THE OUTER TRAIL
A profound silence lay over Big Draw mining camp as Frontier Samson and
Tom Reynolds slipped quietly away among the hills. The sun had not yet
lifted itself above the horizon, but the speediness of its coming was
heralded in the eastern sky, and the tallest mountain peaks had already
caught the first shafts of its virgin glory. The valleys were still
robed in semi-darkness, and the two wayfarers seemed like mere spectres
as they sped forward.
"My, this is great!" Reynolds exclaimed as he at length stopped to
readjust his pack. "I believe I should live to be a hundred or over if
I could breathe air like this all the time. It's a fine tonic."
"It sure is," Samson agreed, as he laid aside his rifle and pulled out
his pipe. "Not much like the smell of yer city streets, whar ye
swaller hundreds of disease germs every second."
"Have you ever lived there?" Reynolds asked, curious to learn something
of the old man's history.
"Long enough to know what they're like. I've poked me nose into a good
many cities, an' they're all the same, to my way of thinkin'. It's a
wonder to me why so many people live in sich places, crowded, together
like sheep, when thar's all this, an' millions of places like it, whar
ye kin breathe the air as the Lord made it, an' not fouled by the work
of human bein's."
"You are very fond of this wild life, I see," Reynolds replied. "Have
you lived here many years?"
The prospector threw aside his burnt match, gave his pack an extra
hitch, picked up his rifle and moved forward.
"Guess we'd better git on," he said. "Thar's a little brook we want to
reach in time fer dinner. Ye don't find much water in these valleys."
Reynolds moved along by his companion's side, wondering why he did not
answer his question. It was not until they were eating their dinner by
the side of the brook did Samson vouchsafe any information.
"Ye asked me if I've been long in this country," he began. "My reply
may seem strange to you, but it's true. Judgin' by years, I've been
here a long time, but, accordin' to life, only a little while. I uster
reckon things by years, but I don't do that any longer."
"No?" Reynolds looked quizzically at his companion.
"I don't count time by years, young man, an' the sooner ye larn to do
the same the better it'll be fer ye. In the cities ye find clocks an'
watches everywhere, an' they all remind people that time is passin'.
Ye kin hardly walk along a street hut ye'll see funeral processions,
an' the doctors are busy with the sick. Big hospitals are crowded with
patients, an' accidents happen every minute of the day. These all tell
that life is brief an' unsartin. The feelin' gits in the blood an' on
the nerves that death is right near, an' as people think, so they are.
Age an' health are accordin' to the mind, an' don't ye ever fergit
that."
Samson paused and looked around.
"See them big mountains," and he pointed away to the left. "A man kin
never feel old with them on every side. They don't remind ye of the
passin' of time an' of dyin'. They're jist the same as they were
thousands of years ago. An' so it's purty much like that with other
things up here. I never feel old when I look around me on the
wonderful sights; I feel young. An' why shouldn't I? Thar's so much
to do, an' so many things to see an' larn that I haven't time to think
of dyin'. Life after all, as I said, ain't to be judged by years, but
by love of livin'."
Samson seemed to be on his pet theme, and he continued his talk as he
and Reynolds again resumed their journey. Several times the latter
endeavored to find out something about the old man's past history, but
all in vain. The prospector gave him not the slightest information
concerning himself, but discoursed volubly about the difference between
the ways of the city and the wilderness.
"Money ain't everything," he declared, "even though some seem to think
it is. It has its uses, I acknowledge, but it was never meant to
starve the soul, though that is jist what it too often does. I know of
men who sacrificed everything to the pilin' up of money, even love,
without which life ain't worth a straw."
"Have you been able to find love here in the north?" Reynolds asked.
"Thar are different kinds of love, young man," was the somewhat slow
and thoughtful reply. "The brand you mean, if I understand ye aright,
I've never experienced in this country, an' in fact, I never expect to
find it agin on this side of the grave. It's the pure love of a true
man fer a good woman, I mean. I believe you have it, an' yer to be
congratulated. It's the most wonderful thing in life. Even the love
of children, though it is great, kin never equal it. It's in a class
all by itself."
"But suppose the love isn't mutual, what then?" Reynolds asked.
"That'd be a pity, an' no mistake. Are ye referrin' to yer own case?"
"I certainly am. I am positive that the only woman in the world I want
cares nothing for me. She does not even know my name, while I--oh,
well, you know how I feel toward her."
"Jist keep up courage an' plod along, that's my advice. If she's meant
fer you, ye'll win her all right. I'm a great believer in the idea
that our own'll come to us some day, an' often in ways we least expect.
But, hello! what's that?"
The trail on which they were now walking wound along the side of a deep
valley, through which flowed a small stream. Samson was looking across
toward the opposite bank, and as Reynolds turned his eyes in that
direction he saw an Indian on horseback as motionless as the trees
around him. He was facing the two travellers, and apparently he had
been watching them for some time.
"Where do you suppose he has come from, and what does he want?"
Reynolds asked.
His companion's only reply was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and
fire two shots in rapid succession across the valley toward the
horseman, neither of which took effect. The Indian quickly unslung his
rifle, fired one shot in return, and immediately vanished into the
forest.
"Is that the best you can do?" Reynolds asked. "You should have let me
have a crack at him."
"Me aim's unsartin to-day," was the reply. "I don't allus miss like
that."
"But why did you shoot, anyway? The Indian was doing us no harm."
"He was skulkin' around, though, an' I jist gave him a hint to move
along."
"So you didn't intend to shoot him?"
"Oh, no. It was merely a hint, as I told ye."
"A queer hint, I should say," and Reynolds laughed. "Manners of the
wilderness, I suppose?"
"Sure. We don't stand on ceremony up here. We're a bluff bunch, an'
if we don't like a feller's company we tell him so without beatin'
around the bush."
"And did the Indian understand your meaning?"
"Y'bet he did. He took my shots as sayin', 'Good day. How are the
missus an' the kids? Mebbe they need ye.' His shot in reply jist
said, 'Thank ye; mebbe they do.' That was all."
Reynolds laughed at this quaint explanation, although he felt certain
that Samson was not telling him the truth. He said nothing about it,
however, and the prospector did not refer to it again. But Reynolds
had the feeling that his companion and the Indian understood each
other, and that the shots they had fired were signals, the meaning of
which was known only to themselves. Who was this Frontier Samson? he
mused. Was he in some manner in league with the Indians? Why had he
taken such an interest in him, a complete stranger, and a chechahco at
that? Why should he wish to reveal to him the secret of his gold
discovery? He could not for a moment think that Samson had any evil
purpose in mind, but as he thought it all over during the remainder of
the afternoon, he felt that there was something very peculiar and
mysterious about it all.
This feeling was intensified that first night on the trail. They
camped by a little stream, where the trees stood thick, and larger than
on the uplands. They had shot a couple of grouse on their way, and
these Samson prepared for supper.
"I'll jist cook both of 'em," he remarked, "an' what we don't eat
to-night will be fine warmed up to-morrow."
"I should like to get a moose," Reynolds declared. "I haven't shot one
since I came north."
"Don't do it, young man, unless ye kin git nuthin' else," Samson
advised. "A moose is a purty big animal, an' we could tote only a
little piece of its carcass. The rest we'd have to leave to spile.
I've allus made a practice of shootin' something that I kin clean up in
a few meals. Some critters, who call 'emselves men, shoot everything
in sight, an' leave it to spile. That is wasteful slaughter, an' not
true sport."
Reynolds was glad to roll himself up in his blanket that night, for he
was tired after his day's tramp, with a heavy pack on his back. Samson
did likewise, and soon silence reigned in the deep forest, broken only
by the ripple of the brook a short distance away. It was a calm night,
mild, and with not a breath of wind astir.
Some time during the night Reynolds awoke with a start. He sat up and
looked around. It was light enough for him to see that his companion
was gone, and he believed that it was his footsteps that had aroused
him. After waiting for some time and nothing happened, he once again
stretched himself out upon the ground. But he could not sleep. What
was the meaning of Samson's departure? he wondered. Had it anything to
do with the Indian they had seen that day across the ravine? The more
he thought of it, the more mystified he became. How long he thus lay
there with every sense alert, he did not know, though it seemed a long
time before the prospector at last returned. Reynolds pretended that
he was asleep, but his suspicions were now firmly confirmed when the
old man bent over him for a few seconds as if to make sure that he was
not awake.
Reynolds did not refer to the incident the next day, and Samson made no
mention of it. The latter was in excellent spirits, and talked freely
as they moved on their way. That night they halted, and made ready
their camp by the side of a small lake. It was a peaceful and
beautiful spot. Not a ripple ruffled the surface of the water, and the
trees along the shore were mirrored in the clear depths. Reynolds was
delighted, and he expressed his admiration to his companion.
"Isn't this great!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen anything to equal
it! It is a matchless gem, with a perfect setting."
"Yes, it sartinly is wonderful," the prospector drawled. "An' I'm glad
ye like it. Guess thar should be ducks over yonder," and he motioned
to the upper end of the lake. "A good fat feller'd be nice fer dinner
to-morrow."
Picking up his rifle, he disappeared among the trees, and in another
minute his light tread was unheard. Reynolds stood for some time
viewing the scene before him. He longed for his paints and brushes
that he might catch the impressions ere they faded. Unfortunately he
had left them behind, so he had to satisfy himself with feasting his
soul instead.
At length he turned and walked back to their camping ground. He had
just reached the place when a magnificent moose trotted majestically by
but a short distance away. Forgotten was Samson's admonition about the
shooting of big game, so seizing his rifle, he slipped quickly and
quietly after the big animal. The latter had already passed out of
sight, but expecting to catch a glimpse of it at any instant, Reynolds
hastened forward. This led him down into a valley, and there he saw
the moose in a small open clearing to the left. Before he was near
enough to shoot, the animal once more vanished among the trees. The
fever of the chase was now upon him, and unheeding his bearings, he
pressed rapidly on, expecting every minute to come in sight of the
lordly creature. But he was doomed to disappointment, and most
reluctantly he was compelled to relinquish the pursuit.
Reynolds had no definite idea how far he had travelled, nor the
direction he had taken. So intent had he been upon following the
moose, that he had lost all trace of his bearings, and he knew not the
way back to the camp. This was a most disquieting situation, and he
chided himself for his stupidity. Night was also upon him, and this
added to his perplexity.
"What a mess I have made of it!" he growled. "In this labyrinth of
valleys, hills, trees, and wild meadows, how in the name of common
sense am I to find that speck of camping ground? It must lie over
there," and he looked away to his right. "The sun was before me when I
started, and by keeping due east I should come somewhere near the
place."
For over an hour he plowed his way through the forest, up hill and
down, each moment expecting to see the lake for which he was searching.
His efforts, however, were all in vain, so wearied almost to the point
of exhaustion, and with clothes torn, hands and face bleeding, he was
forced to give up for the night.
Sinking upon the ground, he tried to calm the agitated state of his
mind. From the first he had realised his serious predicament, and how
difficult it would be to extricate himself from that vast wilderness.
"I can't go any farther to-night," he declared, "so I might as well
make the best of a bad affair. I have my rifle, and that's some
comfort. I needn't starve, anyway, even though I am lost."
He felt for his cartridge belt, and immediately he gave a great start
of dismay. It was not there! Then he remembered that he had taken it
off when pitching camp that night by the shore of the lake. With
trembling hands he next examined the magazine of his rifle, and found
that but three cartridges were left, as he had fired two shots in the
hope of attracting Frontier Samson's attention. This was a serious
situation, and he realised that upon those three remaining cartridges
his life depended.