A Glimpse of Buffalo Roost
The little party gathered about the fire the next morning, cooking the
last breakfast of the trip. To-morrow they would be home again. Would
they take back a glowing description of a cabin site, situated in some
cool forest nook, in the shadow of some mighty crag, or would they be
forced to disappoint the anxious crowd of fellows who would be waiting
for their return?
By seven o'clock they were jogging down the railroad at a lively gait,
keeping their eyes open for a canyon that would lead in back of Cookstove
Mountain. They had come down the track at least two miles without finding
any encouraging signs when they came upon a trail that seemed to lead
from the railroad into an unknown canyon. Perhaps it was one of the many
trails from the railroad back to the remains of some of the old
construction camps. Perhaps it was a cowpath that led into a fertile
meadow where cattle loved to rest by cool springs. Might it not have been
the connecting link between some old prospector's diggings and his point
of supplies? Possibly it had been worn by the ever-watchful forest ranger
as he rode over the reserve, watching for the fires of careless campers,
the trespass of cattle, or, perhaps, to make a timber sale to some
mountain ranchman. Perhaps it was one of these, but more likely it was a
combination of them all. What strange stories it could tell if it could
but speak! Had it been on the southern slope it might have been lost in
the cool shadows of the forest, or have disappeared in the leafy molds
and decaying twigs of many autumns. But it was on the north slope, from
which the hungry flames of a giant forest fire had snatched every tree
and bush, leaving only the barren hillside.
It was a very alluring trail, for it led to no one knew just where. Just
at the point where it slipped over the rocky ridge and dropped down out
of sight into the canyon beyond there rose a group of great, tall pines,
which seemed to be guarding the pathway. Just ahead stood Cookstove, its
rocky crest bathed in the morning light, while far away to the north the
sharper outlines were lost in a great army of evergreens, which seemed to
be trooping restlessly up the hill and descending again into the great
unknown of the valley. It led straight away down a gently-curving aisle
of beautiful large trees that had already begun to carpet the floor with
dull pine needles, picked from their shaggy heads by the mischievous
dryads of the valley. Away up on the shoulder of Cookstove could be seen
a long silver ribbon of water, the lower end of which was lost in the
treetops of the canyon. From somewhere down below the trail there came
the gentle murmur of jubilant little dashes of mountain spray as they
frolicked and chased each other in the happy play of a mountain stream.
On the inside of the trail the trees dropped away rapidly until you could
look into their topmost branches without raising your eyes, while on the
other side they trooped noiselessly upward, like some great, silent army,
showing only their weather-beaten bodies.
As the boys hastened down this trail, deeper into the land of
enchantment, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
"I've about changed my mind about the location of the Garden of Eden,"
Ham sung out.
"That's the twentieth time," announced Chuck.
"We're just on the edge of it yet," shouted Mr. Allen. "Let's hurry and
get into it."
The trail began immediately to descend, and before they knew it the party
found themselves beside a crystal stream that seemed to be lost in a
narrow park of great trees and mighty boulders. The trail crossed the
stream by an ancient corduroy bridge, then off it ran again up the
opposite side of the canyon, penetrating deeper into the quiet forest.
"This is the forest primeval,
The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"
quoted Ham. There was a perfume of the forest dampness in the air. Every
tree seemed to shelter a bird family or a host of squirrels, to say
nothing of the tiny creatures that made chorus together from their hiding
places. Softly filtering through the trees came the constant melody of a
waterfall, now far away, now just ahead, crying, laughing, sobbing, in a
strange intermingling of feeling.
The trail made a sharp turn to the left, the trees suddenly came to an
end, and in their place were large piles of mossy, ragged boulders. The
canyon ended in a perpendicular, moss-covered wall, hundreds of feet
high, and from the top of this wrinkled old cliff leaped the stream into
the canyon below. On an old tin sign, fastened to the stump of an immense
tree, were the words, "St. Marys." Directly at the base of the falls, and
at their extreme edge, stood a grand old spruce tree, straight and clean
as an arrow, its slender top reaching nearly to the top of the falls.
They seemed to be happy comrades, for the tree was gently vibrating with
the soft, half-wild music of the crystal stream.
After every nook and cranny had been explored, the group began to retrace
their steps down the canyon.
"Isn't it a wonderful little spot?" asked Phil, as they sat down by the
bridge to rest. "Who do you suppose ever built this trail away up here?
See, it has been dug from the very mountain-side in many places, and this
bridge wasn't built as a mere footbridge--it was built to support heavy
loads of something."
"Perhaps somewhere way up in those trees there is an old mine," suggested
Fat.
"I've been wondering if there was," slowly questioned Willis. "I'd like
to go and look, for I'm not a bit tired." His eyes were big with the
wonder of the place.
"It surely is a treat to him, isn't it?" asked Mr. Allen.
"Yes, and to us all," replied Ham. "I just wonder what some city people
would think of it. When I get old, fellows, I'm going to find me some
such a little canyon as this and live out my life in it. I don't believe
a fellow could ever think a mean thought out here, could he? He'd be
almost afraid to."
"It's an ideal place, all right," returned Mr. Allen.
"Why, I believe I'd be an orator if I just had this valley for a class,"
went on Ham.
"It's a good thing such places can't be moved," suggested Phil, "or some
of these wealthy fellows would be buying them all up and putting them in
their art galleries. This view would create quite a sensation in New York
City, don't you think? Fifty thousand dollars is not much for a few feet
of masterpiece, but this can be had for a few dollars an acre. Strange,
isn't it?"
"A man paints a little picture on a canvas and worries over it until his
hair gets long and his face sad. He is then a genius. People go wild over
a man that can copy a little scene. Yet those same people declare there
is no Creator. Account for a valley like this without Him, can you?"
declared Fat.
"The man that can deny Him, standing here in this little bit of His
handiwork," solemnly declared Ham, "is blind, deaf, and dumb, besides
having marked tendencies toward insanity."
"Halloo," came in a clear shout from up on the hillside.
"By gracious, he's found a mine!" cried Ham, jumping up.
"Halloo," he shouted back. "What did you find?"
"Two more trails," came the answer. "Come up and look. One goes down the
canyon on this side." A wild scramble up through the trees followed. Soon
they were all traveling down one of the newly-discovered trails. The
other one began at an old log cabin, and ran zigzag up the mountain till
it was lost in the gravel slopes.
"I've been trying to make up my mind where this canyon leads to," said
Mr. Allen. "I'm wondering if it can be Buffalo Park."
A bridge was visible down the stream, and there was the sound of water
splashing. An immense boulder that had rolled from the cliff above
obstructed any further view. Ham and Willis were in the lead, the rest
following as rapidly as possible. The two ahead disappeared, then came
into view beyond the big boulder.
"A house!"
"A cabin!" Every one broke into a run. Just above the bridge a crude dam
of logs had been built to back up a supply of water, and it was running
over from the little pond behind in a happy, babbling waterfall. Then it
turned to the south around the base of a patch of high ground. On this
bit of high country, overlooking the stream on one side and the upper
canyon on the other, stood the loudly-announced cabin.
It was a typical mountain log-house, except for its roof, which was
covered with cedar shingles instead of the customary split poles,
thatched over with marsh hay. Its every line suggested age. In some
places the mud chinking had dried and dropped out, yet, strange to say,
the windows were all there, and even the door, which was of city
manufacture, was not past repair. One corner of the roof had been
slightly damaged by the falling of a monstrous pine log that was still
lying where it had fallen several years before.
The cabin had evidently been used as a summer home only, for there was no
fireplace or a chimney of any kind, except a dilapidated old length of
stovepipe that stuck through the gable at one end. It was this feature
that made it look so completely forlorn and abandoned. Besides the door
and two windows that opened on the trail side, there was a window on
the up end and a door on the stream side which led out onto a crude back
porch, built entirely of aspen poles. The floor was of pine boards, and
had once been a marvel of beauty and convenience for a mountain cabin;
but time had played strange pranks with it, till now it was uneven and
sloped off in a jerky fashion toward the back door. On one wall was
fastened a rude set of shelves, on which was perched a motley collection
of pickle bottles and tin cans. Stretched along one wall stood a crude,
home-made table, and in one corner stood the remains of a little,
old-fashioned stove. A wooden chest stood under the shelves, and had
probably been used for a grub box. It still contained a few pounds of
yellow cornmeal, half a can of baking powder, a badly molded loaf of rye
bread, and a surprisingly sturdy sample of butter. Hung on a nail in the
corner above the chest was a once-stylish skillet and the battered lower
part of a double boiler. A rusty tincup lay on the floor beside a powder
can that had been used for a bucket, while just inside the south door
stood a comical homemade shakedown. The frame was built of straight young
aspen poles, while the springs were just a carefully woven layer of
balsam boughs spread over a bottom of limber young saplings. It had once
been a wonder of comfort and ease, but its value had passed with the
departure of its builder.
The trail ran close in front of the door and then climbed over the sandy
base of a great crag, and disappeared over the hill. Just as it left the
level of the house and started upward, there stood an immense Douglas
spruce like some faithful guard, his proud green helmet stretched up into
the sky so that he might be the more able to see any approaching danger.
A great smoke-stained rock lay just at the end of the house, before which
was built a primitive fireplace. An assortment of tin cans, lying in the
little ravine, told the simple tale of bygone campfire suppers and of
hunters and explorers and miners.
"Well, this is what I call luck--pure, unadulterated luck, with sugar on
it," drawled Ham as he surveyed the house.
"Luck, your grandmother," said Phil. "Do you call something that you have
been searching for for four long days luck?"
"Excuse me," answered Ham, in mock courtesy. "I forgot when I made that
statement that there is no such thing as luck. It was my old friend,
'William Shakespeare,' that wrote that famous line about luck, 'Luck is
pluck in action,' or something like that, wasn't it? That's what it was
here, anyway."
"Well, at any rate," said Mr. Allen, as he joined the group after his
round of inspection, "the old shanty is chucked full of possibilities."
"I'm glad something is full," interrupted Fat. "We certainly aren't in
the same class, that cabin and I. It's been so long since I've fed that
my floating ribs have run ashore. The worst of it is that all I have left
is a can of condensed milk, about a teaspoon of sugar, and a little
butter that's a second cousin to what's in that grub box yonder. I'm
going to borrow a few possibilities from the cabin and beg for food.
Let's have dinner."
"Right here by this old rock," called Willis. "Perhaps we can roast a
little information out of these rocks."
Chuck had gone down stream into a grove of large aspens, and at this
moment came panting up the trail.
"Bees--peach of a tree--honey galore--millions of them!" he panted.
"That sounds like something to eat," cried Fat. "Come along, Chuck, I'm
with you. Do you know how to make that 'milk and honey' that the Good
Book speaks about? I've got the milk, let's get the honey." Ham, Chuck,
and Fat started for the bee tree, Ham singing his favorite, "A Preacher
went a Huntin'."
"Better let up, Ham," shouted Phil. "The bees will be after the sweetness
in that melody of yours."
Phil stretched out at full length in the sun while Mr. Allen busily
made figures and sketches in his note book. Willis rose and started
down the trail toward the bee tree. At the edge of the timber he stopped,
and a curious smile spread over his face. Then suddenly, as the real
significance of what he saw dawned upon him, he doubled up with a howl
and laughed till his sides hurt.
The fellows were unable to roll over the great dead tree, so had decided
to "smudge the brutes out," as Ham said. Accordingly, they built a fire
at the side where the bees had been seen to enter the tree. Chuck had
carried water from the stream in his hat to make the fire smoke, and, as
they watched the hole, the bees came swarming out at the end of the log
behind them, "with spears sharpened and ready for action," as Ham
afterward said. Such lively gymnastics and hurried departures Willis had
never before witnessed. Fat completely forgot that he was hungry, and Ham
took occasion to severely chastise himself, using his old felt hat for a
paddle, while Chuck went ploughing through the underbrush like a young
bull-moose, murmuring strange, inarticulate sentences. Fortunately for
them all, the bee tree was nothing but a nest of marsh-wasps, and there
were nowhere near as many as Chuck declared there were. The damage was
slight to all except Fat, and he had enough signs of battle to warrant a
leather medal for bravery. The saddest thing was that the hoped-for "milk
and honey" did not materialize.
As the party sat together eating the last of their rations, Ham fell into
one of his philosophical moods.
"I like this kind of life," he began. "Out here you let go your hold on
man-made things and shift for yourself." He looked cautiously over at
Fat, who was trying to scratch a particularly itchy sting just out of
reach in the middle of his back. "I like the unchanging condition of
nature," he continued. "The wilderness is all yours, and you may take
from it all the essentials of primitive living--shelter, warmth, and
food."
"Ham, you're an unmitigated prevaricator," cried Fat as he scratched and
made faces. Ham paid no attention to him. "Here in the open country you
can get mighty close to the great wilderness with its myriads of busy
lives, and--" Fat picked up a pine cone and threw it, but Ham disappeared
around the end of the big rock.
"Ham, you're just like the loons we have on the Michigan lakes," taunted
Willis. "You can do and say more crazy things than all the rest of us
ducks put together; but when any one takes a shot at you, you're out of
sight."
By this time Fat had managed to make two holes in his can of milk and was
drinking the contents. Mr. Allen had returned to his sketching, and
Willis had gone over to the little dam to get a drink. Suddenly there was
the snort of a horse and the rapid tramping of hoofs. A dog gave two
or three barks, then horse, rider, and dog appeared on the trail. In a
second another rider, with a pick and shovel thrown over his shoulder,
came over the ridge. The first pulled in his horse and, turning in his
saddle, looked to see if his companion was coming. Being confident that
he was not far behind, he again urged his horse forward, apparently not
noticing the group by the big boulder. Ham got to his feet and spoke to
the dog. The horseman gave a quick exclamation of surprise, then called
out, "Howdy!" Mr. Allen rose.
"Well, well!" called the man. "Seems to me yew fellers are travelin'
some, ain't ye?"
"O, a little," returned Mr. Allen.
"You don't happen to know, do you, whether there are two cabins above
here, do you? We was directed to the middle cabin."
"No, only a very badly decayed one--just a pile of tumbled-down logs,"
replied Mr. Allen. The second rider had come up and dismounted, and
together they studied a sketch which he had taken from his pocket.
"This must be the one, that's all," he drawled, as he spat out a great
quid of tobacco, "'cause he said it was by the bridge. We must o' missed
the other cabin in the trees somewhere below here."
Willis was eyeing the newcomers closely. A stern, hard look crossed his
face as he quickened his pace. He reached Mr. Allen's side, and the first
rider nodded to him. He drew nearer and observed the sketch very closely,
listening intently to all the strangers had to say. His heart was beating
fast, but just why he could not have told.
"Well, Jim, I guess we'd better unsaddle an' give the nags a drink an' a
rest," said the stranger as he carefully folded up the sketch and put it
in his pocket. "Seems strange as how we'd meet twice in these mountains
in nearly as many days, don't it?" remarked the man, as he began to
loosen the saddle girths and to untie the sacks of grub that were
fastened on behind.
"How is that?" queried Mr. Allen.
"Why, wasn't it you that went up the trail to the top of Cheyenne the
other day?" questioned the man. Then, without waiting for a reply, he
went on: "We was doin' an assessment up there that day an' seed you as
you stood talkin' to that crusty old prospector that works that tunnel."
"O yes," said Mr. Allen, "so you are the men that were up there by that
black dump?"
"Yep, we're the fellers, Jim an' me."
"Are you going to do more assessment work here in this canyon?"
questioned Ham.
"Yep, we've got two assessments to do here somewhere," returned the
stranger. "This canyon, or at least part of it, belongs to a real estate
company in Colorado Springs. I don't believe there is any gold here, but
they are holdin' the property as an investment. Seems like they expect
sometime to open this canyon to tourist trade to see some swell falls
that's up in it somewheres."
"O, is that so?" returned Mr. Allen. "Then you don't think there is any
gold here at all?"
"Nope, I don't, an' I'll tell ye why. Gold, as it's found in these parts,
runs in a strata of quartz. Now, there ain't no quartz in this range,
except on Cheyenne. The old-timer down at the inn says that there's gold
up here, an' he knows where it is, but you can't take no stock in these
old fellers. They're daft on the gold question."
Mr. Allen looked at his watch, then, turning to the fellows, he suggested
that they had better start for home. After a little more conversation the
two parties separated, one to camp for the night in the cabin, the other
to return to the city.
Willis motioned Mr. Allen to the back of the line as they worked their
way down the trail and into the park.
"The plot thickens," began Willis, with a queer little smile on his face.
Then with a slight chuckle he added: "To be more accurate, I suppose I
should say 'The plot thins.' Those are the two men that were at my
uncle's house the morning we started on this trip, and my uncle drew that
sketch--I'm sure of it. The heading was torn from the paper, but I feel
it in my bones that he was the artist. Those are the men that were doing
the assessment on my father's old claim on Cheyenne for my uncle. He
never dreamed of my seeing them here and knowing they were in his employ.
I understand now why he didn't want me to come on this trip. A coward is
always suspicious. I never would have put the two together in the wide
world if he hadn't made such a fuss about my coming. One thing is
absolutely certain--my Uncle Williams is crooked, and that isn't all,
either. My Uncle Williams owns that cabin, and we'll never get it for our
use in this wide world. What will the fellows say when they know it
belongs to my uncle and we can't get it? The cabin is ideal, and it could
be repaired with very little cost. It is isolated and in a beautiful
spot, and is the only thing we have found. Don't tell the fellows about
it, please, until I see what I can do. I'll do my very best."
"Now, look here, my boy; don't let that bother you," replied Mr. Allen.
"Wait. Don't trouble trouble till trouble troubles you. He hasn't
troubled you yet, he's just getting ready to. Let's beat him at his own
game. There are more ways than one to skin a cat."
"But how?" inquired Willis.
"Well, the first thing to do is to get the exact location of the cabin,
then go to the county recorder's office and see to whom the property
belongs. If it ever belonged to your father, as you are now disposed to
believe--"
"Yes, I'd bet my hat, Mr. Allen, that this is the very cabin that my
father and Tad Kieser built. O, how I 'd like to have it all for my very
own!" Mr. Allen interrupted him. "As I was saying, the records will show
very plainly if it was ever transferred or if it was anything but a lode
claim. If your father owned it, that settles it. Williams has nothing to
say about it. Placer claims can't be taken on deeded property. However,
let's not worry about it, but let's count it ours and work toward that
end."
"O my, if Tad were only here, we'd soon know a thing or two!" exclaimed
Willis.
"Now, boy, listen! Don't go home and spoil all this business. Keep still
about it until to-morrow, when we can get at the records and find out for
certain just what is what. Will you do that?" questioned Mr. Allen.
"I'll tell my mother," replied Willis, "and to-morrow I'll go with you."
The trail was winding back and forth through a great park of aspens. On
every side were prospect holes, remains of old cabins, and places where
the wilderness was again reclaiming her own after men had spent their
time, money, and energy attempting to force her to give up her gold.
At the top of the hogsback that over-looked Bruin Inn the fellows sat
down to rest. They were back in familiar territory, now, and the cabin
quest was nearly over.
"Of course, the very first thing to do," Ham was saying, "is to get in
stone and get our fireplace built before the frost comes. It will be a
simple matter--just throw down stones from the mountain; they are flat
slabs and will lay up very easily. We'll use that big, flat stone at
the end as a foundation, and run the chimney up outside the house--a real
big, life-sized one, too. And we want a grand old-fashioned crane in the
grate, and andirons of stone, and a big cement hearth."
"Going to do all your cooking in the fireplace?" asked Chuck.
"Not on your life," put in Fat. "We'll bring up our old camp stove, the
one we had on the trip last summer--it's a dandy."
"I've got the only stunt, though," said Ham. "Let's build a great big bed
on the rafters that run from wall to wall. We'll just cut a lot of
saplings and lay them in close and support the bed from the roof. After
it has about two feet of balsam boughs on it, it will be a choice roost,
I tell you that. I'm going to be architect and boss carpenter of that
job."
"Yes," said Mr. Allen gravely, "but it's not a fireplace, an aerial bunk,
or a place to eat that I'm thinking of. There is no use putting our time,
effort, and money into this place unless we can take care of at least
twenty fellows at a time, and how can we do it?"
"The eating won't be any trouble," advised Fat. "They will get enough to
eat some way--I always do." "We'll build an addition," suggested Phil, "a
bunk house addition. That will be easy; we can build it out where that
old back porch is, can't we? And say, talk about great logs, what's the
matter with those aspens right there ready for us?"
"We could buy tin dishes, but where is the money coming from? That is the
main question," said Mr. Allen. "Money," snorted Ham, "that will come if
we're in earnest, dead earnest. How about that circus? How much money do
we need, anyway?"
Mr. Allen drew out his note-book, and made some rapid calculations.
"Well, the very least that you can do with, fellows, is two hundred and
fifty dollars."
"Good-bye, fond dreams!" cried Fat tragically.
"Two hundred and fifty dollars!" exclaimed Phil and Ham together. "How
do you get that?"
"Well, cement and lime for the fireplace, freight to Fairview on boards,
shingles, furnishings, and so on; rent on donkeys to do the packing,
dishes, and pantry boxes, for everything will have to be kept in tin
boxes. Then you'll have to hire a mason to put in the fireplace. You'll
need axes, saws, and tools. I'll wager it won't cost a cent less than two
hundred dollars, and great loads of hard work."
"Hard fun, you mean," interrupted Phil.
As the evening shadows began to lengthen and the cool breeze to rise from
the snow-clad peaks of the Middle Range, the little group of explorers
dropped into the canyon and hurried home. All were very full of ideas and
suggestions except Willis. He had listened to their talk, but was saying
over and over to himself, "If it doesn't come true, it's my fault, or my
uncle's, and that's the same thing."