LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS.
When Mr. Parsons had fairly settled himself, filled his pipe, lighted
it, and fell to nursing his leg as a man might who felt at peace with
himself and all the world, Tom said:
"You didn't say anything about my horse in telling me what I should have
to get through with. Did you mean that I should leave him at home, and
go on foot?"
"I did, certainly," said Mr. Parsons. "You will find that the bronco
will go through some places that you will not care to ride, and,
besides, you will have one horse less to take care of, and one less to
watch."
"Have I got to watch him all the time?"
"Well, yes. You must keep the halter on him all the time, and tie him
fast to a tree when you go into camp. If you don't, he will run away and
leave you. He'll turn around and take the back track as soon as your
pack grows light, and you had better come, too."
"That's what one of the cowboys told me," said Tom. "Now, I have got
some money here. I don't suppose it will be of the least use to me in
the mountains, and I should like to leave it with somebody."
"All right. Leave your horse and your money with me, and I will take
care of them."
"If I don't come back, they are yours," continued Tom. "Now, I should
like to have a gun of some sort."
Without saying a word Mr. Parsons went into the house and brought out a
rifle and a revolver. Tom took them and examined them, and the way he
drew the rifle to his face rather astonished Mr. Parsons. He remarked
that he had handled guns before in his day, and Tom told him that he
could not remember the time when he did not have a horse and shotgun for
his own. His uncle furnished him with all these things.
"Then right there is where you ought to have stayed," said Mr. Parsons,
throwing more energy into his tones than he usually did. "I hope you're
not going to be sick of your bargain, but I'm afraid you are. Here comes
the bronco. Do you think you can manage that fellow?"
The bronco which came up at that moment, with Stanley's lariat fastened
about his neck, was like any other horse, only he seemed to be tired.
When they stopped him, he lowered his head and drew up one of his hind
feet, and closed his eyes as if he were fast asleep. But Tom knew better
than to fool with him. He had read enough to know that the word came
from the Spanish and meant "wild," and he had got his name from his
persistent efforts to keep wild cowboys off his back. He couldn't be
ridden, that was the matter with him; but he would carry a pack-saddle
all day, and never had been known to leave a man he had accompanied to
the mountains. Tom said he thought he could manage him, and patted him
all over; but the horse never opened his eyes to look at him.
Preparations were made for getting Tom off as soon as it was light, and
by the time darkness fell all was ready. A pack-saddle was brought out
which looked as though it had been through two or three wars, and the
cook, following the instructions of his master, began to fill it full of
provisions, giving no heed to Tom to ask him whether the supplies he
furnished suited him or not. He had provided so many men with provender
that he thought anything that would do for one would do for another.
With darkness came three more cowboys, who listened to what Mr. Parsons
had to say, and then greeted Tom very cordially, and wished him
unbounded success in his efforts to find Elam Storm's nugget. One man,
especially, was particularly interested in Tom's fortunes. He advised
him to dig wherever he saw a landslide, and if he happened to hit upon
the right place he would strike it sure. The spot where the man hid it
was obliterated, but that wouldn't hinder the proper person from
unearthing the nugget if he only chanced to dig where it was.
"I have looked for that nugget a good many times, and that is the only
thing that has kept me from finding it; I didn't dig where it was," said
the man, with something like a sigh of regret. "I know it is somewhere
in the mountains, else why should so many persons be looking for it?"
Morning came at last, and after Tom had eaten a hasty breakfast he saw
the pack strapped on his bronco; and the whole thing was done so easily,
with two experienced cowboys at work, that he regarded it as the least
difficult part of his undertaking. He had been told repeatedly to get
the pack on right, and not to unhitch his horse until he did it, or the
bronco would knock him and his burden into the middle of next week and
come home, leaving him to follow after as best he could. But Tom was
sure he had it "down fine," and with a cheerful good-by to the cowboys
who had assembled to see him off, and a hasty slap on the bronco's flank
to help him along, he started gayly for the mountains. When he saw that
camp again, he hoped to have the eight thousand dollar nugget stowed
away in his pack-saddle.
The first day's work Tom could not complain of. The bronco kept up a
lively walk, swinging his head from side to side and turning first into
one canyon and then into another, and did not think it necessary to stop
for anything to eat until he made his way to a little grove of trees,
drew a long breath as he stopped under the shade, and looked around at
Tom as if asking him why he didn't take his pack off. Tom leaned his
rifle against a log and took his pack off very easily, and the horse
immediately began taking his supper. Then Tom picked up his rifle and
looked about him.
"I declare! I believe the whole canyon is full of landslides," said he,
as he gazed at one pile of rubbish after another filled with logs,
rocks, and brush which nature had thrown into the valley, some new and
of recent origin, and others bearing the marks of age upon them. "Hold
on. Isn't that the mark of a spade over there?"
Tom walked over and looked at it. It was the mark of a spade, sure
enough, where a man had commenced digging where the landslide ended, and
had thrown out just earth enough to prove that he had been there, and
that was all. There were other openings of like character, until Tom
counted ten in number. Then he looked up at the huge mass above him, and
made an estimate that it would take an army of men, each armed with a
spade and pick, to work it all away. These were probably the marks of
the elderly man among the cowboys, who told him that the reason he
didn't find the nugget was because he didn't dig in the right place. Tom
shouldered his rifle, walked back to his log, and sat down.
"I really believe I have been duped," said he disconsolately. "If the
landslides are all like that, I am certainly not going to work to throw
them all away just to make eight thousand dollars. Besides, what use
will it be to me to work where he has been? I'll go on a little
further."
If Tom had any idea of a landslide, it was a little piece of ground
which could be thrown away in half a day's time; but the sight of a
_real_ landslide was what took his breath away. He didn't eat a very
hearty supper after that, for the thought that was uppermost in his mind
was that the men who had stood by him, and of whom he had a right to
expect something better, had completely fooled him in regard to Elam
Storm's nugget. Instead of telling him that there wasn't any show at all
of his success, they had fitted him out and sent him away to put in a
month of his time. There was one thing about it: he would not go back
until every mouthful in the pack-saddle had been eaten. That much he was
determined on.
"I had an idea that cowboys were above suspicion, but now I know they
are not," said Tom spitefully. "I can waste a month of their grub as
well as anybody, and I won't put a spade in the ground until I see some
prospects of success."
At the end of a week Tom was still of the same determination, although
he saw much to discourage him. It was landslides everywhere, and the
mark of a man's spade was on every one; so it showed that the bronco had
been over that same ground before. The way was getting lonely, they were
getting deeper and deeper into the mountains, and somehow Tom felt very
disconsolate. A deep silence brooded over everything--a silence so
utterly mysterious that he was not accustomed to it. How gladly he would
have welcomed Jerry Lamar and listened to news from home and from the
uncle he had deserted. Another week and Tom found himself hopelessly in
a pocket. Turn which way he would, there was no chance for him to get
out. The man had been there before him--indeed, he seemed to have gone
into all the places and thrown out just earth enough to prove that he
had been there, but not enough to accomplish anything. It was just
enough to let Tom see how useless it was to dig there.
Tom's two weeks of tramping in the mountains had given him a ravenous
appetite; his bronco was hitched so that he could not take to his heels
and leave his master to find his own way home; and as he sat there on
his blanket, dividing his attention between his cup of coffee,
hard-tack, and bacon, he thought seriously of going back to
headquarters. This was undoubtedly the remotest point reached by the
man, and if one of his experience should be frightened out by a few
shovelfuls of earth, or scared at finding himself in a pocket, Tom
thought himself entitled to follow his lead. It had taken him two weeks
to reach the pocket (he had managed to keep close run of the days); it
would probably take him fully as long to return, and so he would fill
Mr. Parsons' contract anyway. And so it was settled that he was to go
home; but there's many a slip between determining upon a thing and doing
it. He finished his coffee and bacon, led the horse down to the spring,
from which he had scraped the leaves, to give him a drink, and rolled
himself up in his blanket to go to sleep with his ready rifle safe
beside him.
How long he slept he did not know, but he was awakened about midnight by
a sound he had never heard before. It came from his horse, but it wasn't
a neigh: it was the sound of fear, and made the cold chills creep all
over him. He started up with his rifle in his hand, but did not have
time to get off the blanket. Another shriek, which sounded like somebody
in fearful bodily agony, came from the bushes, and the next minute the
horse was on the ground and struggling in the grasp of some animal or
thing which Tom could not remember to have seen or heard of before. It
had a long neck, long legs, and a wonderfully high body which was
increased materially by a hump on its back. The horse was as nothing in
its grasp, and the struggle took place not over ten feet from the
blanket on which Tom was sitting.
"Great Moses!" was Tom's mental ejaculation.
He sat for an instant as if spellbound, and then his rifle arose to his
face. He was sure he had a good shot at it and expected to see it drop;
but instead of that it gave another shriek, tossed the horse away from
it, breaking like thread the lariat with which he was confined, and with
a single jump disappeared in the bushes. Tom listened, but could hear no
sound coming from it to tell what sort of a beast it was. Then he got
upon his feet and turned his attention to the wounded horse. He was past
the doctor's aid, for he was dead.
"Well, that beats me," said he, going back to the fire and starting it
up, so that he could see what sort of wounds the beast had made. "I
never heard of an animal like that before."
A good many boys would have been startled pretty near to death by the
sudden appearance of an apparition like that. It must be possessed of
tremendous power to toss the broncho about as it did, and break the
lariat with which he was fastened. No ghost could do that, and neither
could a ghost have made that wide and fearful rent that Tom found when
he had punched up the fire. Tom thought it best to build up a bright
blaze, for he did not know how long it would be before the animal would
come back to finish its work. He loaded the rifle carefully and placed
the revolver where he could get his hands upon it at a moment's warning.
He thought of grizzly bears, but had never heard of them taking to the
bushes on account of a single bullet.
"It couldn't have been a panther or a bear, unless my eyes were
deceiving me, for it was at least four times as big as the horse," said
Tom, picking up a brand from the fire and once more approaching the
specimen of the apparition's handiwork. He hadn't been in sight more
than a minute, and yet the horse was as dead as a door-nail. "He must
have been a flesh-eater, for nothing else that I know of could have made
such wounds. I am beat. Now, how am I going to find my way home?"
If Tom had been frightened at first, he was doubly so now. He was so
confused he couldn't think. From that hour he sat there on his blanket,
and by the time that daylight fell so that he could distinguish objects
near him he had made up his mind what he was going to do. He would take
everything out of the pack-saddle that he could carry on his back, and
make his way out of the pocket the same way he came in. He had
remembered enough of his skill in woodcraft to turn and take a survey of
his back track, so that it would not appear odd to him when he came to
go that way again, and he had no doubt that he would be able to find it.
More than that, the bronco had left the prints of his hoofs and had
continually browsed on the way, and, taking all these things together,
Tom was certain that he could strike the trail.
"It is going to be a tight squawk," he soliloquized, "but I am not lost
yet. I only wish I knew what that animal was. It would take a big load
off my shoulders if I did."
Tom did not waste any time in forming his bundle, for there were some
things about the pocket that he did not care to see. He wanted to get
out of sight of every thing that reminded him of his terrible fright. He
put all his bacon, hard-tack, and coffee into his blanket, strapped his
pot to his belt behind, set his pick, spade, and pack-saddle up where
they could be easily found, shouldered his rifle, and, with a farewell
glance at the bronco, which had carried his pack so faithfully for him
so many miles, he plunged into the bushes and left the pocket behind.
For that one single day everything went well. He found the bronco's hoof
prints in the sand, and easily discovered the places where he had been
browsing on the way, and as long as these signs remained he couldn't get
lost. He even found, too, the place where they had stopped the night
before, but going into camp without the presence of the horse was
lonesome to him. He saw the place where he had scraped away the leaves
from the side of the stream to give him a spot to drink, and found the
sapling to which he had hitched him, and the place where he had spread
his blanket--but there was little sleep for him that night.
"I wish I knew what that animal was," thought Tom, as he sat on his
blanket with his rifle in readiness on his knees. "The more I think of
him the more frightened I become. I wish I was safe at headquarters."
Remember that the signs Tom had been following were only one day old,
and on the morning of the second day he could not find the place where
he had entered the camp. Turn which way he would he could not discover
any footprints. He finally concluded that the middle canyon looked more
familiar to him than the rest, and, with his heart in his mouth, he
struck into it. At the spot where the canyon branched into another he
found a little stream which ran in the direction he thought he ought to
go, and close beside the stream was a footprint which he took to be his
own. He was all right now, and with every mile he travelled the faster
he went, in the hope of finding something else that was encouraging, but
that solitary footprint was the only thing he saw. There was one thing
about it that kept up his spirits, and that was he was following a
stream that ran toward the prairie, and he would continue to follow it
until the stream or his provisions gave out, and then----Well, that
hadn't happened yet, and wouldn't happen till he was where he could get
more provisions. He must reach the house or he would lose his horse and
$150 in money. He went into camp at a solitary place that night, and,
for a wonder, slept soundly.
The next morning he was up bright and early, but he did not seem to have
much appetite for breakfast. And it was so every day until a week had
passed, and still no change for the better. He was so impatient that he
could scarcely go into camp. He was impatient to be journeying along
that little stream that seemed to lead him toward the prairie, but every
time he looked up and tried to wonder where he was, there were the same
gloomy mountains stretched away before him that he had at first seen in
the pocket where he had lost his horse. Tom took no note of the fact
that his wearing apparel was getting the worse for wear, or that he had
left his blanket back at his last camping-place, but he did take notice
that his mind was filled with gloomy forebodings. Why could he not climb
that mountain on his left and see what was ahead of him? The thought no
sooner came into his mind than he banished it, took a drink of fresh
water, and started out at a more moderate pace.
"I'm lost," said he, with a sinking at his heart to which he was an
entire stranger; "and if I give way to those thoughts, I shall be lost
utterly. Why did I not think of my gun?"
Tom dropped his pack by his side and fired and loaded three times as
fast as he could make his fingers move. Then he waited again and fired
three more; and scarcely had the echoes of the last report died away
among the mountains when he heard a faint reply, though it came from so
many directions that he couldn't tell from which way it sounded. But he
took it to come from down the stream, and, leaving his bundle behind, he
started in that direction, raising a shout which, to save his life, he
could not utter above a whisper. He ran until he thought he ought to be
about where the sound came from, then stopped and fired his gun again,
and this time met with an immediate response. It was down the stream,
and there was no doubt about it.
"Who-whoop! Where are you?" shouted Tom, so impatient he could scarcely
stand still. "I am lost!"
"Follow the stream and you'll strike me," said a voice, and Tom noticed
that for a backwoods fellow he talked remarkably plain.
It was three weeks since Tom had seen anybody or heard anyone speak, and
his eagerness to see where the voice came from was desperate. Throwing
his gun upon the rocks, he broke into another run, and there, just as he
turned around an abrupt bend in the canyon, he saw the person to whom it
belonged. The speaker stood with his hat and coat off; his pick lay
against a stone near by, and the shovel which he had been in the act of
using when Tom's rifle shots fell upon his ears was standing upright in
the ground; but he had taken precautions for any emergency, for he held
his rifle in the hollow of his arm. Beyond a doubt somebody had been
grub-staking him for gold, or for something else which he was equally
anxious to find. Tom had just wind enough to take note of these things,
and then he staggered to a rock near by and seated himself upon it.
"You won't find any gold here," said Tom, resting his elbows on his
knees and looking down at the ground.
[Illustration: TOM'S NEW ACQUAINTANCE.]
The stranger uncocked his gun, and, bringing the piece to an order arms,
leaned upon it. He looked hard at Tom, but had nothing to say.
"I have been all over this country, but not a cent's worth of gold could
I find in it," continued Tom, taking off his hat and drawing his hand
across his forehead. "Somebody has duped you just the same as they duped
me."
"Where's your gun?" asked the stranger.
"I left it in the bend up there," said Tom, anxious to hear the sound of
the voice again. "I was so impatient to get to you that I left it up
there. I haven't heard a stranger speak for three weeks."
"Where did you come from?"
"Wait till I get my breath and I will answer all your questions. I came
from a pocket back here in the mountains, where I lost my horse. I wish
you could have seen that animal, for I don't know what it was: long
neck, long head, and a body that looked twice as big as my horse. And
then how strong it was! It broke my lariat----"
"What color was it?" said the stranger, beginning to take a deep
interest in what his guest had to say.
"I didn't see that it was any other color when compared with my horse.
It looked just the same--a dark brown. It had a hump on its back----"
"The Red Ghost, by George!"
Tom started and looked at him in amazement.