A Wilderness Camp
As the little party climbed upward on the gulch trail, they were
discussing Dad and what they knew of his life. Each boy telling little
stories and incidents that he had heard concerning the old man. Willis
lagged behind, and did not seem to be particularly interested in the
conversation.
"Well, old man, what are you so glum about?" inquired Ham. "One would
think you had been to a funeral instead of chatting with the most
humorous of old mountaineers. You aren't getting weak in the knees
already, are you?"
Mr. Allen came to the rescue.
"No, Ham, he's just like me--busy thinking of the really admirable
qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these
days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a
rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post
for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is
gathered into that one life--frontiersman, cattle man, freighter,
prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his
disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a
decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when
it comes to good, common horse-sense. I'd rather take Dad's opinion of a
man than any one's I know of in this world. It wouldn't be in polished
English, but it would be shrewd and just."
From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon
reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush
disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas
spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.
As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon
came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside
it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far
side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man.
He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props.
Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, "Hello, there; must be going to
build a cabin!" The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.
"Yes, an underground one," he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he
continued, "Well, well, aren't you the fellows I saw over at Ben's place
the other evening?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Why, yes,
there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you
fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of
your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or
just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your
systems?"
"Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains," said
Willis. "It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are
you doing up here, anyway?" He turned and surveyed the valley.
"Well, I'll tell you," replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle.
"It's like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a
great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman
in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest
desire--to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of
getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature's storehouse. As
I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am
permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine,
along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was
never developed." He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined
rock just up the hill from his tent. "I've been railroading for the last
ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided
I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It's a funny
thing about mines, boys--you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more
or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you
dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you
find it in paying quantities. I've had the gold fever for twenty years."
"Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne
Mountain?" inquired Willis. "My father owned a mine somewhere on this
mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine--never
developed. I'd love to find it, though, just because it was his. He
was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a
small boy."
The miner's face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his
hands shook, as he muttered something about, "Just as I thought," then
continued, "Well, I--" He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile,
chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen
noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with
special care.
"I can't tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I
know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one
with a dump of black rock," pointing up the opposite side of the canyon,
"belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs--Williams and
somebody." He never took his eyes from the boy's face as he spoke.
"Williams, why--why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I
didn't know that he--"
The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding,
"And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to
a young engineer, and was located many years ago. The Williams shaft has
been sunk in the last few years. That hole has the very best prospects of
being something of any on the mountain. The Williams outfit restaked the
claim because the assessment work had not been kept up by the original
owner."
"What was the original owner's name? Do you know? You say he was a young
engineer?"
"Yes, his name was Thornton." The man dropped his head and worked the
heel of his boot nervously in the dirt. "I used to know him quite well,
years ago." Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, "I haven't seen
anything of him for nearly a dozen years."
The corners of Willis's mouth twitched nervously. He tried to speak, but
couldn't. He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked
up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.
"Would you mind telling me all about him--all you know?" asked Willis.
The miner looked at him curiously a minute, then asked, in a quiet,
well-controlled voice, "Did you know the man, lad?"
"Not so well as I would like to have known him, sir; but perhaps I may
get better acquainted with him now. He was my father, but I hardly
remember him, except for the stories and pictures that mother has told me
about. I've always wanted to know more about him."
"I can't tell you much, my boy," returned the miner in a kind, friendly
voice, "only that he was the best man that ever set a hoisting plant in
this region, and the finest, cleanest young fellow that ever came into
these hills. Every man was his friend."
"Did you ever know a Mr. Kieser who was a friend of my father's?" asked
Willis, after a moment's thought.
"Seems like I did," replied the miner, "a great many years ago, but he
disappeared from this region long since."
"Did you say the mine which once belonged to my father seemed to be the
best in the canyon?" broke in Willis.
"Yes, it did, the last I knew of it; but nothing ever came of it, except
that there have been two men there to-day, preparing to do this season's
assessment work. You can never tell, you know, about a gold mine, for
most of them have just been 'holes full of hope,' and the hope usually
leaked out sooner or later."
Chuck halloed from up the trail to get under way, or they would never
reach the top by dark.
"Going to camp up in the Park to-night, I presume?" asked the miner.
"Yes, if we can make it," replied Mr. Allen. "Have you been up to the top
lately?" "Yes, I was up yesterday, and it's a grand sight at this season
of the year. The Maraposa lilies are blooming in great profusion, and the
spring is running a fine little stream. I had a very pleasant surprise up
there, too. Years ago there was a large herd of deer which lived in that
park, but they were supposedly all killed off. Yesterday, about this
time, as I sat on a dead log just back from the spring, quietly thinking
over some of the memories of old times when I had hunted on that very
ground, I heard the dry twigs snap, and, turning, I saw a doe and two
tiny, spotted fawns cross the park and enter the timber at the other
side. If you build a fire to-night you may get a glimpse of them."
"I'm coming to have a long talk with you some of these days," called
Willis as they started off.
At last the entrance to the Park was reached, and they came upon a
stretch of level ground. The entire country changed. Instead of the stony
tallus of the canyon, there was soft, black soil under foot. Instead
of the great spruces and firs scenting the air, there were only tall,
stately aspens on every side, their leafy tops lost in the deepening
shadows. Instead of the ground cedar and berry bushes, wild grass grew in
rank profusion. The air was tinged with a faint fragrance, and somewhere
in the distance came the sound of gently-splashing waters, "Like a voice
half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows."
The party halted and turned to the right of the trail, where a great,
lone pine tree stood on a little rise of ground, directly above the tiny
spring. This was to be the camping spot for the night. Packs were quickly
removed and unfolded, dry sticks gathered for the fire, and sweet-scented
balsam boughs were cut and brought to the tree. One generous bed was
made, big enough for all, close in front of the camp-fire. Mr. Allen
cleaned and filled his small acetylene lamp--"In case of need," he said.
The guns were stacked in a handy place and supper operations gotten under
way.
"It sure does smell awfully good up here," began Phil. "I wish we had
gotten here before dark--I'd like to have had a little look around before
I went to sleep. Who knows but we may be sleeping ten yards from a bear's
den. We are up in a real wilderness, now!"
"Bears, your grandmother!" snorted Ham, as he deftly opened a can of
baked beans with his pocket knife. "A lot of great big bare spots is
about all you could find. Say, Phil, on the dead square, what would you
do, now, if a black bear would sneak down here to-night and crawl into
bed with you?" "I'd say, 'Mr. Bear, if you want a real sweet, tender
morsel that's easily digested, just help yourself to that little imported
Ham over there.'" A roar of laughter went up from the others.
Chuck was philosophizing about the value of gathering food while it was
yet day, as he sat stowing away his quart of fresh raspberries.
"You can have all you want of them," retorted Mr. Allen. "I'm seedy
enough now, without eating those things."
"What's the matter, Willis? Did we walk you too hard?" inquired Fat.
"No, I could walk a hundred miles yet to-night," replied Willis, as he
sliced up his bacon preparatory to frying it. "But this has been a very
wonderful day for me. It's all so new, you know, and I'm green, too.
Besides, it all has a very special significance to me, some way. I love
it. I like it better than anything in the world. I could live this way
forever. I'm sure I could write poetry to-night, or paint a great
picture, or even sing. It's a wonderful feeling. Did you ever feel that
way? It's the charm of the great out-of-doors."
"I think we had better picket Willis to-night," dryly remarked Ham. "He's
liable to be floating off in his enthusiasm. But if he happens to be
fortunate enough to lie on a friendly pine knot all night, he'll feel
differently in the morning."
So the merry talk went on. After supper bigger logs were laid on the
fire. A collapsible canvas bucket, filled with drinking water, was hung
on a low limb of the tree, and the supply of night wood was conveniently
placed near Mr. Allen's end of the bed.
Then Ham got a long, cotton bag, from which he produced several handfuls
of pinion nuts. They were always the introduction to the camp-fire
stories. He seated himself, drew his knees up close to his body, leaned
back against the great tree trunk, and shouted: "All aboard, let her
flicker. What's first? Mr. Allen, let's have that promised story you
didn't get out of Dad. I believe you just side-tracked him on purpose, so
you could tell it yourself. Come, now, wasn't that it?" He began to
whistle in a low tone as he waited for the story. Fat stretched himself
at full length before the fire, his head resting on his blanket roll.
Phil had backed up on one side of Mr. Allen and Willis on the
other. Everybody was waiting.
"Well, once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a little fairy,"
began Mr. Allen.
"You don't say so," interrupted Ham, as he tossed a stick into the fire
in a disgusted manner. "Was it fairy long ago? I can recite Mother Goose
rhymes myself. You'll have to do better than that."
Phil nudged Mr. Allen in the ribs and chuckled to himself.
"Well, then, how's this: Not many years ago, in a wonderful little
village, there--"
"Was a wooden wedding at which two Poles were married," interrupted Ham,
with a mischievous grin on his face.
"You're kind of hard to please, Ham," suggested Fat, as he rolled over to
warm his other side.
"How's this? The night was dark and stormy," started in Mr. Allen. Ham
settled back contentedly. "That's something like it. 'The night was dark
and stormy,' and what else?"
"Well, if you must have it. I have heard a good many stories of how the
Old Road House was burned, but they are all different. Which one shall I
tell you? I'll tell you the one that Daddy tells himself, because it
probably comes nearest the truth. As a matter of fact, though, I don't
believe any one knows just how it burned down.
"You know Dad spent his boyhood on a great southwestern cattle ranch, and
knew at first hand a great many things about Indians and tramping and
mining and 'explorin',' as he calls it. Just why he left this ranch life
he never told me exactly, but I know he had his first case of real gold
fever in forty-nine, and has never gotten over it. His father was a
United States marshal, and was instrumental in gathering in a number of
the most notorious criminals of his day. One of Dad's favorite stories is
of the capture of a gang of Mississippi River pirates.
"It was Dad's father that finally cleaned out this great nuisance when he
captured Mason, their leader, through the treachery of his fellows. When
the final raid was made, Dad, who was then a young man, was one of the
party. It seems that there was a certain boy in this pirate gang who
escaped, after having been arrested with the others. Several years later
Dad had occasion to remember the threats this boy had made to him at the
time of the raid.
"Dad was out on a trapping trip with a group of professional trappers,
and, as was the custom, each man had taken with him two good horses, one
to carry his share of the hides and his food supply, the other to be used
in case of emergency. They were trapping in the Arkansas valley, and
after a few weeks out they began to suspect that their camp was being
watched by a large band of hostile Indians. They understood the situation
perfectly. The Indians were not following them for murder or for a mere
fight, but for their horses and furs. They would not attack, however,
until they were reasonably sure of getting away with the desired booty
without loss of life to their own party.
"The trappers' hunt had been a very successful one, and a large amount of
money was already represented in the heavy packs of fur. Each night these
packs of fur were carefully arranged in a big circle, forming a crude
rampart for the party. The furs gave the men reasonable safety as they
slept, for no arrow, however swift, could penetrate a roll of green
hides. The horses were always securely fastened not far from the camp,
and guards posted at night.
"Finally the ideal night for attack came. It was dark as pitch, not even
a star showing in the cloudy sky. As night fell, it was so stormy that
the usual night guard was not deemed necessary. Instead, every man went
to sleep. Sometime in the night Dad was suddenly awakened by the pounding
of many hoofs on the hard gravel of the valley. In less than a second the
entire camp was awake, and every man gripped his rifle in readiness. No
one dared to leave the rampart. Safety lay in being all together. The
pounding of hoofs grew louder and louder, the picketed horses whinnied,
then there was a wild gallop past the little camp, accompanied by
fiendish yells. Not a man dared to investigate, for fear of ambush. All
that they could do was to patiently await the coming of morning.
"With the first rays of light all looked anxiously toward where the
horses had been picketed so carelessly. They were gone, every one of
them. A hasty examination told the tale. Under the cover of the intense
darkness, the hobbles and the picket ropes had been cut at the pins, so
as not to disturb the horses or waken the sleeping trappers. After the
ropes were cut, the Indians had ridden pell-mell past the free animals,
and they, finding their fastenings gone, had joined the stampede. It was
a clever game, and the trappers had lost. What were they to do--fifteen
days' journey from any assistance, and not a horse within a hundred
miles?
"As they climbed a hill on the far side of the river, to take a look at
the surrounding country, they heard a faint whinny, and there, in the
bottom of the gulch, lay one of their horses, stretched at full length.
His feet had become entangled in the long picket rope, and he had fallen
at the edge of the washout with a badly-broken leg. The party gathered
about the unfortunate animal, lamenting the fact that he must be shot to
relieve him of his suffering.
"As they stood talking, Dad noticed a movement in a nearby clump of
bushes. Was he mistaken? He quietly told his partner what he had seen,
and, with rifles leveled, the two cautiously approached the spot. There
was, however, no need of fear, for it turned out to be only a young
Indian boy, and he badly injured. He had probably been riding the horse
before its fall. Everybody was for instantly shooting the lad except Dad,
who protested, explaining that the boy might be able to give them
valuable information as to the number of Indians in the war party, and
something of their future plans. This seemed to be reasonably wise, so
the wounded Indian was taken back to the trappers' camp.
"For many days he kept silence, never once speaking to any one, growing
weaker and weaker every day from his injuries. Finally he was taken with
an awful fever, and every man in the party knew that nothing could
possibly save him. Dad nursed him and cared for him as patiently as if he
had been one of their own party. When the Indian learned that he was to
be treated kindly for the present, at least, he called for Dad, making
feeble signs that he wanted to talk to him secretly. After a long and
painful effort he made Dad understand who was with the band of Indians,
and why they had watched the trappers so long and so closely. There was a
certain pale face with them who was their leader and who had been a 'heap
big robber' on the big river. He had offered a reward for Dad's life to
every Indian in the party. He had invented the stampede, and when the men
were faint with hunger and watching, they would be back to kill them all.
Dad was to be hung in honor of the occasion, to celebrate the day the
pirate had made his escape from Dad's father. In a few hours the Indian
died. Dad kept his secret to himself, although he was greatly disturbed
over it. He was being hunted--hunted by a savage worse than any red man
that ever shot a bow or took a scalp. He remembered, now, that many of
his comrades of that memorable raid had since mysteriously disappeared.
The truth flashed upon him in an instant. Shorty Thunder, the river
pirate, was taking his revenge. Slowly but surely he was hounding down
every man that had sought his life that day.
"In a few days the trapping party was picked up by another hunting party.
"What's the matter, Ham? Are you getting sleepy?" called Mr. Allen as he
arose to replenish the fire. Ham had sprawled out on the ground and was
looking off into the dark woods, all alert.
"Sh-h-, you," he whispered as he motioned them not to move. "I saw
something move out there in those bushes just now; I'll bet my hat on
it."
"O sugar," said Phil. "Something moved, did it? What do you suppose it
was, an elephant?"
Just then Fat raised his finger cautiously. "Quiet, there, a second, you
rubes. Use your eyes more instead of your mouths, and you'll see more.
Can't you see that light spot right over there?" pointing into the
darkness with a very crooked stick he had been fooling with. All sat
quietly listening and watching, but to no avail. They could see nothing.
"Go on with your story, Mr. Allen," urged Ham. "What's river pirates got
to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that's what I'd like to
know." The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.
"Well, it's like this, Ham," continued Mr. Allen. "Every great story has
a preface, and I've been telling you the preface so far." Ham let out a
few long, extra well-developed snores. "Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to
the beginning of the first chapter, will you?"
"Finally Dad came to Colorado--just why, I don't know; but he prospected
hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in
Cripple Creek he was right on hand. In 1873, I think it was, the county
built the Cripple Creek Stage Road. Dad was a pretty old man then, but
not too old to see his opportunity. With a little outside capital, he
constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House. In a short time
after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon
producing a nice little revenue for Dad.
"The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and
stormy. It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full
blast. The thunder and lightning were terrific. When the down stage
pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the
night, fearing a possible cloudburst. It happened that the stage was full
of passengers that night. There was a little Irishman who had just
discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple
of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch.
Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his
business all to himself. As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the
old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked
back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little
incidents that gave evidence to his own theory. For instance, several
times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out
into the night. He seemed very nervous about something. He did not mingle
with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself. When it
became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch
near the fireplace. Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he
remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.
"The storm was at its worst. Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad's dog
let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls. Dad shouted
down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat
outside. He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and
scratched at the door. There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in
a peal of thunder, then the cry of 'Fire!' The smoke of the burning logs
was already streaming up the open stairway. The outside door opened and
shut, yet the dog was left inside. Almost before the sleeping guests
could grab their clothes, the whole house was a sheet of flame. There was
a wild scramble for the back stairway. Dad hurried down the front way,
stumbling through the smoke to the door. The dog gave a joyous bark and
sprang toward him. As he opened the door, he stumbled over a large
oil-can that always stood just under the stairway. He didn't think of
it at the time because of his excitement, but later, as he puzzled over
the real cause of the fire, he remembered with startling distinctness
his stumbling over the empty oil-can, which he knew had been full the
day before. As months went by he put this with other little bits of
information, and he believed he understood, yet he had no proof. The old
man who had slept downstairs had oiled the entire first floor, then set
it afire. But why? That was the question.
"He remembered how the old man had insisted that the house had been
struck by lightning. Dad never saw him again after that night, but a few
months afterwards he recognized him in a description of one of the
robbers of a stage coach, held up at Duffield's. Then, like a flash, it
came to Dad. The old-timer was his enemy of the river pirates, old Shorty
Thunder. He had accidently stumbled onto Dad here in these mountains, and
had determined to settle scores once for all. He had meant by setting
fire to the cabin to burn Dad alive, and if it hadn't been for the dog he
probably would have succeeded."
"Great old tale," sighed Phil, as he arose and stretched himself.
"Let's turn in," suggested Fat, "for you know we have some walking ahead
of us to-morrow." "Second the motion," joined in Ham. "Me for a good, big
drink, though, to wash that fairy tale down. How about it?"
The little party gathered close about the fire after all final
arrangements had been made for the night. Boots were pulled off and set
away from the fire. Watches were wound and trousers unbuckled. They had
all instinctively looked toward the "Chief." He had drawn close to the
fire, and was turning over the leaves of a pocket Testament.
"What will you have to-night, fellows, from the Great Spirit's Message
before we sleep?"
"The one about the lilies," said Ham thoughtfully. "There are several big
ones in bloom just at the head of my bed." The "Chief" began to read in
low, reverent tones.
"And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field,
how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto
you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these." So he went on reading till he came to the end of the chapter,
after which there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for
bed.
"They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of God," snorted
Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, "but they aren't in it with a
night like this spent in the open in such a country."
"There's a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham," said Mr.
Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.
"How do you make that out?" asked Ham.
"Well, you're just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love
nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously;
but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an
expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the
Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but
we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create
such a Nature." "Too deep for me, too deep for me; I'm no philosopher,"
grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night's
sleep.
Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding
trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.
"Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say," he remarked half-aloud, as
he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. "He's the
very spit'n image of Bill, now that's dead sure, and there's one thing
more that's certain." He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud
report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head
toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail
to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling
in the sky far above them.
"That mine belongs to the boy, but how's he going to get it?"
He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the
early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before
bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in
front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came
down the trail, the smell of Dad's simple supper came floating up to him.
He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him.
He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table
eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of
the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be
something.
"Howdy, Tad, strike it rich to-day? S'pose ye jist been a shovelin' out
nuggets all day long, till yer tired o' seein' 'em, hain't ye? Tad, I
seed the beatenest bunch o' young'uns to-day ye ever seed in yer life,
all on a explorin' trip o' some kind."
"That so?" replied Tad, "must have been the same party I saw. Did you see
that tall, slender lad with the brown eyes and dark hair?"
"Yep, b'lieve I did, come t' think on it, only I didn't pay much
pertic'lar 'tention to none of 'em."
Tad helped himself to an old chair, and, leaning back against the wall,
lighted his pipe. He was quiet for a long time, then he spoke in a slow,
thoughtful manner, his pipe held firmly between his teeth, his eyes
fixed on a spot far away down the mountain.
"Dad, the boy has come. He's come to me, and he's just like his
father--tall and straight and clean-cut. Dad, he needs a father, and
perhaps I'll have to act in that capacity yet, who knows, for that
uncle of his is a rascal and will bear a good deal of watching."
"What? Ye don't mean the young feller ye was a tellin' me about the other
evenin'? Bill's boy really come to the mountains?" asked Dad, becoming
interested at once.
"Yes, he's here, Dad, as sure as I'm a living man. He went up this trail
this afternoon, and I talked with him. He asked about his father the
first thing; said his father owned a mine up here somewhere, and asked me
if I knew Tad Kieser."
"Shoot me fer a pole-cat. Well, I'll be dum-swizzled, course ye told him
Yep, ye knowed him a little, didn't ye?"
"No, Dad, I didn't, and that's just what I've come down to talk to you
about this evening. You see, it's like this: If I had told him who I was,
that would have been the end of it, but if he doesn't really find out who
I am for a while yet, perhaps I can locate a paying gold mine for him.
I always have felt that I owed him at least that much."
"So ye didn't tell him?" pondered Dad. "Well, Tad, yer head is a sight
longer'n mine is, an' I s'pose ye know what's best; but, my boy, let me
give ye a little advice: If ye wait till ye find a real gold mine in
these here parts, the boy's likely as not to die o' old age 'fore ye find
it."
"Perhaps so, Dad. Perhaps you're right; but then, if I don't ever find
it, I won't tell him who I am, because he'd be disappointed. He thinks
his father owned a real mine in these mountains somewhere, and he's
looking for it. Do you know, I've been wondering--no, it can't be,
though; I suppose I'm foolish, but someway, I've always felt that I ought
to have been man enough to have worked the old tunnel just a little
farther. Bill was so certain that things looked better, and--"
"Tad, hain't ye ever been in the old hole sence that day, honest Injun? I
used t' think that's where ye went when ye'd go off fer a week er ten
days in the hills all by yerself."
"No, Dad, I give you my word, I've never been in that hole since the day
I carried poor Bill's broken body out. I've never been near since I put
that great, heavy lock on the door, and then I dropped the only key into
the old shaft. I thought that perhaps some time the temptation to go back
in might be too strong, and I'd do it."
Both smoked silently for a long time, then Dad spoke:
"S'posin' somebody would jump ye over yonder, Tad. What's to hinder 'em
a breakin' in an' startin' operations? I've heerd tell that old Williams
claimed that property, but course it's a dern lie--"
"He couldn't jump it, Dad, because I hold the deed to it. We proved up on
that, you know, the summer before; but I believe Williams does hold a
placer claim on the property. You know placers can run into regular lode
claims. He could claim the tunnel, all right, too, I suppose, if the
owner couldn't be found. Especially since he seems to be the only
relative Bill had, except his wife."
"What do ye s'pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer
claim jest there, 'stead o' somewhere else? The dirt won't pan color,
will it?" asked Dad. "That's just what has bothered me, Dad. The only way
that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the
prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill's papers or letters. It wasn't
two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there
and staked that placer claim. He's worked assessments on it every year
since. One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at
other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an assessment hole or
two--most anything to get in the required hundred dollars' worth of
working. It's that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering
just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested.
Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I
never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said. It's
taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is
something I don't know about the deal."
"Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we're a sittin' on a pile o' gold
nuggets this minute; but we'll never see 'em; mark my words, boy, we'll
never see 'em. God Almighty's a savin' 'em fer somethin', if there is
any, an' if we ain't to have 'em, we'll never git 'em, that's sure."
After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad
arose to go.
"Good-night, Dad, good-night," he said in an absent-minded way, as he
started through the old door and up the trail.
Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and
shining. A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly
shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens. The night was
absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of
it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers. Far, far away a turtle
dove was calling--calling so softly that it almost seemed to be
imagination. Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few
seconds.
Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him. He placed
his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness. What was
that? He shut his eyes that he might hear the better. He could not be
mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap--one, two, three little dry,
rasping sounds. Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel. Again he
raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the
shadows. There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct. The
night breeze gently fanned the dying embers. Suddenly there was a series
of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of
light. Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself. Hardly
had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being
conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting
posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.
"What is it, Mr. Allen?" softly whispered Willis. Mr. Allen jumped a
trifle. "O, I don't know; I heard it a couple of hours ago. I'd like to
see a wild animal, wouldn't you? I think it must be the fire that
attracts it. I'd like to light my dark lantern, but I hate to strike a
match." He leaned over to the fire, picked up a dry pine needle, and
lighted it in the fire, applying the tiny flame to his opened lantern.
Quietly Mr. Allen opened the shield, and a long, bright gleam swept
noiselessly out into the darkness, revealing with almost painful
distinctness the outlines of every stem of grass and flower. Then, far at
the end of the path of light, something moved. There were two small,
luminous spots, then in an instant two more, a little larger. Slowly the
shifting lights and shadows took shape, and there, before them, stood two
deer--a doe and a tiny fawn.
"O, aren't they beautiful?" whispered Willis. Just then the fawn left its
mother's side and came fearlessly down the path of light--one, two, six
steps--staring into the wonderful, dazzling beam. There was a gentle call
from the mother, and in an instant they had disappeared into the shadows
from whence they had come. There was a bound, a broken twig, a rustle
of dead leaves, and all was quiet again.
For a long time Willis and Mr. Allen waited, watching for them to return;
but they did not come. The fire slowly died out and turned into a pile of
ghostly ashes, while the party slept on until morning.