was while I was guiding a party of Eastern folks across the Rabbit Ear
range that we met a gangling fellow named "Shorty," by way of contrast.
I say he was hurrying, because he held a straight course across the
mountains without paying heed to numberless diverting leads he
ordinarily would have "sampled."
Shorty was heading for Central City, where mining had been in full
blast for forty years. He had no burro, he had cached his tools at the
scene of his last camp. He had had a dream that revealed to him the
location of a rich vein, right in the midst of miles of mines, but
unsuspected and undiscovered. Every prospector has dreams by day as
well as by night.
My party "loaned" Shorty some grub and watched him disappear toward the
Mecca of his dreams. Just before he left, Shorty confided to us that
his dream vein lay just below a big bowlder and above some tall trees;
that he knew the vein was right there--and it was.
To my cabin one day, came Slide-Rock Pete, who dwelt in a realm of
unreality. Pete was superstitious after the manner of his tribe. He
knew all the luck signs, all the charms (good or bad), and he had
conjured up counter-charms against ill omens. As he approached my
cabin a visiting cat, a black one, crossed his path. Pete promptly
turned around three times in the opposite direction to that in which
the cat had gone and calmly entered, secure in his belief that he had
broken pussy's dark spell. He was afflicted with rheumatism, which
prevented him from prospecting. At length he figured out the cause of
his trouble and a cure for it. It wasn't dampness, or rainy weather,
he told me, but came from camping near mineral deposits. If he chanced
to pitch his camp near mineral, especially iron, it caused his
"rheumatics" to "come on."
For protection he bought a compass with which we went over proposed
camp sites. If the compass showed variation or disturbance, he
abandoned the site. And once when the compass was out of order, he
camped, unconsciously, at a spot where there was iron. Then as his
rheumatism developed he found that his watch had stopped. Later when
his aches at last left him, his watch started ticking of its own
accord. His watch was so sympathetic that it couldn't bear to run when
he couldn't walk! But when he felt good, it was so joyous it ran ahead
to make up for lost time. Then he set it right by squinting at the sun!
No matter what queer beliefs prospectors have they are never
disgruntled.
I had camped near the old Flattop trail at a spot where, sometime
before, I had cached some food supplies. It was early in September.
No wind reached the bottom of the canyon where I slept beside my fire.
I awoke at the sound of a voice and sleepily I opened my eyes. No one
would be traveling at night--surely I had been dreaming. But no--there
was movement.
"If I kin git the hole ten feet deeper before snow flies, I'll have
something to show that ole skinflint at the lake."
I sat up wondering. Then I remembered the voice. It was old Sutton, a
prospector I had known for many years--one of the typical, plodding,
babbling old fellows who live only in their dreams.
My camp was in the shelter of small spruces while my visitor stood in
the open. Playfully I picked up an empty tin can and tossed it into
the air, that it might fall close beside him. At the fall of the can,
the man spun around suddenly, and, walking over to it, prodded it with
the stick he carried.
"Gosh dern!" he exclaimed; "funny how things happen."
He stood in silence, looking down at the can.
Then I dropped another close to him. He muttered something
unintelligible. The third and fourth cans made him hop around like a
surprised robin beneath an apple tree, with fruit pelting the ground
near it. At length he hobbled off, talking to himself about a new lead
he had found, without solving the mystery of the tin cans dropping from
a clear night sky.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CITY OF SILENCE
For days I had been on the trail, or, rather, off it, for there were no
trails in the high country through which I was traveling, excepting
those made by game. I was hungry. The region lacked charm. It is
difficult for a boy to appreciate scenery on a two-day-old empty
stomach, which he has been urging up mountains and joggling down
valleys. Had the bunnies been more accommodating and gone into their
holes so I could snare them or smoke them out, or the grouse had been
less flighty when I flushed them, and remained near enough so I could
reach them with my stones, I might have stretched my food supply over
the extended time of my unexpectedly prolonged travels. But no such
good luck attended me on that excursion. The very first day I slipped
off a foot-log while crossing a saucy little mountain brook and bruised
my shin, tore my trousers and injured my camera. Like most small boys,
I regretted that gratuitous bath. I began to wonder if Slide-Rock Pete
was so crazy after all.
Now the clouds were pinning themselves up to dry on the pointed summits
of the peaks, and were already beginning to drip on the world below.
Darkness threatened to set in early. I knew I ought to stop and make
camp while it was still light enough to see, but I kept on going,
hoping something might turn up. My empty stomach growled its
disapproval, but I stubbornly ignored its protests. While my better
judgment, my stomach and myself were all three arguing, I thought I
glimpsed a building, far down on the slope below. Too excited to say
"I told you so" to my companions, I quickened my steps and headed
toward it. "A prospector! If he has any grub at all he'll share it,
and I'll be protected from this downpour." By that time the celestial
laundresses were emptying out their wash tubs and sloshing water all
over the earth.
When I drew near the shack, I discovered it was one of a group of
straggling houses scattered along the sides and bottom of the gulch. A
settlement! It was dark by then, yet not a light could I see. "Must
go to bed with the chickens," I mused. "I hope they won't mind being
gotten up to give a wayfarer shelter and a bite to eat."
On my way down the slope, I passed two or three log cabins but these
were silent, apparently empty, and I hastened on to the main group
which faced on the single, grass-grown road that ran along the bottom
of the gulch, intending to knock at the first which showed signs of
life. I walked the length of the sprawling road, looking sharply at
each house, listening for voices, a chance word or a peal of laughter.
Not a sound greeted my ears except the thud of rain upon sod roofs, the
drip of water through stunted, scraggly trees.
Here was something queer; I thought of Slide-Rock Pete and his luck
charms. I regretted more than ever that I had not got a single bunny.
I felt the need of a rabbit's foot.
Shaking myself to shed rain and forebodings, I crossed the street and
knocked boldly upon the door of the nearest house. There was no
response. Again I knocked, louder and more insistently. My raps came
echoing back emptily. I knocked again. A door, creaking on rusty
hinges, swung slowly inward, but no one peered out, inviting me to
enter. I backed away from the yawning cavern, blacker than the
starless night, into the open road. A little saw-whet owl, seeking, as
I was, supper, swooped by on muffled wings, and sawed wood, saying
nothing. I jeered back at him, and felt my courage rising. I stepped
up resolutely to the next house and beat upon its door. There was
instant commotion, a rattling of pans, the clink of dishes as though
some one hurried to the door. Straightening up and facing the door
expectantly, I smiled in anticipation of a hospitable welcome. Then
the sounds ceased. My courage oozed away--an unreasonable fear crept
over me. I lost my desire for food and rest--I would as soon have
rested in a grave.
Once more I stood in the rutted street, searching its brief length for
a human form. I had the feeling that the inhabitants of the town were
somewhere about, that they had just stepped out, leaving their doors
unlocked against their early return. Perhaps there was a dance or a
celebration of some sort in the neighboring village. Strange some one
didn't stay behind.
The sudden eerie notes of a coyote caused my hair to lift--why couldn't
the brute respect the silence? The wind stirred uneasily, doors banged
about me. The uncanny spell of the place overcame my last shred of
courage--my feet started down the road of their own volition. I found
myself breathing hard, running fast. I jerked to a standstill,
laughing sheepishly at my fears--ashamed. Then I faced about,
determined to stay.
Something touched my elbows. I sprang ten feet and whirled, on the
defensive. A dark, horned form stood before me. My muscles tensed for
another sprint, I held my breath. The thing moved; I made out the
outline of a burro. I breathed again, relieved. Here at last was
something alive, something natural in this desert of silence. I wished
the animal would bray, but he only nosed my pockets suggestively. I
laid my hand upon him gratefully, and found he too was in sore straits,
his coat as ragged as my own, his sides corrugated like a huge
washboard. My spirits rose, my forebodings were forgotten. "Hello," I
called joyfully. "What are you doing here?"
Again he smelled my pockets, wagging his great ears the while, then
waited expectantly.
"Sorry, pal," I apologized.
The little beggar's attitude expressed such dejection I laughed.
"Never mind, old fellow. We'll go find something. There must be
somebody here."
I started out to renew my search and he followed at my heels. So,
together, we wandered down the street on a tour of investigation. His
coat was so black that often I could not distinguish him from the
darker shadows that filled the street. At every door he crowded
forward expectantly, focusing his long ears as though to catch the
first longed-for salutation.
Nearly every door was ajar. The log cabins were small, two or three
rooms at the most, and easily searched. Their owners had apparently
taken only their most portable and necessary possessions, for nearly
every cabin contained something of value, bed springs, bunks, suspended
by wire from the rafters, tables, chairs, dishes, cooking utensils,
even miners' tools. One had a row of books upon its stone mantel.
When we came to the one where sounds had answered my knocking, I paused
before the door, hesitating to intrude. That first creepy feeling
stole over me. I put my hand on the burro's neck. I jerked the
latchstring and pushed open the door. The room was dark and silent.
When I struck a match, there was a rapid scurrying of rats, darting for
shelter.
My burly bodyguard never once left my side. He waited patiently for my
report, when I emerged from each cabin, and accepted with philosophical
resignation my decision to postpone further search till daylight.
Early next morning I was up and out, further to explore the village.
No one had returned home, there was no doubt now that it was deserted.
In one of the cabins I found some salt which I divided with the burro.
Another yielded a little flour. I prepared a sticky mixture of flour
and water, seasoned with salt, and cooked it in one of the fireplaces.
When baked, it had the firmness of granite, but my appetite had a
cutting edge, and the burro, no more particular, accepted the hardtack,
and crunched it greedily.
After breaking our fast, to say nothing of our teeth, we continued
our--yes, excavations; for out of the dust and neglect of years of
desertion, we dug the history of a buried past, of a forgotten
civilization, where men had worked, women had loved and sacrificed, and
little children had laughed and played.
[Illustration: Out of the dust of years, we dug the history of a buried
past.]
One of the houses had evidently held the post office, for in it was a
small cabinet holding a few pieces of uncalled-for mail addressed to
various persons. There were unopened letters and papers, bearing the
postmarks of towns back East; there were packages, showing marks of
long journeys, still intact, their cords still tightly knotted. Many
of the letters had been forwarded from other Western post offices, and
had followed the men to whom they were addressed to this, then alive,
town named Teller.
The postmaster had apparently been a notary public. His book of
records lay dusty on the shelf, near what had been the post office.
Upon it, too, were filed copies of mining claims. "The Grizzly King,"
"Decoration Day," "Lady Forty," "Queen Victoria," "Tom Boy," "Last
Chance," "Deep Water," "Black Mule," "Hope Ever," fantastic,
picturesque names, suggesting many a tale of romance and adventure,
revealing the hopes and fears of daring hearts.
Something of these was hinted at in an open letter lying on the floor
of one of the cabins. It was worn thin where it had been creased, as
though its owner had long carried it around in his pocket, the better
to read and reread it. The wind had pried into it, leaving it spread
open for the next intruder's convenience. Somehow, I felt those frank
spirits would not mind my reading it:
Dear Fred:
Hope you strike it rich in Teller, the new town you wrote about. Most
anything out there would beat what we have here. Corn is all dried up
in Iowa, and there's little to live on. Quite a lot of the neighbors
have "pulled up stakes" and moved to Kansas. Ten wagons left last
week, following the road west which so many have taken for better or
worse.
The last and smallest cabin in the town was as clean and tidy as though
its owner might have been gone but a few days. Upon the table was a
worn and frayed little book, weighted down by a rough piece of ore, a
sort of diary, and yet it seemed to be written to some one. I copied
extracts from it into my own notebook:
My dear Katherine--I believe I've struck it rich at last. There was a
rush up here three months ago, and I came in soon as the news reached
Cheyenne. Must have been several hundred in the race to get here
first--about twenty of us won out. I filed on several claims and tried
to hire men to help me do assessment work; but no one would work for
wages. Everyone is raving crazy, bound to strike it rich, and working
double shift to hold as many claims as possible.
Katy, dear, it's been a month since I started this letter. Things have
settled down here now, and the fly-by-nights have vanished. But
there's a few of us sticking to our holes with the notion if we go deep
enough they'll pan out rich. But there's no way of...
They came for me to help with a poor fellow who got hurt when his
tunnel caved in on him. Guess he'll make a die of it too. Seems
terrible, just when he thought he had struck a bonanza, to be killed
that way. Makes me lonesome to think how things turned out for him.
I've got a secret cache straight west of my cabin, forty-eight steps.
Under a big rock I've hid a buckskin sack with the golddust another
fellow and I panned from a bar in the Colorado river. It's not so very
much; but it'll help out in a pinch.
Kate, this camp's played out. I'm quitting, disgusted. After all the
hard work here there's nothing rich; just low-grade stuff that won't
pay freighting charges. Maybe if we had a mill--but there's no use
talking mill, when every fellow here is in the same fix--on his last
legs. We got to get out or starve; we're all living on deer and wild
sheep, but its getting so we can hardly swallow it much longer. I'll
let you know as soon...
It was unfinished.
The sides of the gulch were "gophered" with prospect holes, most of
them very shallow, with little mounds of dirt beside them, like the
graves of dead hopes. Occasionally a deeper hole had picked samples
from the ore vein it followed piled near its opening. Likewise,
outside, some of the cabin doors were little heaps of choice ore which
hopeful owners had brought in against the time when shipments would be
made, or an ore mill set up near by.
I had chanced upon an abandoned mining town, left forever as casually
as though its residents had gone to call upon a neighbor. There are
many such in the mountains of Colorado. During the early gold rushes,
when strikes were made, mining towns sprang up overnight, and later
when leads played out or failed to pan out profitably, or rumor of a
richer strike reached the inhabitants, they deserted them to try their
luck in new fields of promise. Often they were eager to be the first
ones in on the new finds and left without preparation or notice,
trailing across mountains and through canyons, afoot, each anxious to be
the first man on the ground, to have his choice of location, to stake
his claim first. They could not carry all their household goods on
their shoulders, nor pack them on a burro's back, and to freight them
over a hundred miles of mountain trails cost more than the purchase of
new goods in the new town. So they departed with only such necessities
as they could carry, and abandoned the rest to pack rats and chance
wanderers such as I.
So these towns, born of their high hopes, died, as their dreams
flickered out, and were abandoned when new hopes sprung up in their
breasts.
I forgot my hunger in unraveling the mysteries of the silent village,
but my companion showed no such inclination. Being a pack burro, and
having a prospector for a master, he had come to look upon tragedy with
a philosophical eye. No doubt he had seen deserted towns before, and
been the innocent victim of the desertion. He grew bored as I lingered
over letters and the other evidence of bygone days and nudged me
frequently to remind me of our original object in searching the cabins.
At last he protested with a vigorous, "Aww-hee-awwhee, a-w-w-h-e-e--"
Remembering his loyalty of the night before, to appease him I left off
rummaging in those dust-covered cabins.
"All right, pal, I'll come. We'll leave this grave-yard right away and
try our luck at fishing."
He seemed to understand for he capered about like a playful puppy.
I knew of several small streams below the town, alive with trout. I
headed for the nearest one, the burro plodding patiently behind,
silent, expectant.
The smell of smoke, coffee, and other camp odors came up the trail to
meet us. Soon we came abruptly in sight of two prospectors who were
eating a belated breakfast.
"Reckon you better have a bite with us," invited one of the men as he
set the tin-can coffee pot upon the coals of their fire.
"Thet thar burro bin a pesterin' you?" asked the second man, fixing the
burro with a searching gaze.
"Oh, no!" I denied, remembering my debt to the animal. "We put in the
night together, and he even ate some of my hardtack this morning," I
ended laughing.
"He's the tarnationist critter, always a galavantin' roun', an' a
gittin' inter somebody's grub."
The burro chose to overlook these insults and drew near the fire,
unostentatiously. The old prospector slipped him part of his breakfast.
"Which way you headin'?" asked the first man, plainly puzzled because I
carried neither gun nor mining tools.
"To climb Arapahoe peak."
"Climb the peak," he repeated, much mystified.
"What's the idear?" the second wanted to know. "Goin' way off thar
jes' to git up a mountain, when thar's plenty right hyar, higher ones
too?" He indicated the ranges to the east.
"Any place up that way to get out of the rain?" I asked, for the clouds
were dropping again with the threat of gathering storm.
The men exchanged glances. Abruptly the small one got to his feet and
led the burro out of sight among the willows. The other man faced me.
"Better take a friend's advice and keep outen there," he swept a grimy
hand westward.
"What's up?"
"Better do your climbin' round hyar," he replied suggestively.
"But I want to climb Arapahoe; I have heard the Indians used it for a
signal mountain and..."
He beckoned me to follow, and led the way into the grove mysteriously.
At length he stopped, peered about uneasily, then whispered.
"There's an ole cabin up yonder"--he faced toward Arapahoe--"that's
ha'nted."
"Haunted?" my interest quickening, my fears of the depressing night
forgotten.
He nodded--dead earnest.
"Are you sure about that? Did you ever see the, the----"
His look silenced me.
"Ole feller died up thar," he declared; "nobody knows how." His tone
was awesome.
I made a move down the trail, thanking him for the meal.
"Wouldn't go, if I wus you," he persisted, following me as far as his
camp.
Then, as I took the unused trail that led down toward North Park, he
called after me:
"Remember, I've warned you!"
Fishing was good in the stream a few miles below their camp, and I soon
had all the trout I wanted and was on my way to the round dome of
Arapahoe peak, jutting above some clouds that were banked against its
lower slope. Through the willow flats and a dense forest of spruce,
the way led up between parallel ridges over a game trail, deeply worn
and recently used. I was right upon a log wall before I knew it. Then
I circled and saw that the wall was part of an old cabin built in a
little opening of the forest.
A section of the roof had fallen in and the fireplace had lost part of
its chimney; the slab door had a broken hinge, and swayed uneasily on
the one remaining, and the dirt floor bore no traces of recent
habitation.
Having gathered wood for the night, for I had no blankets and must keep
the fire burning, I broiled several trout for my supper. How I
relished that meal!
Supper over, I climbed upon a cliff behind the cabin and watched the
moon rise silently above a ridge to the eastward, and listened to the
faint clamor of the coyotes far below. Shadows crept closer to the
cliffs as the moon climbed higher, while from the peaks above came the
moaning of the wind. Never had been such a night!
It was late when I went inside the old cabin, and the fire had burned
low. I put on fresh wood, removed my shoes, and stretched out before
the comforting blaze. I was asleep almost instantly. From time to
time, as had become my habit, I roused enough to feed the fire; then
quickly dropped off to sleep again.
Just when, I am not sure, but I think about midnight, I awoke with a
strange feeling that an unseen presence was in the room. The
prospector's warning came to me vaguely, and I tried to rouse up to
listen, but I dropped back to sleep almost immediately.
Later, coming awake suddenly as though some one had shaken me, I sat up
and, rubbing my eyes to open them, glanced around, but the interior of
the cabin was dark, only the stars sparkled close above the broken
roof. I yawned expansively, rolled nearer the low fire, and fell
asleep.
The next I knew I heard a thud close to my head, and I was wide awake
upon the instant. I lay still, trying to convince myself that there
was nothing in the cabin but myself; when a hot breath struck my face.
I got up on end--so did my hair. I started for the door.
A bulky shadow moved between it and myself. I postponed going in that
direction for the moment and, turning, felt my way to a dark corner
back by the fireplace. From the corner across the hearth came a faint
sound. Thinking the time propitious for a prompt exit, I felt my way
along the wall, turned the corner and made for the door.
Unfortunately, my uninvited guest had the same thought, for as I sprang
for the opening, I bumped into him, and the creaky slab door banged
shut, leaving the cabin blacker than ever.
An idea shot through my head. If the visitor, whatever it was--ha'nt
or otherwise--wanted the location near the door, it could have it. Far
be it from me to be discourteous. I groped my way back to the
fireplace, stumbling over my wood as I went. I had a fleeting notion
to fling fresh wood on the fire which had almost burned out. Again I
collided with my dusky visitor.
I hesitated no longer. I would vacate the cabin instantly, for good
and all, without stopping to gather up my few belongings. Across the
dirt floor I dashed, grabbed the creaky door and jerked it open.
But before I could dart through I was shoved aside. In panic I sought
that exit, but was buffeted about, and finally knocked headlong on the
ground.
Thoroughly scared, I leaped to my feet, ready to run.
Standing a few feet in front of me, big ears thrust forward
inquiringly, was the friendly burro of the night before.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BEARS AND BUGBEARS