[Illustration: When the rifle spoke the huge head of the buffalo was
almost under Poke’s belly]
THE TRAIL BOYS OF THE PLAINS
OR
THE HUNT FOR THE BIG BUFFALO
BY
JAY WINTHROP ALLEN
ILLUSTRATED BY
WALTER S. ROGERS
NEW YORK
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
Copyright, 1915.
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
Table of Contents
I—SOMETHING ABOUT A BUFFALO
II—AT THE SILENT SUE
III—THE LAME INDIAN
IV—THE ROCKING STONE
V—THE BEARS’ DEN
VI—IN THE OLD TUNNEL
VII—THE RESCUE—AND AFTERWARD
VIII—CHET SHOOTS A HAWK
IX—ON THE TRAIL TO GRUB STAKE
X—MR. HAVENS HAS A VISITOR
XI—THE FIRST ADVENTURE
XII—A MAVERICK
XIII—“THE DOG SOLDIERS”
XIV—THE WARNING
XV—“WHAT WON’T BE LED MUST BE DRIVEN”
XVI—THE WOLF RING
XVII—A MYSTERY
XVIII—ROYAL GAME
XIX—A FRUITLESS CHASE
XX—A MIDNIGHT ALARM
XXI—A STARTLING DISCOVERY
XXII—AFTER THE THIEVES
XXIII—THE FIRST BUFFALO
XXIV—TIT FOR TAT
XXV—CHET’S DETERMINATION
XXVI—“THE KING OF THEM ALL”
XXVII—DIG’S GREAT IDEA
XXVIII—GREAT LUCK
XXIX—PLENTY OF EXCITEMENT
XXX—HOW IT ENDED
Illustrations
When the rifle spoke the huge head of the buffalo was almost under
Poke’s belly
Dig spurred his horse over to the place and leaped down to give his
chum a helping hand
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect
They fairly “wolfed” the venison steaks
CHAPTER I—SOMETHING ABOUT A BUFFALO
“Do you really suppose such a buffalo exists?” queried Chet Havens, who
was braiding a whiplash.
“You’ve got me there, boy,” said his chum, Dig Fordham, trying for the
hundredth time to carve his initials in the adamantine surface of the
old horse-block, and with a dull jackknife.
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! wouldn’t it be just
the Jim-dandy adventure, Chet, if we could go out after this herd and
capture the king of them all? It would be _great_!”
“It would be great enough, all right,” admitted Chet, nodding. “But it
would be some contract to capture such a bull. According to all accounts
he must be as strong as an elephant and almost as big.”
“Whew! do you think so, Chet?”
“If he measures up anywhere near to the specifications that Tony
Traddles gave us last week.”
“Oh—Tony!” returned Dig, in disgust. “If he saw a lizard sitting on a
log in the sun he’d declare it was the size of a crocodile.”
Chetwood Havens laughed. He was a nice-looking, fair-haired boy with
grey-blue eyes and long, dextrous, capable hands. He braided the thongs
without giving them more than a casual and cursory glance.
He was a tall boy, and slender, but with plenty of bodily strength.
Digby Fordham was more sturdily built. He was square-set,
broad-shouldered and thick-chested; and he had a broad, good-humoured
face as well. His black hair was crisp; he had little, twinkling eyes;
and usually his countenance wore a smile.
“Well,” Chet went on to say, following his chum’s criticism of Tony’s
report, “there was Rafe Peters. Rafe is an old hunter, and he ought to
know what he’s talking about when he says it’s the biggest bull buffalo
that he ever saw.”
“Aw—all the buffaloes have gone up into Canada, somewhere,” growled
Dig.
“No. I expect there are stray herds—small ones—hidden away in the
mountains. Something or other has driven this herd out upon the plains.
I heard some of the men talking about making up a party to go out and
shoot ’em; but they are all too busy just now in the mines.”
“I reckon Rafe was just trying to string us,” said Dig.
“You’re a Doubting Thomas,” laughed his chum.
“Well, why shouldn’t I be? I’ve heard tell of buffaloes ever since I was
knee-high to a tin whistle, and never a buffalo sign have I seen
yet—’cept those mangy old robes father’s got in the barn. I’m beginning
to be like the old farmer that went into the menagerie and saw the
giraffe. After he’d stared at it for an hour he shook his head, and
said, ‘Drat it all! there jest _ain’t_ no such animile!’” and Dig
chuckled.
Chet was reflective. “Strange how all those creatures have disappeared
from the western plains, where they were once so plentiful,” he said.
“Pete was telling me that he was once hired by a government expedition
to keep the men supplied with fresh meat, and that he often shot two and
three hundred buffaloes in a single day.”
“Whew!”
“And he was only one white hunter who worked at that time on the herds.
Some just killed the beasts for their hides—and the hides were as low
as a dollar apiece at one time. Then, the Indians slaughtered hundreds
of thousands uselessly. Why, Dig! I was reading the other night that
when the first Spaniards came up from Mexico across the Great Staked
Plains, they had to fairly push their way through the buffalo herds.”
“Whew!” said his chum again. “When was this, Chet?”
“Some time before you were born, boy,” returned Chet, dryly.
“Did you ever _see_ a buffalo?” demanded Dig, suddenly.
“Yes, at Nugget City when Wolfer Ben’s Wild West showed there. He had a
bull and three cows; and lots of old plainsmen went to see the show just
because of the buffaloes. They hadn’t seen any of the creatures for a
couple of decades.”
Dig was still chuckling. “Tell some eastern folks that and they wouldn’t
believe you. You know, I’ve a cousin Tom down Boston way, and he’s
always writing and saying he wants to come out here.”
“I’ve heard you speak of him.”
“Yep. Well, every time Tom gets mad with the folks at home, or sore on
the school he goes to, or the teachers, he writes me and says he’s going
to run away and come out here. And he wants to know what kind of guns
and ammunition he’ll have to buy, and if he’ll have to wear a
bowie-knife and two pistols stuck in his belt. He, he!”
“He must be a blockhead,” said Chet, in disgust. “What does he think
Silver Run is?”
“Well, I tell you,” proceeded Digby, “it’s partly my fault. At first I
told him the truth—that we had churches and schools and a circulating
library, and folks took a bath Saturday nights, if they didn’t oftener,
and wore boiled shirts on Sunday; and that a man who wore a pistol in
his belt would be taken in by the constable and examined as to his
sanity.
“But that didn’t suit Tom—oh, no! He said he knew I was kidding him.”
“He did?”
“That’s what! So I got sick of being disbelieved, and I began to write
him the sort of stuff he wanted. I told him about the Comanches
attacking the town and we beating ’em off with great slaughter.”
“Dig Fordham! How could you? Why, we haven’t seen a bad Indian in
years.”
“Never mind. That’s what Tom wanted me to tell him. I told him all the
miners wore red flannel shirts, and went about with their pants tucked
into their boot-tops, and that they wore pistols in their belts, and
bowie-knives in their boots— By the way, Chet; what is a bowie-knife?”
Chet laughed. “A kind of long-bladed hunting knife, ground to an edge on
both sides of the point, and invented by Colonel James Bowie, of Texas.
I got that out of an encyclopaedia.”
“Well, Tom knows all about ’em. I hope he comes out here some time,
togged up in the way he thinks we dress at Silver Run. If he does, I
know he’d scare a corral full of ponies into fits!” and Dig went off
into another spasm of laughter.
The boys had gotten off the subject of the strange buffalo herd that had
appeared on the open plains between Silver Run and Grub Stake, a second
silver mining town, deeper in the Rockies. Before Dig recovered from his
laughter at his own humorous conception of his cousin’s appearance at
Silver Run, Chet started up into a listening attitude.
“What you cocking your ears for, Chet?” demanded Dig. “What’s got you?”
“Who’s this coming?” demanded Chet, holding up his hand.
When the boys were silent they could hear the pounding of heavily shod
feet on the hard road. The Havens lived on the outskirts of Silver Run,
and the road to the mines passed by their corral fence.
Chet sprang up, and even the slower Digby showed interest. The pounding
feet were coming rapidly nearer.
The boys ran around the corner of the high board fence to the edge of
the road. There, coming down the hill, and out from the belt of timber
that surrounded the mountain above the town, was a man in yellow
overalls and cowhide boots. He was without a cap, his shirt was open at
the throat, and every indication about him showed excitement.
“Goodness!” gasped Chet. “What can that mean?”
“It’s Dan Gubbins—and he’s so scared he can’t shut his mouth!” observed
Dig.
This seemed true. Dan Gubbins ran with his mouth wide open and fear
expressed unmistakably in his rugged features. He was one of the men
working in the mine in which Mr. Havens and Mr. Fordham were interested.
“Hey, Dan! what’s the matter?” shouted Dig, as the big miner came
closer.
“She’s caved!” croaked the man, his throat so dry he could scarcely
speak.
“Who’s caved?” demanded Dig.
“What’s caved?” asked Chet, better understanding the vernacular.
“The Silent Sue! She slumped in like rotten ice in February!” gasped the
big miner, leaning against the fence near the boys. “Oh, my Jimminy!
It’s awful!”
Chet turned pale. Dig reddened and gulped back a sob with difficulty.
“You—you don’t mean the mine’s all caved in?” stammered the latter.
“The shaft,” replied Dan.
Chet, the practical, demanded:
“How many are caught in the cave-in?”
“There’s five down there, besides—”
Dan halted and stared at the boy with sudden apprehension. Then, after a
moment, he whispered:
“My golly, Chet! whatever am I to tell your mother? Yer dad’s down there
with ’em!”
“Father!” exclaimed Chet, seizing Dig’s hand.
“Is my father in it too?” cried Dig, ready to burst into tears.
“Mr. Fordham warn’t there noways,” said Dan, getting his breath and able
now to speak more intelligibly. “Whatever am I to tell your mother,
Chet?” he repeated.
“You won’t say anything to her, Dan,” replied the boy, firmly. “I’ll
tell her myself. But give me the particulars. We want to know how it
happened. Isn’t there any hope? Can’t we get at them down there?”
“Dunno,” returned the miner. “Rafe Peters is in charge, and they are
digging like prairie-dogs to get down into the gallery. Everybody down
there is all right so fur. Ye see, it was like this: There was a blast
goin’ to be shot in Number Two tunnel. Ye know where that run to?”
Chet nodded. “Over toward the old Crayton Shaft—that’s open now—on the
other side of the mountain. Father was saying the other day that the
Silent Sue’s Number Two must be getting pretty near the old diggings.”
“That’s it,” said Dan Gubbins, nodding, and wiping his moist forehead
with the back of a hairy hand. “Well, they got ready that shot, which
was a heavy one. The timbering of the lower part of the shaft didn’t
suit Mr. Havens and he told Tony to put in new cross-braces and some new
planks.”
“Tony Traddles?” demanded Chet.
“Yes. An’ he oughter be jailed for what he done,” added the miner,
bitterly.
“How was that?” queried Digby, his eyes big with interest.
“Mr. Havens,” pursued the miner, “went down to see that all was clear in
the tunnel before the shot. He sings out to Tony and asks if the
timbering was all right; and the lazy rascal said ’twas.”
“And wasn’t it?” snapped Chet, his eyes blazing.
“No. He’d come up to fill and light his pipe and hadn’t blocked and
wedged his cross-beams. There was five of the boys ’sides your father in
the tunnel, and when the shot went off the shoring at the bottom of the
shaft shook right out and she caved in! It was awful! I wonder you
didn’t hear the rumble of it. And what I’m goin’ ter say ter your
mother, Chet—”
“You’re going to say nothing to her, Dan,” repeated the boy. “I’ll tell
her. You go and get a doctor, or two, Dan—and all the other help you
can. You saddle Hero and Poke, Dig. We must get up to the mine in a
hurry. I won’t be in the house long.”
He turned quickly away and started for the back door of his home. The
others did not see his face.