The minute the stampede began Wilbur's nerves steadied, and with voice
more than with hand he quieted Kit. It took a moment or two for the
front group to break into the running gallop of the frightened steer,
and two head of cattle not twenty feet from Wilbur were forced over the
edge before the leaders started to run. In this moment the rear bunch
closed up solidly and Wilbur was hemmed in.
The pace became terrific, and as they hurtled along the face of the
cliff with the precipice below, Wilbur noted to his horror that he was
gradually being forced to the outer edge. Being lighter than the steers,
the heavier animals were surging ahead alongside the cliff wall, and the
little pony with the boy on his back was inch by inch being forced to
the verge, of which there was a clear fall now of about one hundred
feet. Vainly he looked for a tree overhanging the road into which he
could leap; there were no trees. And every few strides he found himself
appreciably nearer the edge. Looking back, as far as he could see the
steers were crowding, and looking forward the road curved, hiding what
might lie before.
His feet were out of the stirrups and well forward, so that, although he
had received three or four bruising encounters as the cattle lurched and
surged against him, he was unhurt. Several times Kit was hurled from her
stride, but she always picked up her feet neatly again. Wilbur could not
but admire the little mare, although he felt that there was no hope for
them.
Then suddenly, with an angry bellow, a big black steer which had been
pushing up on the inside turned his head and tried to gore the pony.
There was not room, however, but the action so angered Wilbur that,
pulling his six-shooter, he sent a bullet crashing to his brain. The
steer gave a wild lurch, but did not fall immediately, and in an instant
was forced to the edge and fell into the valley below. Instantly, Kit,
even before Wilbur could speak or lay hand on the rein, gave a sidewise
jump into the hole made by the place the black steer had occupied. In
one stride as much gain away from the dangerous edge had been made as
had been lost in the previous half mile.
More at his ease, but for the fearful speed and the danger that Kit
might lose her footing, Wilbur looked ahead, talking to the steers
around, endeavoring to quiet them, noting that the road was turning more
sharply in the valley, although the downward grade was steeper and it
was increasingly hard for the little pony to hold up. But as they turned
the curve, there, immediately before them, standing in the middle of the
road, with their fishing poles over their shoulders, were a man and a
boy, evidently entirely ignorant of the danger so rapidly approaching.
The bank above was too steep to climb, and the one below straight ninety
feet sheer to the creek. To Wilbur it looked like sure death, and a most
awful one at that, but he at least was utterly unable to do anything to
prevent it, and he shuddered to think that he himself might be trampling
with his pony's hoofs on what might be below.
But just as he had in that instant decided that there was no help for
it, he suddenly saw Merritt on old Baldy shoot forward like an arrow
from a bow stretched to the uttermost. The herd of steers was traveling
at a rapid clip, but under the startling influence of combined quirt
and spur, and with no room in which to display his bucking propensities,
Baldy just put himself to running, and only hit the high spots here and
there.
It seemed incredible to Wilbur that any horse could stop, especially on
a down grade, at the speed that Baldy was traveling, but just before he
reached the man and boy, having previously shouted to warn them, Merritt
pulled up with a jerk that brought Baldy clear back on his haunches.
Like a flash of light he leaped from the horse and half lifted, half
pushed the man into the saddle, tossed the boy up behind him, and then,
grabbing hold of the slicker which was tied behind the cantle, he hit
old Baldy a slap with the quirt, and down the road they went, not twenty
yards ahead of the steers, Baldy carrying on his back the man and the
boy, and Merritt, hanging on like grim death, trying to run, taking
strides that looked as though he wore seven-leagued boots. The speed was
terrific and presently Wilbur noticed that Merritt was keeping both feet
together, putting his weight on the saddle, and vaulting along in
immense leaps. One moment he was there, but the next moment that Wilbur
looked ahead Baldy was still racing down the road with his double load,
but Merritt was nowhere to be seen. It was with a sickening feeling that
Wilbur realized that he must have lost his hold, and was in the same
peril from which he had saved the man and the boy.
For a few fearful minutes Wilbur watched the ground beneath his horse's
feet, but saw no object in the occasional glimpses he could secure of
the dusty road. Once again Wilbur found himself being forced to the
outer edge of the road, but the cliff was shallowing rapidly, and now
they were not more than twenty feet above the valley with the road
curving into it in the distance. A couple of hundred feet further on,
however, a hillock rose abruptly, coming within four feet of the level
of the road, and Wilbur decided to put the pony at it, seeing there was
a chance of safety, and that even if they both got bad falls, there was
no fear of being trampled.
Allowing the pony to come to the outside, he reined her in hard and led
her to the jump, swinging from the saddle as he did so in order to give
both Kit and himself a fair chance. The pony, released from the weight
of the rider before she struck ground, met it in a fair stride, and
without losing footing kept up the gait to the bottom of the hillock,
pulling up herself on the level grass below. But Wilbur, not being able
to estimate his jump, because he was in the act of vaulting from the
saddle, struck the ground all in a heap, crumpled up as though he were
broken in pieces and was hurled down the hill, reaching the bottom
stunned. He was unconscious for several minutes, but when he came to
himself, Kit was standing over him, nosing him with her soft muzzle as
though to bring him round. Weakly he staggered to his feet, and seeing
Kit standing patiently, managed to clamber into the saddle.
The pony started immediately at an easy canter, crossing the valley and
meeting the herd where the road ran into the level. The cattle were
tired from the run, and sick and bruised as he was, Wilbur headed them
off and rounded them up, being aided presently by Rodgers and Grier, who
had found themselves unable to cut into the stampeding herd, and
consequently had waited until the whole herd got by, when they had
ridden back along the trail a little distance, got down to the creek by
a bridle path, and crossed the valley by a short cut.
In the distance Baldy could be seen grazing, and Wilbur lightly touched
Kit with the spur to find out what had happened. The bay, as soon as he
had stopped running, evidently had bucked off his two riders, who were
still sitting on the ground, apparently dazed. The man, who was
evidently an Eastern tourist, was pale as ashes and dumb with fright,
and could tell nothing. The boy knew no more than, "He had to let go, he
had to let go."
Together with Grier, Wilbur started back along the road to look for what
might be left of Merritt. The foreman tried to persuade the lad to stay,
for he was bleeding from a scalp wound and his left wrist was sorely
twisted, if not actually sprained, but Wilbur replied that he had said
he was going back to look for Merritt, and go back he would if both arms
and legs were broken. Kit, although very much blown, was willing to be
taken up the road at a fair gallop, when, just as they turned a corner,
they almost ran down the Supervisor, who was walking down the road as
unconcernedly as though nothing had happened.
"Oh, Mr. Merritt," cried the boy, "I thought you were dead."
"Cheerful greeting, that," answered the Forester. "No, I'm not dead. You
look nearer it than I do."
"But didn't you get run down?"
"Do I look as if I'd been a sidewalk for a thousand steers?" was the
disgusted reply. "Don't ask silly questions, Loyle."
But the foreman broke in:
"The boy's right enough to ask," he said; "an' there's no reason why you
shouldn't tell. How did you dodge the steers?"
"That was easy enough," said Merritt. "I held on to Baldy until I saw a
crack in the rock big enough to hold a man. Then I let go and crawled
into that until the herd passed by."
The boy breathed a sigh of relief.
"I sure thought you were gone," he said.
The Supervisor scanned him keenly, then slapped Kit heartily on the
flank.
"You've got a good little mare there," he said; "there's not many of
them could have done it. Tell me all about it some time. What started
them?" he added, turning to the cattleman.
"That fool new bridge gave way just as the last of the bunch crowded on
it. About twenty of them fell over the cliff there, and about thirty
more along the road. But it might have been a heap worse, an' you ought
ter have two life-savin' medals."
Merritt's only reply was a gesture of protest.
"An' you, youngster," went on the cattleman, "you kept your nerve and
rode a bully ride. I wish you'd take my quirt and keep it from me as a
remembrance of your first experience with a cattle stampede."
Wilbur stammered some words of thanks, but the foreman waved them aside.
"And now," said the Supervisor, with an entire change of tone, "I guess
we'll go back and get the pack-horse and go on to the valley."
As they rode over the bridge Wilbur noted with a great deal of interest
the breakage of the supporting timbers on the outer side, and looking
down into the valley beneath, he could see the bodies of the cattle who
had been pushed over the edge in the stampede.
"I read a story once," said the boy, "of a youngster who got caught in a
stampede of buffalo, and when his horse lost his footing he escaped by
jumping from the back of one buffalo to another until he reached the
outside of the herd. But I never believed it much."
"It makes a good yarn," said the Supervisor, "an' it's a little like the
story they tell of Buffalo Bill, who, trying to get away from a buffalo
stampede, was thrown by his horse puttin' his foot in a badger hole and
breaking his leg."
"Why, what in the world did he do?" queried Wilbur.
"He waited until the foremost buffalo was just upon him, then gave a
leap, clear over his horns, and landed on his back, then turning sharply
round so as to face the head instead of the tail, he pulled out his
revolver and kept shooting to one side of the buffalo's head, just past
his eye, so that at every shot the beast turned a little more to one
side, thus cutting him out of the herd. Then, when he was clear of the
herd, he shot the buffalo."
"What for?" asked Wilbur indignantly. "It seems a shame to kill the
buffalo which had got him free."
"What chance would he have had against an angered buffalo alone and on
foot?" said Merritt. "He couldn't very well get off and make a bow to
the beast and have the buffalo drop a curtsey?"
"I hadn't thought of that," said the boy, laughing.
"I was afraid I might have to try that dodge, but when I saw the crack
in the rock I knew it was all right."
"Well," said Wilbur as they turned off the road to where the pack-horse
had been picketed, "I think we're both pretty lucky to have come off so
easily."
Merritt looked at the lad. He was dusty and grimy to a degree, his
clothes were torn in a dozen places where he had gone rolling down the
hill, a handkerchief was roughly knotted around his head, and there were
streaks of dried blood in his hair.
"You look a little the worse for wear," he said; "maybe you'd better go
home, and I'll go on alone."
"I won't," said Wilbur.
"You what?" came the curt rebuke. "You mean that you would rather not."
"Yes, sir," said the boy. "I mean that I don't feel too used up."
The Supervisor nodded and rode on ahead. For a couple of miles or so,
they rode single file, and in spite of the boy's bold announcement that
he was not too badly shaken up, by the time he had ridden nearly an hour
more in the hot sun his head was aching furiously and he was beginning
to stiffen up. Accordingly he was glad when a cabin hove in sight, and
he cantered up to ask if they might call for a drink of water.
"We stop here," was the laconic reply.
As they rode up a big man came out of the house, which was quite a
fair-sized place, to meet them.
"Well, Merritt," he said, "what have you got for me this time?"
motioning to the boy.
"No patient for you, Doc," said Merritt; "one for your wife."
The mountain doctor laughed, a great big hearty laugh.
"Violet," he called, "you're taking my practice away from me. Here's a
patient that says he won't have me, but wants you."
Immediately at his call, a small, slender woman came to the porch of the
house, and seeing the doctor helping Wilbur down from the saddle,
stepped forward.
"I can walk all right," said Wilbur when the doctor put out a hand to
steady him. "I just wanted a drink of water."
"Right you are," said the doctor, "we'll give you all the water you
want, just in a minute. Now," he continued as he led the boy into the
house, "let's have a look at the trouble."
But Wilbur interposed.
"This Forest Service," he said, smiling, "is the worst that ever
happened for having to obey orders, and Mr. Merritt put me in charge of
your wife, not you."
The big doctor put his hand on the shoulder of his wife and roared until
the house shook with his laughter. It was impossible to resist the
infection, and Wilbur, despite his headache, found himself laughing with
the rest. But the doctor's wife, stepping quietly forward, took the lad
aside and, removing the handkerchief that Grier had wound around his
head, bathed the wound and cleansed it. She had just finished this when
the doctor came over, still laughing. He touched the wound deftly, and
Wilbur was amazed to find that the touch of this large, hearty man was
just as soft and tender as that of his wife. There was power in his very
finger-tips, and the boy felt it. He looked up, smiling.
"I guess you're Doctor Davis," he said.
"Why?" said the doctor; "what makes you think so?"
"Oh, I just felt it," the boy replied. "I've heard a lot about you."
"I'm 'it,' all right," said the doctor, "but you've refused to allow me
to attend you. I'll turn the case over to Dr. Violet Davis," and he
laughed again.
Mrs. Davis smiled brightly in response and continued attending to the
boy. Then she turned to the two men.
"You've put this case in my charge," she said, "and I'm going to
prescribe rest for a day or two anyway. That is," she added, "unless Mr.
Merritt finds it compulsory to take him away."
The Supervisor smiled one of his rare smiles.
"I wouldn't be so unkind as to take any one away from here
unnecessarily," he said, "no matter how busy. But there always is a lot
to do. Ever since the beavers first started forestry, it has meant work,
and lots of it. But if you're told to rest you've got to do it. I know.
I've been sick myself here."
The doctor slapped him on the shoulder.
"Beautiful case," he said, "beautiful case. But he wouldn't obey
orders."
"He always did mine," put in Mrs. Davis.
"I'm afraid I can't this time," said the Supervisor with one of his
abrupt changes of manner, turning to the door. "I'll call for Loyle on
my way home to-morrow."
"Oh, Mr. Merritt," began Mrs. Davis in protest, "he ought to have two or
three days' rest, anyway."
The chief of the forest turned to Wilbur.
"Well?" he queried.
The boy looked around at the comfortable home, at the big jovial doctor,
and his charming little wife, and thought how delightful it would be to
have a few days' rest. And his head was aching, and he was very stiff.
Then he looked at the Supervisor, quiet and unflinching in anything that
was to be done, working with him and helping him despite the big
interests for which he was responsible, he thought of the Forest Service
to which he was pledged to serve, he remembered his little tent home and
the portion of the range over which he had control, and straightened up.
"What time to-morrow?" he said. "I'll be ready."
"Middle of the afternoon," said Merritt. "So long."
He bade good-by to the doctor and his wife, and after having seen that
Kit was properly attended to, went on his way to the Kern River Valley,
to visit the Edison power plant erected on the river, and to prepare for
the installation of the new pulp-mill.
In the meantime, Wilbur, more fatigued by the day's excitement than he
had supposed himself to be, had fallen asleep, a sleep unbroken until
the evening. And all evening the doctor and his wife told him stories of
the Forest Service men and of the various miners, lumbermen,
prospectors, ranchers, and so forth, all tales of manliness, courage,
and endurance, and not infrequently of heroism. But when Wilbur told of
the professor and asked about other greenhorns that had come to the
forest, the doctor turned and asked him if he knew anything of "the boy
from Peanutville."
"He had just come into camp up here in the Sierras," said the doctor on
receiving the lad's negative reply, "from some little place in the
middle West that was giving itself airs as a city. He had read somewhere
about the forest Rangers, and he himself had been on several Sunday
School picnics in the woods, so he thought that he knew all about it. At
the end of his first couple of days' work he said:
"'I never supposed that a Ranger had to cut brush and build fence and
grub stumps and slave like a nigger. I don't believe he ought to. I
don't think it's what my people would like to have me do. I always
supposed that he just rode around under the trees and made outsiders toe
the mark.'
"I said he was a new Guard," the doctor continued, "but he said this in
camp to a group of old-timers with whom he had been working. They hadn't
worried him at all, but had given him a fair show and helped him all
they could. But this was too rich. They glanced at each other with
mingled contempt and amusement, then put on mournful faces, looked on
him solemn-eyed, and regretted the cruelties of the Service.
"'The boss,' they said, 'just sticks it on us all the time. We are
workin' like slaves--Guards and Rangers and everybody. It's plumb wicked
the way we're herded here.'
"So the new hand felt comforted by this outward sympathy, and he ambled
innocently on.
"'That heavy brush tears my clothes, and my back aches, and I burned a
shoe, and my socks are full of stickers. Then I fell on the barbed wire
when I was stretching it--and cut my nose. I tell you what it is,
fellows, if I ever get a chance to get away, I hope I'll never see
another inch of barbed wire as long as I live. If I was only back in
Peanutville, where I used to live, I could be eating a plate of ice
cream this minute instead of working like a dog and having to wash my
own clothes Sundays when I might be hearing the band play in the park.'
"'Too bad,' shouted the old Rangers in chorus, until a peal of laughter
that echoed through and through that mountain camp showed the indignant
youngster that his point of view hadn't been what you might say warmly
welcomed by the old-timers.
"But the following day, as I heard the story from Charles H. Shinn," the
doctor went on, "one of the best men in the gang took the lad aside the
following morning as they were riding up the trail, and said to him:
"'How much of that stuff you was preachin' last night did you mean? Of
course, this is hard work; it has to be. Either leave it mighty pronto,
or wrastle with it till you're a man at the game. I've seen lots of
young fellows harden up--some of 'em just as green an' useless when they
came as you are now. Don't you know you hold us back, and waste our
time, too, on almost any job? But it's the price we have to pay up here
to get new men started. Unless you grow to love it so much that there
isn't anything else in all the world you'd care to do, you ain't fit for
it, an' you'd better get out, and let some one with more sand than you
have get in.'
"Well, Loyle," the doctor said, "that youngster was provoked. He
wasn't man enough to get really angry, so that his temper would
keep him sticking to the work; he was one of these saucy
slap-'em-on-the-wrist-naughty kind.
"'I think all of you are crazy,' he said.
"He walked into the Supervisor's office that afternoon and explained
that the kind of work he had been given to do was altogether below his
intellectual powers. He never understood how quickly things happened,
but he signed a resignation blank almost before he knew it, and went
back to Peanutville.
"It so happened that one of the Rangers had friends in Peanutville, and
the boys at the camp followed the youth's career with much interest. He
clerked, he took money at a circus window, he tried cub newspaper work,
he stood behind a dry-goods counter, he was everything by turns but
nothing long."
"What finally happened to him?" asked Wilbur.
"Last I heard he was a salesman in a woman's shoe store. But he's still
with us in spirit," said the doctor, "as a horrible example. Right now,
down in the heart of a forest fire, when the Rangers are working like
men possessed down some hot gulch, one will say to the other:
"'Gee, Jack, if I was only back where I used to be, I could be having a
plate of ice cream this minute.' And the other will reply: 'I wish I
might be back in Peanutville and hear the band play in the park.' And
both men will laugh and go at the work all the harder for realizing what
a miserable failure the weak greenhorn had been."
"I'm thinking," said Wilbur, "that I'll never give them the chance to
talk like that about me!"
"From what I heard," said the doctor, "I don't believe you will."
"And from what I see," said the doctor's wife gently, as the two rose
and bade the "patient" good-night, "I know we shall all be glad that you
have come to us here in the forest."
[Illustration: WHAT TREE-PLANTING WILL DO.
Pine plantation fifty years old showing growth of timber. Trunks,
however, should not show so many superfluous low branches.
_Photograph by U. S. Forest Service._]
[Illustration: THE FIRST CONSERVATION EXPERT
Work of a beaver in felling a tree with which to build a dam for his
home.
_Photograph by U. S. Forest Service._]