WITH the vanguard of the army of eager gold-hunters fairly in sight,
the two who were pursued cut the summit breathing halt short and
resumed their flight. Avoiding the sand-covered snowdrifts in which
they had come to grief on the journey out, they pushed on down the
western declivities at the best speed the boulder-strewn slopes and
craggy descents would permit, postponing the breakfast stop until they
reached a grassy glade well down in the foresting where the animals
could graze.
After a hasty meal made on what prepared food they could come at
easily in the packs, and without leaving the telltale ashes of a
fire, they pressed on again westward and by early afternoon were in
the mountain-girt valley of the stream which had been their guide out
of the western wilderness two days earlier. Again they made a cold
meal, watered and picketed the animals, and snatched a couple of hours
for rest and sleep. Scanting the rest halt to the bare necessity,
mid-afternoon found them once more advancing down the valley, with
Philip, to whom horseback riding was a new and rather painful
experience, leading his mount.
One by one, for as long as daylight lasted, the urgent miles were
pushed to the rear, and after the sun had gone behind the western
mountains they made elaborately cautious preparations for the night.
A small box canyon, well grassed, opened into the main valley on
their left, and in this they unsaddled the horses and relieved the
jacks of their packs and picketed the animals. Then, taking the needed
provisions from one of the packs, they crossed the river by jumping
from boulder to boulder in its bed, and made their camp fire well out
of sight in a hollow on the opposite bank; this so that there might
be no camp signs on the trail side of the stream. But in the short
pipe-smoking interval which they allowed themselves after supper,
Bromley laughed and said: “I guess there is a good bit of the ostrich
in human nature, after all, Philip. Here we’ve gone to all sorts of
pains to keep from leaving the remains of a camp fire in sight, when
we know perfectly well that we are leaving a plain trail behind us for
anybody who is even half a woodsman to follow. That’s a joke!”
“Of course it is,” Philip agreed; and for a time before they
extinguished the fire and recrossed the river to roll up in their
blankets in the box canyon where the animals were grazing, they
discussed the pressing matter of trail effacement without reaching any
practical solution of the problem.
The next morning they were up and on their way in the earliest dawn
twilight. As yet, there were no signs of the pursuit. The mountain
silences were undisturbed save by the drumming thunder of the swift
little river and the soft sighing of the dawn precursor breeze in the
firs. Convinced that all the haste they were making was clearly so much
effort thrown away unless they could devise some means of throwing
their followers off the track, they resumed the camp-fire discussion,
falling back in the end, not upon experience, which neither of them
had, but upon the trapper-and-Indian tales read in their boyhood. In
these, running water was always the hard-pressed white man’s salvation
in his flight, and, like the fleeing trapper, they had their stream
fairly at hand. But the mountain river, coursing along at torrent
speed, and with its bed thickly strewn with slippery boulders, was
scarcely practicable as a roadway; it was too hazardous even for the
sure-footed broncos, and entirely impossible for the loaded jacks.
Next, they thought of cutting up one of the pack tarpaulins and
muffling the hoofs of the animals with the pieces, but aside from the
time that would be wasted, this expedient seemed too childish to merit
serious consideration. In the end, however, chance, that sturdy friend
of the hard-pressed and the inexperienced, came to their rescue. Some
seven or eight miles beyond their night camp they came upon a place
where, for a half-mile or more, the left-hand bank of the stream was a
slope of slippery, broken shale; the tail of a slide from the mountain
side above. Bromley was the first to see the hopeful possibilities.
“Wait a minute, Phil,” he called to his file leader; “don’t you
remember this slide, and how we cursed it when we had to tramp through
it coming out? I’ve captured an idea. I believe we can delay this mob
that’s chasing us, and maybe get rid of it for good and all. Is the
river fordable here, do you think?”
Philip’s answer was to ride his horse into the stream and half-way
across it. “We can make it,” he called back, “if we can keep the jacks
from being washed away.”
“We’ll take that for granted,” said Bromley. “But we don’t need to go
all the way across. Stay where you are, and I’ll herd the rest of the
caravan in and let it drink.”
This done, and a plain trail thus left leading into the water, Bromley
explained his captured idea. While they couldn’t hope to make a roadway
of the stream bed for any considerable distance, it was quite possible
to wade the animals far enough down-stream to enable them to come out
upon the shale slide. After they had been allowed to drink their fill,
the expedient was tried and it proved unexpectedly successful. On the
shale slide the hoof prints vanished as soon as they were made, each
step of horse or burro setting in motion a tiny pebble slide that
immediately filled the depression. Looking back after they had gone a
little distance they could see no trace of their passing.
“This ought to keep the mob guessing for a little while,” Bromley
offered as they pushed on. “They’ll see our tracks going down into the
creek, and think we crossed over. They’ll probably take a tumble to
themselves after a while--after they fail to find any tracks on the
other side; but it will hold ’em for a bit, anyway. Now if we could
only scare up some way of hiding our tracks after we get beyond this
slide----”
Though the continuing expedient did not immediately suggest itself,
the good-natured god of chance was still with them. Before they came
upon ground where the tracks of the animals would again become visible,
they approached the mouth of one of the many side gulches scarring
the left-hand mountain, and in the gulch there was a brawling mountain
brook with a gravelly bottom.
“This looks as if it were made to order, don’t you think?” said Philip,
drawing rein at the gulch mouth. “If we turn up this gulch we can walk
the beasts in the water.”
“But that isn’t the way we want to go,” Bromley objected.
“I’m not so sure about that. The map shows our valley lying on the
other side of this southern mountain range. The route we took, coming
out, was along two sides of a triangle, following the streams--which is
the long way around. I’m wondering if we couldn’t cut straight across
and save a lot of time. We’ve climbed worse mountains than this one
looks to be. And there’s another thing: we can take the water trail up
this gulch for a starter, and the chances are that we’d lose the hue
and cry that’s following us--lose it permanently. What do you say?”
“I’m good for a try at it, if you are,” was the prompt reply; and so,
without more ado, the route was changed.
For the first half-mile or so through the windings of the gulch they
were able to hide their tracks in the brook bed, but the farther they
went, the rougher the way became, until finally they had to drag the
horses and pack animals up out of the ravine and take to the mountain
slopes, zigzagging their way upward as best they could through the
primeval forest. Luckily, though there were craggy steeps to be climbed
with shortened breath, perilous slides to be avoided, and canyon-like
gulches to be headed at the price of long detours, they encountered
no impassable obstacles, and evening found them far up in the forest
blanketing of the higher slopes, with still some little picking of
grass for the stock and with plenty of dry wood for the camp fire which
they heaped high in the comforting assurance that its blaze would not
now betray them.
It was after they had cooked and eaten their first hearty meal of the
toilsome day, and had stretched themselves luxuriously before the fire
for the evening tobacco-burning, that Bromley said: “How about it,
Philip?--are you getting a bit used to the millionaire idea by this
time?”
Philip shook his head slowly.
“No, Harry; I can’t fully realize it yet. For a little while after I
saw the figures of those assays I thought I could. But now it seems
more like an opium dream. It doesn’t seem decently credible that
after only a short summer’s knocking about in these hills, two raw
green-horns like ourselves could stumble upon something that may change
the entire scheme of things for both of us for the remainder of our
lives. It’s fairly grotesque, when you come to think of it.”
“Well, I guess it isn’t a dream, at any rate. Mr. Drew gave me a good
bit of his time day before yesterday; went with me to the land office,
and afterward helped me in the horse market where I bought the extra
burro. He asked a lot of questions; about the width of the vein, how
far we had traced it, and how fair or unfair we’d been to ourselves
in picking the samples; and after I had answered him as well as I
could, he said, in effect, that we had the world by the neck, or we
would have, if the ‘Little Jean’ pans out anywhere near as good as it
promises to.”
Again Philip shook his head. “I’m not at all sure that I want to
grab the world by the neck, Harry. That doesn’t seem like much of an
ambition to me.”
“All right; say it doesn’t. What then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. If the miracle had happened a year or so ago ... but
it didn’t; so what’s the use?”
“Go on and turn it loose,” Bromley encouraged. “Set the clock back a
year or so and let us see what it strikes.”
“I had a few ideals then; modest ones, I guess you’d call them. I’d had
to break my college course in the third year--family matters. At that
time I wanted nothing so much as to go back and finish; and perhaps
have a try for a Ph.D. degree afterward.”
“And past that?”
“More of what you’d call the modesties, I guess: a teaching job in some
college back home, or something of that sort; a job in which I’d have
some leisure for reading, thinking my own thoughts, living my own life.”
“No wife and kiddies in the picture?” Bromley asked, with his most
disarming smile.
“No; not then.”
The play-boy laughed softly. “No sentimental foolishness for the
austere young student and pedagogue, of course. But the ‘not then’
tells a different story. You’ve met the incomparable ‘her’ in your
later avatar?”
It was some measure of the distance he had come on the road to
freer human expression that Philip did not at once retreat into the
speechless reticences.
“Yes,” he said: “I’ve met a girl.”
“The ‘angel’ you spoke of, the night you fed a hungry hold-up?”
“Don’t get it wrong. She is not so angelic that she can’t be perfectly
human.”
“But didn’t you say you’d met her only twice?”
“I did; and the saying still holds true.”
“Bowled you over like a shot, did she? I’d never have believed it of
you, Philip.”
“You needn’t believe it now. There was no ‘bowling over’ about it. I
first met her on the train coming to Denver--with her family; sat with
her for part of an afternoon. She isn’t like any other girl I’ve ever
known.”
“And that is as far as you’ve gone? You are a cold-blooded fish,
Philip, dear. But we were talking about futures. I take it the teaching
job in a New England college doesn’t appeal to you now; or won’t if our
mine keeps its promise?”
“Honestly, Harry, I can’t see very far ahead. I’m not at all sure
that I want to go back and finish my college course. There is nothing
truer than the saying we have hurled at us all the time out here--that
the West lays hold of a man and refuses to let go; that you may be
as homesick as the devil, but you’ll never go home to stay. But this
is all dream stuff--this talk. We haven’t got the millions yet. Even
if the mine is as rich as it seems to be, we may find jumpers in
possession, and so many of them that we can’t get away with them.”
“That’s so. ‘There’s many a slip,’ as we read in the copy-books.”
For a time the high-mountain silence, a silence curiously bereft of
even the small insect shrillings of the lower altitudes, enveloped
them. The cheerful fire was beginning to fall into embers when Philip
began again.
“A while back, you thought the money fever was getting hold of me,
Harry, but I hope you were wrong. Of course, there are things I want to
do; one in particular that money would help me to do. It was my main
reason for heading west from New Hampshire a little less than a year
ago.”
“Is it something you can talk about?”
“I guess so--to you,” and, breaking masterfully through whatever
barrier of the reticences remained, he told the story of his father’s
disappearance, of the cloud which still shadowed the Trask name, of his
own unshakable belief in his father’s innocence, and, lastly, of his
determination to find the lost man and to clear the family name.
“You see how the money will help; how I couldn’t hope to do much
of anything without money and the use of my own time,” he said in
conclusion. Then, the ingrained habit of withdrawal slipping back into
its well-worn groove: “You won’t talk about this, Harry? You are the
only person this side of New Hampshire who knows anything about it.”
“It is safe enough with me, Phil; you ought to know that, by this time.
And here is my shy at the thing: if it so happens that the ‘Little
Jean’ is only flirting with us--that we get only a loaf of bread where
we’re hoping to hog the whole bakery--you may have my share if your
own isn’t big enough to finance your job. I owe you a good bit more
than the ‘Little Jean’ will ever pan out on my side of the partnership.”
“Oh, hell,” said Philip; and the expression was indicative of
many things not written down in the book of the Philip who, a few
months earlier, had found it difficult and boyishly embarrassing to
meet a strange young woman on the common ground of a chance train
acquaintanceship. Then, “If you’ve smoked your pipe out, we’d better
roll in. There is more of the hard work ahead of us for to-morrow.”
But the next morning they found, upon breaking camp and emerging from
the forest at timber line, that the blessing of good luck was with
them still more abundantly. With a thousand and one chances to miss
it in their haphazard climb, they had come upon an easily practicable
pass over the range; and beyond the pass there was a series of gentle
descents leading them by the middle of the afternoon into a valley
which they quickly recognized as their own.
Pushing forward at the best speed that could be gotten out of the
loaded pack animals, they traversed the windings of the valley with
nerves on edge and muscles tensed, more than half expecting to find a
struggle for re-possession awaiting them in the treasure gulch. At the
last, when the more familiar landmarks began to appear, Philip drew his
rifle from its holster under his leg and rode on ahead to reconnoitre,
leaving Bromley to follow with the jacks. But in a few minutes he came
galloping back, waving his gun in the air and shouting triumphantly.
“All safe, just as we left it!” he announced as he rode up. And then,
with a laugh that was the easing of many strains: “What a lot of
bridges we cross before we come to them! Here we’ve been sweating blood
for fear the claim had been jumped--or at least I have--and I don’t
suppose there has been a living soul within miles of it since we left.
Kick those canaries into action and let’s get along and make camp on
the good old stamping ground.”