Willis Becomes Interested in Gold Mines
The next four weeks passed by very slowly to Willis. Mr. Allen had
gone to the annual summer camp with a large number of the Association
boys. It was a State encampment, held in that very odd and interesting
part of the second range known as Cathedral Park. Willis had been very
anxious to go, for he knew it would be a very new and profitable
experience for him. Mr. Allen had asked him to go as a Leader, to have
charge of one tent of seven boys. He had never been to a camp of any
kind, to say nothing of a mountain camp, so it was a great disappointment
to him when his mother had told him that he had better not go this time.
His aunt had grown worse as the hot weather came on, and his mother
explained that she could not do without him in case his aunt should pass
away.
He understood perfectly and knew that his mother's request was
reasonable, so had contented himself by offering to help out at the
Association in Mr. Allen's absence. He was anxious to give something
in return for all Mr. Allen was giving him. Then, too, it gave him an
opportunity to watch the development of a good many of the cocoons and
chrysalides that the nature study club had placed in glasses in a window
of the reading room.
He had been making sketches of the development of several butterflies.
This kind of work he dearly loved. He would spend hours, sometimes,
watching a delicate insect emerge from its cocoon and slowly dry its
dainty, crumpled wings until it was able to fly.
One day he sat sketching an immense Ichneumon fly that had just emerged
from a Tawny Admiral chrysalis.
"You can't always tell," he was saying to the little group that were
watching him. "Nature fools you sometimes. Mr. Caterpillar, who built
that clean, cozy little house, and he was a fine, big, healthy fellow,
too, expected to be somebody one of these days--a beautiful butterfly
like the frontispiece of that nature book--but he got into bad company
and got 'stung.' Now, instead of hatching a butterfly, out comes this
robber fly, a long, lean, sleek-looking fellow that has been living for
weeks on the body of that poor caterpillar, and we didn't know it. You
want to watch out who you run with, fellows, or you're liable to turn out
'Ichneumon men' instead of gentlemen." He laughed as he returned the
glass to the shelf and closed his sketch book.
"What in the world!"
"Pots and kettles, frying pans,
French toast, hot cakes, Chef's the man;
We'll wash our hair and comb our face,
Camp Tech--ump--sa, that's the place."
The crowd made a break for the door, and in a moment more they were
inside, laughing and shouting. Five minutes later they might all have
been found splashing around in the swimming-pool, making up for the lost
swims of the past few days, their bodies brown as berries, and as healthy
as free, camp-life in mountain air could make them. Mr. Allen shook
Willis by the hand.
"I never had a better time in my life; and such a gang of royal good
fellows! Willis, old man, I always want to be a boy if age takes such
real pleasures away from man. I missed you, boy, every day, and needed
you so often. How's the aunt, and how's the Department? Say, Willis,
while I take a little swim, will you 'phone to all the Cabinet members
and tell them it's Bruin Inn for supper on Saturday night?--a very
important meeting! Meet here at five o'clock. And say, I want you to go
along with us. I have decided to add an out-of-door committee to the
Cabinet, and I want you to represent that phase of the work, will you?"
Camp was the favorite topic of conversation on Saturday night as the
little group of older fellows walked up the canyon road. Mr. Allen was
telling one group about some of the funny things fond mothers had sent
to camp with their boys, while just behind another group were listening
to an exciting tale of how the only night-shirt in camp, together with
the Leader's razor-strop, were hung on the topmost branch of a great
spike-topped pine that stood just in the middle of the camp.
So the talk ran on, from one thing to another. The stars twinkled in
countless numbers above, giving just enough light so that they could
see the mighty column of granite on either side, and to silhouette the
gently-murmuring pines against the canyon wall. The air was chill and
faintly scented by the bursting wild-cherry blossoms that grew in great
profusion along the stream. Here and there, in a moist crevice, a
glow-worm shed forth its greenish-yellow glow, to let you know it was
night time and summer. Far away in the distance Phantom Falls was
tumbling and splashing over a great pile of drift logs.
As the little company crossed the bridge and rounded a turn in the road,
a campfire, built in a little sheltered nook back from the road, came
into view. It cast long beams of light and grotesque shadows in every
direction, while the odor of cherry blossoms changed to the aroma of good
coffee.
"I hope Old Ben has as good a pot of coffee on the fire at the Inn," said
one.
Presently "Old Night Cap" loomed up against the sky.
"This is as far as we could come a year or two ago," said Mr. Allen to
Willis. "Before the railroad and the inn were built we used to think it
was a long way even up here to the old mine."
"Did I ever tell you about the old Negro that owned this mine? Well, he
came herein the early days and found a strange yellow outcropping here.
He built himself a funny little shanty on the hillside, which he thatched
with spruce boughs. Here he spent a good many years of his life, digging.
His tunnel caved in soon after he left it, but he did find a little gold
for his work. When his provisions gave out, he would take his old mule,
which was his only companion, tramp into the city, sell his little bag of
gold dust, and buy bacon, flour, and beans. After a little spree he would
return to the mine, always sure that he would find the gold in larger
quantities. Often I've stopped to talk with him as he brought a
wheelbarrow load of dirt out of the tunnel to the edge of the little old
dump.
"'Yep, I'se 'bout to fin' heaps an' heaps o' gol',' he'd say as he pulled
at his stubby gray whiskers. 'Marse Spruce-tree, yondah, he done tole me
to jes' keep a diggin' an' I'd sho fin' gol'. When I 'se jes' 'bout to
gib up, an' I does sometimes, yes, sah, I does, ole Marse Spruce-tree he
jes' stan' up yondah on de hillside an' laff an' say, "Why, Rufus, yuse
is altogedder wufless." Ole Brer Rabbit, he nod he haid an' 'spress
heself same way. "Jes keep a diggin', Unc' Rufus," he say, "Jes' keep a
diggin'." They sho is gol' in this yere ole world if ye jes' keeps a
diggin'.'
"He'd sing all day as he worked, and never seemed to lose faith; but when
the canyon road was extended, and the inn built, it took away the quiet
and solitude from the place. The old man just picked up his belongings
and went farther back into the mountains--no one knew where; but
somewhere, I suspect, he is still talking aloud to the trees and making
friends with the wild things, still giving his life to digging up dreams
and living for hopes that will never be realized. It's a strange disease,
this gold fever. I've never had it, but I've heard Old Ben at the Inn
tell how it's nearly impossible for a man to go back to his work in the
city after he has once seen the golden glitter and dug the precious
metal from the earth."
Willis had remained very quiet all through the story. A strange sadness
seemed to have settled upon his spirit. Several times Mr. Allen addressed
him, but upon receiving no reply turned and looked closely into the boy's
face. His head was thrown back, and he seemed to be lost in the beauty of
the starry night. In a very quiet tone Mr. Allen said, "A penny for your
thoughts, boy."
Willis laughed a dry little laugh, and, turning to him, replied:
"O, I was just thinking. I hardly know what, exactly. I was thinking of
how that old darky's tunnel caved in. Do all tunnels cave in? I was
thinking of my father." He linked his arm through the "Chief's" as they
walked on up the canyon. "My father was a miner, you know. That's
how he lost his life." Mr. Allen understood the mood now.
"You must tell me more of him some time, Willis. Was he like you?"
"Not very much, but I'm going to be like him, if I can," replied Willis.
"Sometimes, since I've been here in Colorado, especially here in the
mountains, I've fancied that he was near me again, watching and guiding
and keeping me company. It's hard for a fellow like me not to have a
father. Mr. Allen, I don't believe the fellows who have them half
appreciate them, do you?"
A long, loud shout came from ahead, which was answered by a dog's bark.
"O you supper!" shouted Chuck.
"Ben, remember me," cried another.
The inn was a one-story log building, built of rough spruce trees, just
as they had been cut from the mountain. On the side next to the stream
was a rustic porch. On the down-canyon end was built an immense old,
stone fireplace. From the chimney top there was a procession of tiny
sparks making their way upwards from the roaring wood-fire within. Here
and there on the wall hung the hides of denizens of the woods. Behind the
pine door stood an old-fashioned, double-barreled shotgun and a later
model Winchester rifle. In the opposite corner stood two short-handled
shovels and a miner's pick, while on the wall just above the fireplace
hung the head of a great buck that had one time roamed those very hills.
The fireplace, which occupied the center of the east wall, was large
and very attractive. An old hand-made crane had been built into the
firebox, and from it hung an old iron pot. The andirons were long, narrow
slabs of granite, set on edge, upon which were piled logs of pine wood,
burning merrily--not because it was a cold night, but because of its
cheerfulness.
The hearth at once became the center of attraction. It was the mysterious
fairy that bound all hearts together and welded all types of personality
into a sympathetic friendship that gathered round it. It was the stern
and fiery monarch, ordering all assembled to be quiet that it might sing
and moan and whisper the messages that it had gathered from the winter
storms or from the falling leaves.
At one side of the old fireplace, leaning back in his rickety old
arm-chair, sat Ben, Old Ben the innkeeper, his long-stemmed cob pipe
held quietly in one hand, while the other rested on the head of a huge
Russian hound that lay on the floor in front of the fire. Ben's hair was
long and gray, and on his nose rested a pair of large, old--fashioned,
silver--rimmed spectacles. His head was partly bald, and his small, gray
eyes were set well back under shaggy eyebrows. His face was covered with
a generous growth of dirty-gray whiskers, stained darkly about the mouth
from his pipe. He was a typical old mountain prospector who had seen
better days.
As the boys entered Old Ben rose, stretched his large, gaunt frame, and
cried, "Howdy, fellers, must o' started day afore yestedy, didn't ye?
Took ye tarnal long to git here, anyhow. Supper's ben ready these two
hours. Me'n the critter 'n Tad is most starved a waitin'. Hello, Mr.
Allen, where'd ye git this lively bunch o' fellers, anyhow? D' they all
b'long to ye? Come along, Tad, er these dratted youngsters 'll eat all
yer grub fer ye." This as the fellows seated themselves about the table.
Tad, by the aid of a crutch, hobbled from the lean-to kitchen and
took his seat at the table nearest the fire. Old Ben served the
meal--beefsteak, baked potatoes, hot corn muffins, and gravy, apple
sauce, pickles, and coffee that fairly filled the room with its
fragrance.
"Drat me for a young squirrel if you fellers ain't the hungriest bunch o'
yearlin's I ever set eyes on," muttered Ben as he hurried back and forth
from table to kitchen supplying the urgent demand.
After the last drop of coffee had disappeared, the meeting was called to
order around the table and the business of the evening was gotten under
way. Willis, for the first time, found it difficult to pay attention to
what Allen had to say. He was watching Old Ben and his friend as they sat
by the fire, chatting and smoking, the very picture of contentment. Now
and then a little of their conversation would reach him, but he could not
make head nor tail of it. At the supper table the man with the crutch had
eyed Willis many times. In his manner there was something that seemed to
be so very familiar, yet his face, which was covered with a several
weeks' beard, was strange to Willis.
"I never saw a face so like my old pard's," the stranger was saying to
Ben. "And you know, Ben, I often wonder if some day I won't hear
something from Bill's family. There was a wee boy, but what others, if
any, I don't know. The day of the wreck I saw a lad that did a brave
deed, and ever since I've been wondering if he might be Bill's boy--he
looked so like him."
"Tad, what became of that tarnal critter, Williams, that ye told me
about? The feller that jumped that placer claim up'n the gulch--do you
ever see him any more?"
"Yes, Ben, he is still in the city. Has a mighty sick wife--tuberculosis,
they say. He's crookeder than a cork-screw, they tell me; but he'll get
caught yet, that kind always does. You know his wife is a sister to
Bill's wife. If it hadn't been for that relationship to Bill, I'd have
had it out with him long ago. But what's the use, anyway. The mine's no
good and the ground's no good, and I haven't any money to fight him."
"Yep, but s'posin' the tunnel was good; what then?"
"I don't know, Ben. Old Williams has a good name, generally speaking, in
the city, and he has money--I couldn't fight him. Dad Wright used to say
he was a 'snake in the grass,' and Dad doesn't often misjudge a man."
"Who holds the key to that tarnal hole, anyway, Tad?"
"Williams was the last man in the tunnel, Ben, and I suppose he holds the
keys. I've never been inside since I carried out poor Bill's broken
body."
"Well, Tad, I was a pesterin' around there not long ago, an' I seed whar
some tarnal critter hed tried to pry the lock off. You know, Tad, I
b'lieve they is pay rock in that gulch, if the likes o' you an' me could
jist light onto it. Ye can pan color anywhere around the shanty, if ye
know how. I picked up some o' that quartz formation by the dump, an' drat
it, Tad, it's fine lookin' stuff."
"Yes, Ben, I often think I'll go back and work a little longer on the old
hole. Bill was certain we had struck it--talked in his fever before he
died. But I haven't got the nerve.
"Ben, I'm going to tell you something. Just before Bill met his end, he
had a letter from the firm that he installed machinery for concerning the
final drawings of an ore-roaster that he had been working on for years. I
have often wondered if he sent those drawings to the firm before his
death, or if Williams got them and the letters. I've never seen a roaster
like his was to be. Some way, I've thought Williams sold those drawings.
If he did, Ben, I'd kill him, I believe. That's what makes me keep a
thinking of the boy. Those drawings would have brought enough then to
have educated him, and perhaps he's poor--poor like you and me, and can't
go to school, while that rascal, Williams, rides around in an automobile.
Some way, I feel like I'll find out, and then I'll--"
"Is that a fact! Well, that tarnal critter!" Ben puffed meditatively at
his pipe and gazed into the fire.
"I have decided to go back, Ben, and work the other claim up in the gulch
by Dad's. If I could get enough money ahead I'd get a detective and put
him on the case. I'm kind of a father to that boy, Ben, wherever he is,
and I ought to be finding him."
The meeting at the table was over, and the fellows crowded around the
fire before starting home, and, perhaps, to hear one of Ben's stories of
the early days. The stranger watched Willis closely for some minutes,
then he called to him.
"Lad, ain't you the boy that was in the wreck of the Rocky Mountain
Limited, early in the spring? I've been watching you, and you sure remind
me of him." Willis's face brightened. In a flash he recognized the
fireman. He advanced with extended hand.
"Why, yes, sir, I am the boy, and you are the fireman. I have been
looking at you all evening and wondering where I had ever seen you
before. It's the whiskers that threw me off. How is the broken leg?"
The stranger held the boy's hand in his own and looked into his face.
"We got out lucky, didn't we, lad? Have you ever seen the little
Englishman since that day? He was a dandy, wasn't he?"
Chuck had been listening to the foregoing conversation.
"What wreck? What Englishman? Who is your friend?" he questioned.
The stranger spoke. "Why, don't you know about the wreck? Has he never
told any of you?" In answer to a chorus of "No's," the stranger drew his
chair closer to the fire and began to tell the story.
"So the lad has never told you, eh? He is a splendid fellow, this lad. I
want to tell you boys there is no yellow in his system. He has cool, true
nerve, like my old friend, that never thought of himself if there was
trouble, always of the other folks that might suffer. That's the reason
he slid off this mortal globe so soon. The lad here came near doing the
same thing. Then he never told you about it. Well, well."
"I'll see you again," called the stranger as Willis passed out into the
night.