OFF FOR THE MINE
On a bright Spring morning, nearly a month after the recovery of the
map, a small but enthusiastic party of young prospectors left Fort Good
Faith, and started north on its exciting quest. In the lead went Toma,
the young Indian guide, and Dick Kent, now fully recovered from his
recent injury. Sandy MacClaren and two Indian packers, Lee and Pierre,
brought up the rear.
Three pack-horses, carrying supplies, blankets and equipment, trudged
along behind the packers. They were heavily laden and, considering the
fact that they had but recently come off the winter range, were in
excellent condition.
The route Dick and his friends followed was a narrow trail, which
threaded its way north by a little west through a practically unexplored
and uninhabited country. By following the trail, the party would, in a
few days, cross a low range of hills and emerge upon a trackless, broken
plain. This plain, according to the map, sloped away in a northwesterly
direction to Thunder River.
Thunder River, although not the boys’ final objective, was yet not very
far away from the location, presumed or real, of the lost mine. The map
was not very clear on this point. The small “X,” indicating the position
of the mine, had been placed the fractional part of an inch on the west
side of Thunder River. Whether the distance between the river and the
mine was one mile or ten, there was no way of ascertaining.
The boys conversed animatedly as they proceeded slowly along the trail.
The weather was mild. Here and there, were a few discolored patches of
snow. The ground was moist and cold, dotted with pools of water or
streaked with tiny rivulets that trickled audibly away to join other
streams in the steaming forest spaces beyond.
At exactly twelve o’clock by Dick’s watch, the party came to a halt for
its midday meal. After consulting the two packers, Dick had chosen a
small bluff, thickly covered with dry grass and almost devoid of trees,
as the best spot for the picketing out of the ponies. They could feed
and rest here for an hour.
“I’ve an appetite myself,” Sandy declared. He stood, watching the two
Indian boys, Pierre and Lee, remove the packs from the hungry little
steeds and stake them out near the top of the bluff.
Dick and Toma had already started a fire. The latter was carrying an
armful of brush, considerably larger than himself, and Dick, squatting
on his haunches, hunting knife in hand, was carving thick slices of
steak from a hind-quarter of moose he had fetched from the unloaded
packs. He looked up at Sandy’s approach.
“Here you, old lazybones, get a stir on if you expect to eat with the
rest of us. Just now I require two frying-pans, salt, kettle and a
liberal supply of water from that creek over yonder. You’ll find bannock
in the large canvas bag, tied with the yellow string.”
“I was just planning to put myself to work when you mentioned it,” Sandy
retorted. “Gee, but I’m hungry. I know blamed well from the way I feel
that our four-months’ supplies won’t last us more than a week.”
He trotted away without waiting to hear what Dick’s answer might be, and
in considerably less than half an hour the boys were seated around the
camp fire, eating their savory meal. At its conclusion, Dick stretched
himself out at full length, basking in the warm noonday sun.
“Well, Sandy,” he exulted, “we’re away to a start at last. Aren’t you
glad?”
“You bet I am,” came the hearty answer as the youngest member of the
expedition sprawled down beside his friend. “The only thing I’m sorry
about is that Uncle Walter couldn’t come along with us. He’s taking
inventory at the store, and it’ll be several weeks before he’ll be ready
to start.”
“A good thing in one way,” commented Dick. “When he comes he’ll bring
another string of packhorses and more supplies.”
“Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade promised to pay us a visit too,”
Sandy reminded him. “What were you three doing together last night?” he
suddenly demanded, sitting up and glowering down at the other.
“You think I’m secretive and selfish, I suppose,” Dick replied, “but
really there wasn’t anything so very mysterious about our little
meeting. You could have come into the room where we were if you had
cared to. I motioned to you when you passed down the hallway, but you
pretended not to see. You’re terribly stubborn at times, Sandy.”
“Not at all,” Sandy protested. “But I feel like this: I wouldn’t for the
world attempt to intrude where I’m not wanted. You and Corporal
Richardson and Malemute Slade went into that room without saying a word
to me. Not a word!”
The aggrieved young man carefully broke off the brown stem of a withered
pea-vine and crumpled it between the palms of his hands.
“As usual you weren’t around when we wanted you,” explained Dick. “I
looked everywhere. But as I said before, there was no particular secret
between us except—” Dick lowered his voice—“except that, at Corporal
Richardson’s suggestion, we made a second copy of the map. He took the
copy and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. In a day or two, when
he returns to headquarters, he’s going to hand it over to the Inspector
for safe-keeping.
“You can see for yourself,” Dick resumed, “that it was a wise
precaution. If the map we have with us should be lost or stolen, we’ll
still be able to find the mine.”
“Yes,” agreed Sandy, now fully recovered from his pique, “the plan was a
good one. The Inspector will give us the other copy if we lose ours. A
little delay, that’s all.”
“Just the same, I hope we don’t lose the map again. I’ll be pleased if
nothing happens this time. I’d like to make good time getting over to
the mine.”
That Dick’s wish gave every promise of being fulfilled, became more and
more apparent as the days passed. So far the little cavalcade had not
been molested. Through deep forests and across broad, seemingly endless
meadows they plodded hopefully, making very good progress. It seemed to
Dick that one rare and glorious day followed another. The sun shone
almost incessantly—a great, yellow, burning disc,—that had begun to work
miracles in the land, which only a few weeks before had been gripped in
the mighty hand of an implacable winter.
Continuing north and west, the country through which they passed became
more rugged and difficult. The trail they had followed came to an end.
There was no track, no outstanding landmark of any kind to guide them.
For five dismal days, consulting their compass from time to time, the
three boys with their packers and ponies struggled on over the scarred
and battered face of a land of utter desolation. Gray, towering,
misshapen rocks, rising up on every side, seemed to offer them mute
defiance.
“It’s as if they dared us to go on,” Sandy remarked. “I’m getting so I
hate the sight of them. I wonder, Dick, if we’ll ever manage to get
through?”
“Of course, we will,” Dick replied cheerily enough, although at heart he
was troubled. They could get through all right, they themselves, but the
packhorses——
He looked around at the struggling little beasts, who were slipping and
sliding over the treacherous slate and granite formation underfoot.
Their hoofs had been worn smooth as glass. One of them had become lame
and part of its burden had been transferred to the other ponies and to
the weary, chafed shoulders of the boys.
Since morning the two packers, Lee and Pierre, had shown the first
symptoms of open rebellion. Neither one could speak English, so their
complaints came to Dick and Sandy through the medium of Toma, who acted
as interpreter.
“Them fellows say ponies die if no find grass pretty quick. Ponies so
weak now can hardly stand up.”
It was true. There was no grass, or so very little, that it provided but
scant nourishment for the plodding, overworked animals. The soil was not
productive. Indeed, so far as the boys could determine, there was no
vegetation at all in that bleak and unfriendly waste. Dick and Sandy
pitied the horses but were powerless to do anything.
“Before long we’ll come to a place where the grass grows,” Dick stated,
attempting to cheer the packers.
Toma conveyed this message to the glowering pair but without result.
“They say no think so. Many, many miles yet before we reach ’em place
where grass grows.”
“The fools! The fools!” stormed Sandy, stamping his feet and glaring
about him. “What do they expect us to do: shoot the horses or
manufacture a lot of grass. The horses would surely starve if we turned
back now. Ask them what they want us to do, Toma?”
“They say go on no good,” Toma replied patiently, after he had put the
question. “Fellows say we must go back or pretty soon we all die.
Fellows say this bad medicine land.”
“Bad medicine or not, I’m going to take it,” exploded Sandy. “You tell
them, Toma, that if they don’t like our company or the place we’re
going, they’re at perfect liberty to quit, like the miserable cowards
they are, and return to the post.”
“No! No! Don’t tell them that,” Dick quickly interposed. “Ask them to
remain with us for a day or two longer. We’ll be sure to find forage for
the ponies before long.”
The packers protested but finally consented to remain. The little party
pushed forward. On and on It went through the glaring sunlight that fell
across that indescribable waste, Lee and Pierre shaking their heads and
muttering to themselves. Just before nightfall, Dick and Toma, who were
well in advance of the others, led the way down to a deep gulch, a sort
of miniature canyon, that stretched away before them as far as the eye
could see.
A few miles farther on, a tiny stream of pure, cold water gurgled down
from a cleft in the rocks.
“Grass here!” Toma shouted. “Plenty grass here for many horses.”
Dick breathed a sigh of relief as he unslung his shoulder-pack. The
horses came up at a brisk trot. Sandy, foot-sore and weary, the last
person to reach the friendly oasis in that desert of rocks, grinned at
sight of the green velvety strip that carpeted the entire floor of the
gulch.
“They’ll gorge themselves and die of colic,” he predicted. “Just look at
them, Dick!”
Dick laughed as he looked, then stepped back quickly, every ounce of
blood gone from his face. A strange whirring sound through the air, and
something had whisked past his head, striking the ground not more than
ten feet behind him. One of the ponies had snorted in sudden fear, and
Lee, the packer, reached out, plucking the still quivering shaft from
the ground at his feet.
Toma, ever on the alert, was the first to take the queer missile from
the packer’s trembling grasp.
“Look!” he said, holding it up. “An arrow!”
An arrow it was—a yellow arrow with a long shaft and a sharp head. Dick
and Sandy regarded it for a moment in blank amazement. Then both of the
boys jumped as a sudden, deafening report rang out.
Toma had fired his rifle. It lay now in the crook of his arm, and Toma
himself, one hand shading his eyes, scanned the rugged cliffs on the
opposite side of the ravine.
“Did you see something?” Dick quavered.
“Me not sure,” Toma spoke calmly. “One time I thought see something
move. Mebbe only sun shining on rocks. Anyway,” he paused, smiling a
little, “him fellow shoot arrow be frightened now at big noise an’ run
away, I think.”
“I hope so,” said Dick, endeavoring to control the tremor in his voice
and trying to appear unconcerned.
Sandy’s face was pale but he said nothing as he walked over to the
supply packs and commenced to haul them out in preparation for supper.
On the following morning, when Dick awoke, there was no sign, no
indication anywhere of their mysterious enemy of the night before. In
the bright presence of a new day, it seemed scarcely possible that the
thing really could have happened. The fear and dread he had experienced
before retiring for the night, was gone. The bright rays of the sun were
friendly and reassuring. There was something peaceful and comforting in
the sight of the green strip of grass growing there in the ravine, and
in the sound of the water tumbling down from the rocks.
Lighted-heartedly, he threw back his blankets and jumped up, only to
meet the troubled gaze of Toma, who sat, fully dressed, a few feet away,
his rifle in his lap.
“What’s the matter, Toma?” Dick cried jovially. “You look as if you’d
lost your best friend.”
The guide replied by pointing in the direction of the pack-horses. Dick
turned his head quickly. A few feet away, two of the ponies were
munching the grass, straining at their picket ropes.
“Where’s the other one?” he asked.
“It go along with Lee and Pierre sometime last night,” Toma answered
disconsolately. “Them fellows ’fraid like coyotes. Take supplies along
too—nearly half. What you think about that?”
What Dick thought was best expressed in his sudden exclamation:
“The miserable, cowardly thieves! Toma, I’ve a mind to go and fetch ’em
back.”
“No catch ’em now,” pointed out the more practical Toma. “I no feel
sorry very much they go. But the supplies—I no like that.”
“You’re right! Good riddance!” Dick walked over to the small stream of
running water and commenced washing his face and hands. “We’ll make out
very well without them.”
“I hate wake Sandy,” said Toma. “Him get so mad mebbe no stop talking.”
Dick laughed, not so very heartily, and went on with his task.