But it was not necessary to borrow Connor’s steed after all, for when we stepped outside the cabin, there were our own ponies coming up the road. The halters were fastened up round their necks, and they showed evident signs of having been run hard some time during the morning. Presumably Yetmore had abandoned them somewhere on the road and they had walked leisurely back.
“Well, boys,” said Connor, “we may as well all start together now; but as your ponies have had a good morning’s work already, we can’t expect to make the whole distance this evening. We’ll stop over night at Thornburg’s, twentymiles down, and go on again first thing in the morning.”
This we did, and by ten o’clock we reached home, where the first person we encountered was my father.
“Well, Tom,” he cried, as the miner slipped down from his horse. “So you made a strike, did you?”
At this Tom opened his eyes pretty widely. “How did you know?” he asked.
“I didn’t know,” my father replied, smiling, “but I guessed. Does it amount to much?”
“Well, no, I can’t say it does,” Tom replied, as he covered his mouth with his hand to hide the grin which would come to the surface. “Yetmore’s been here, I suppose?” he added, inquiringly.
“Yes, he has,” answered my father, surprised in his turn. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I just thought he might have, that’s all.”
“Yes, he was here yesterday afternoon. I sold him my one-third share.”
“Did you?” asked Tom, eagerly. “I hope you got a good price.”
“Yes, I made a very satisfactory bargain. I traded my share for his thirty acres here, so thatnow, at last, I own the whole of Crawford’s Basin, I’m glad to say.”
“Bully!” cried Tom, clapping his hands together with a report which made his pony shy. “That’s great! Tell us about it, Mr. Crawford.”
“Why, Yetmore rode in yesterday afternoon, as I told you, on his way to town—he said. But I rather suspected the truth of his statement. He had come in a desperate hurry, for his horse was in a lather, and if he was in such haste to get to town, why did he waste time talking to me, as he did for twenty minutes? But when, just as he was starting off again, he turned back and asked me if I wanted to sell my share in the drill and claim, I knew that that was what he had come about, and I had a strong suspicion that he had heard of a strike of some sort and was trying to get the better of me. So when he asked what I wanted for my share, I said I would take his thirty acres, and in spite of his protestations that I was asking far too much, I stuck to it. The final result was that I rode on with him to town, where we exchanged deeds and the bargain was completed.”
“That’s great!” exclaimed Connor once more,rubbing his hands. “And now I’ll tell you our part of the story.”
When he had finished, my father stood thinking for a minute, and then said: “Well, the deal will have to stand. Yetmore believed we had a three-foot vein of galena, and it is perfectly evident that he meant to get my share out of me at a trifling price before I was aware of its value. It was a shabby trick. If he had dealt squarely with me, I would have offered to give him back his deed, but, as it is, I shan’t. The deal will have to stand.”
Thus it was that my father became sole owner of Crawford’s Basin.
The fact that he had lost his little all in the core-boring venture did not trouble Tom Connor in the least; the money was gone, and as worrying about it would not bring it back, Tom decided not to worry. The same thing had happened to him many a time before, for his system of life was to work in the mines until he had accumulated a respectable sum, and then go off prospecting till such time as the imminence of starvation drove him back again to regular work.
It was so in this case; and being known all over the district as a skilful miner, his specialty being timber-work, he very soon got a good job on the Pelican as boss timberman on a section of that important mine.
One effect of Tom’s getting work on the Pelican was that he secured for Joe and me an order for lagging—small poles used in the mines to hold up the ore and waste—and our potato-crop being gathered and marketed, my father gave uspermission to go off and earn some extra money for ourselves by filling the order which Tom’s kindly thoughtfulness had secured for us.
The place we had chosen as the scene of our operations was on the northern slope of Elkhorn Mountain, which lay next south of Mount Lincoln, and one bright morning in the late fall Joe and I packed our bedding and provisions into a wagon borrowed from my father and set out.
We had chosen this spot, after making a preliminary survey for the purpose, partly because the growth of timber was—as it nearly always is—much thicker on the northern slopes of Elkhorn than on the south side of Lincoln, and also because, being a rather long haul, it had not yet been encroached upon by the timber-cutters of Sulphide.
On a little branch creek of the stream which ran through Sulphide we selected a favorable spot and went to work. It was rather high up, and the country being steep and rocky, we had to make our camp about a mile below our working-ground, snaking out the poles as we cut them. This, of course, was a rather slow process, but it had its compensation in the fact that from the footof the mountain nearly all the way to Sulphide our course lay across the Second Mesa, which was fairly smooth going, and as it was down hill for the whole distance we could haul a very big load when we did start. In due time we filled our contract and received our pay, after which, by advice of Tom Connor, we branched out on another line of the same business.
Being unable to get a second contract, and being, in fact, afraid to take one if we could get it on account of the lateness of the season—for the snow might come at any moment and prevent our carrying it out—we consulted Tom, who suggested that we put in the rest of the fine weather cutting big timbers, hauling them to town, and storing them on a vacant lot, or, what would be better, in somebody’s back yard.
“For,” said he, “though the Pelican and most of the other mines have their supplies for the winter on hand or contracted for, it is always likely they may want a few more stulls or other big timbers than they think. I’ll keep you in mind, and if I hear of any such I’ll try and make a deal for you, either for the whole stick or cut in lengths to order.”
As this seemed like good sense to us, we atonce went off to find a storage place, a quest in which we were successful at the first attempt.
Among my father’s customers was the widow Appleby, who conducted a small grocery store on a side street in town. She was accustomed to buy her potatoes from us, and my father, knowing that she had a hard struggle to make both ends meet, had always been very easy with her in the matter of payment, giving her all the time she needed.
This act of consideration had its effect, for, when we went to her and suggested that she rent us her back yard for storage purposes, she readily assented, and not only refused to take any rent, but gave us as well the use of an old stable which stood empty on the back of her lot.
This was very convenient for us, for though a twenty-foot pole, measuring twelve inches at the butt is not the sort of thing that a thief would pick up and run away with, it was less likely that he would attempt it from an enclosed back yard than if the poles were stored in an open lot. Besides this, a stable rent-free for our mules, and a loft above it rent-free for ourselves to sleep in was a great accommodation.
Returning to the Elkhorn, therefore, we went to work in a new place, a place where some time previously a fire had swept through a strip of the woods, killing the trees, but leaving them standing, stark and bare, but still sound as nuts—just the thing we wanted. Our chief difficulty this time was in getting the felled timbers out from amidst their fellows—for the dead trees were very thick and the mountain-side very steep—but by taking great care we accomplished this without accident. The loading of these big “sticks” would have been an awkward task, too, had we not fortunately found a cut bank alongside of which we ran our wagon, and having snaked the logs into place upon the bank we skidded them across the gap into the wagon without much difficulty.
We had made three loads, and the fine weather still holding, we had gone back for a fourth and last one, when, having got our logs in place on the cut bank all ready to load, Joe and I, after due consultation, decided that we would take a day off and climb up to the saddle which connected the two mountains. We had never been up there before, and we were curious to see what the country was like on the other side.
Knowing that it would be a long and hard climb, we started about sunrise, taking a rifle with us; not that we expected to use it, but because it is not good to be entirely defenseless in those wild, out-of-the-way places. Following at first our little creek, we went on up and up, taking it slowly, until presently the pines began to thin out, the weather-beaten trees, gnarled, twisted and stunted, becoming few and far between, and pretty soon we left even these behind and emerged upon the bare rocks above timber-line. Here, too, we left behind our little creek.
For another thousand feet we scrambled up the rocks, clambering over great boulders, picking our way along the edges of little precipices, until at last we stood upon the summit of the saddle.
To right and left were the two great peaks, still three thousand feet above us, but westward the view was clear. As far as we could see—and that, I expect, was near two hundred miles—were ranges and masses of mountains, some of them already capped with snow, a magnificent sight.
“That is fine!” cried Joe, enthusiastically. “It’s well worth the trouble of the climb. Ionly wish we had a map so that we could tell which range is which.”
“Yes, it’s a great sight,” said I. “And the view eastward is about as fine, I think. Look! That cloud of smoke, due east about ten miles away, comes from the smelters of San Remo, and that other smoke a little to the left of it is where the coal-mines are. There’s the ranch, too, that green spot in the mesa; you wouldn’t think it was nearly a mile square, would you?”
“That’s Sulphide down there, of course,” remarked Joe, pointing off towards the right. “But what are those other, smaller, clouds of smoke?”
“Those are three other little mining-camps, all tributary to the smelters at San Remo, and all producing refractory ores like the mines of Sulphide. My! Joe!” I exclaimed, as my thoughts reverted to Tom Connor and his late core-boring failure. “What a great thing a good vein of lead ore would be! Better than a gold mine!”
“I expect it would. Poor old Tom! He bears his disappointment pretty well, doesn’t he?”
“He certainly does. He says, now, that he’s going to stick to straightforward mining and leave prospecting alone; but he’s said that everyyear for the past ten years at least, and if there’s anything certain about Tom it is that when spring comes and he finds himself once more with money in his pocket, he’ll be off again hunting for his lead-mine.”
“Sure to. Well, Phil, let’s sit down somewhere and eat our lunch. We mustn’t stay here too long.”
“All right. Here’s a good place behind this big rock. It will shelter us from the east wind, which has a decided edge to it up here.”
For half an hour we sat comfortably in the sun eating our lunch, all around us space and silence, when Joe, rising to his feet, gave vent to a soft whistle.
“Phil,” said he, “we must be off. No time to waste. Look eastward.”
I jumped up. A wonderful change had taken place. The view of the plains was completely cut off by masses of soft cloud, which, coming from the east, struck the mountain-side about two thousand feet below us and were swiftly and softly drifting up to where we stood.
“Yes, we must be off,” said I. “It won’t do to be caught up here in the clouds: it would be dangerous getting down over the rocks. Andbesides that, it might turn cold and come on to snow. Let us be off at once.”
It was fortunate we did so, for, though we traveled as fast as we dared, the cloud, coming at first in thin whisps and then in dense masses, enveloped us before we reached timber-line, and the difficulty we experienced in covering the small intervening space showed us how risky it would have been had the cloud caught us while we were still on the summit of the ridge.
As it was, we lost our bearings immediately, for the chilly mist filled all the spaces between the trees, so that we could not see more than twenty yards in any direction. As to our proper course, we could tell nothing about it, so that the only thing left for us to do was to keep on going down hill. We expected every moment to see or hear our little creek, but we must have missed it somehow, for, though we ought to have reached it long before, we had been picking our way over loose rocks and fallen trees for two hours before we came upon a stream—whether the right or the wrong one we could not tell. Right or wrong, however, we were glad to see it, for by following it we should sooner or later reach the foot of the mountain and get below the cloud.
But to follow it was by no means easy: the country was so unexpectedly rough—a fact which convinced us that we had struck the wrong creek. As we progressed, we presently found ourselves upon the edge of a little cañon which, being too steep to descend, obliged us to diverge to the left, and not only so, but compelled us to go up hill to get around it, which did not suit us at all.
After a time, however, we began to go down once more, but though we kept edging to the right we could not find our creek again. The fog, too, had become more dense than ever, and whether our faces were turned north, south or east we had no idea.
We were going on side by side, when suddenly we were astonished to hear a dog bark, somewhere close by; but though we shouted and whistled there was no reply.
“It must be a prospector’s dog,” said Joe, “and the man himself must be underground and can’t hear us.”
“Perhaps that’s it,” I replied. “Well, let’s take the direction of the sound—if we can. It seemed to me to be that way,” pointing with my hand. “I wish the dog would bark again.”
The dog, however, did not bark again, but instead there happened another surprising thing. We were walking near together, carefully picking our way, when suddenly a big raven, coming from we knew not where, flew between us, so close that we felt the flap of his wings and heard their softfluff-fluffin the moisture-laden air, and disappeared again into the fog before us with a single croak.
It was rather startling, but beyond that we thought nothing of it, and on we went again, until Joe stopped short, exclaiming:
“Phil, I smell smoke!”
I stopped, too, and gave a sniff. “So do I,” I said; “and there’s something queer about it. It isn’t plain wood-smoke. What is it?”
“Sulphur,” replied Joe.
“Sulphur! So it is. What can any one be burning sulphur up here for? Anyhow, sulphur or no sulphur, some one must have lighted the fire, so let us follow the smoke.”
We had not gone far when we perceived the light of a fire glowing redly through the fog, and hurried on, expecting to find some man beside it.
But not only was there nobody about, whichwas surprising enough, but the fire itself was something to arouse our curiosity. Beneath a large, flat stone, supported at the corners by four other stones, was a hot bed of “coals,” while upon the stone itself was spread a thin layer of black sand. It was from these grains of sand, apparently, that the smell of sulphur came; though what they were or why they should be there we could not guess.
We were standing there, wondering, when, suddenly, close behind us, the dog barked again. Round we whirled. There was no dog there! Instead, perched upon the stump of a dead tree, sat a big black raven, who eyed us as though enjoying our bewilderment. Bewildered we certainly were, and still more so when the bird, after staring us out of countenance for a few seconds, cocked his head on one side and said in a hoarse voice:
“Gim’me a chew of tobacco!”
And then, throwing back his head, he produced such a perfect imitation of the howl of a coyote, that a real coyote, somewhere up on the mountain, howled in reply.
All this—the talking raven, the mysterious fire, the encompassing shroud of fog—made uswonder whether we were awake or asleep, when we were still more startled by a voice behind us saying, genially:
“Good-evening, boys.”
Round we whirled once more, to find standing beside us a man, a tall, bony, bearded man, about fifty years old, carrying in his hand a long, old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifle. He was dressed all in buckskin, while the moccasins on his feet explained how it was he had been able to slip up on us so silently.
Naturally, we were somewhat taken aback by the sudden appearance of this wild-looking specimen of humanity, when, thinking that he had alarmed us, perhaps, the man asked, pleasantly: “Lost, boys?”
“Yes,” I replied, reassured by his kindly manner. “We have been up to the saddle and got caught in the clouds. We don’t know where we are. We are trying to get back to our camp on a branch of Sulphide creek.”
“Ah! You are the two boys I’ve seen cutting timbers down there, are you? Well, your troubles are over: I can put you on the road to your camp in an hour or so; I know every foot of these mountains.”
“But come in,” he continued. “I suppose you are hungry, and a little something to eat won’t be amiss.”
When the man said, “Come in,” we naturally glanced about us to see where his house was, but none being visible we concluded it must be some distance off in the mist. In this, however, we were mistaken. The side of the mountain just here was covered with enormous rocks—a whole cliff must have tumbled down at once—and between two of these our guide led the way. In a few steps the passage widened out, when we saw before us, neatly fitted in between three of these immense blocks of stone—one on either side and one behind—a little log cabin, with chimney, door and window all complete; while just to one side was another, a smaller one, which was doubtless a storehouse. Past his front door ran a small stream of water which evidently fell from a cliff near by, for, though we could not see the waterfall we could hear it plainly enough.
“Well!” I exclaimed. “Whoever would have thought there was a house in here?”
“No one, I expect,” replied the man. “At any rate, with one exception, you are the firststrangers to cross the threshold; and yet I have lived here a good many years, too. Come in and make yourselves at home.”
Though we wondered greatly who our host could be and were burning to ask him his name, there was something in his manner which warned us to hold our tongues. But whatever his name might be, there was little doubt about his occupation. He was evidently a mighty hunter, for, covering the walls, the floor and his sleeping-place were skins innumerable, including foxes, wolves and bears, some of the last-named being of remarkable size; while one magnificent elk-head and several heads of mountain-sheep adorned the space over his fireplace.
Our host having lighted a fire, was busying himself preparing a simple meal for us, when there came a gentle cough from the direction of the doorway, and there on the threshold stood the raven as though waiting for permission to enter.
The man turned, and seeing the bird standing there with its head on one side, said, laughingly: “Ah, Sox, is that you? Come in, old fellow, and be introduced. These gentlemen are friends of mine. Say ‘Good-morning.’”
“‘AH, SOX, IS THAT YOU?’”“‘AH, SOX, IS THAT YOU?’”
“Good-morning,” repeated the raven; and having thus displayed his good manners, he half-opened his wings and danced a solemn jig up and down the floor, finally throwing back his head and laughing so heartily that we could not help joining in.
“Clever fellow, isn’t he?” said the man. “His proper name is Socrates, though I call him Sox, for short. He is supposed to be getting on for a hundred years old, though as far as I can see he is just as young as he was when I first got him, twenty years ago. Here,”—handing us each a piece of meat—“give him these and he will accept you as friends for life.”
Whether he accepted us as friends remained to be seen, but he certainly accepted our offerings, bolting each piece at a single gulp; after which he hopped up on to a peg driven into the wall, evidently his own private perch, and announced in a self-satisfied tone: “First in war, first in peace,” ending up with a modest cough, as though he would have us believe that he knew the rest well enough but was not going to trouble us with any such threadbare quotation.
This solemn display of learning set us laughing again, upon which Socrates, seeminglyoffended, sank his head between his shoulders and pretended to go to sleep; though, that it was only pretense was evident, for, do what he would, he could not refrain from occasionally opening one eye to see what was going on.
Having presently finished the meal provided for us, we suggested that we ought to be moving on, so, bidding adieu to Socrates, and receiving no response from that sulky philosopher, we followed our host into the open.
That he had not exaggerated when he said he knew every foot of these mountains, seemed to be borne out by the facts. He went straight away, regardless of the fog, up hill and down, without an instant’s hesitation, we trotting at his heels, until, in about an hour we found ourselves once more below the clouds, and could see not far away our two mules quietly feeding.
“Now,” said our guide, “I’ll leave you. If ever you come my way again I shall be glad to see you; though I expect it would puzzle you to find my dwelling unless you should come upon it by accident. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” we repeated, “and many thanks for your kindness. If we can do anything inreturn at any time we shall be glad of the chance. We live in Crawford’s Basin.”
“Oh, do you?” said our friend. “You are Mr. Crawford’s boys, then, are you? Well, many thanks. I’ll remember. And now, good-bye to you.”
With that, this strange man turned round and walked up into the clouds again. In two minutes he had vanished.
“Well, that was a queer adventure,” remarked Joe. “I wonder who he is, and why he chooses to live all by himself like that.”
“Yes. It’s a miserable sort of existence for such a man; for he seems like a sociable, good-hearted fellow. It isn’t every one, for instance, who would walk three or four miles over these rough mountains just to help a couple of boys, whom he never saw before and may never see again. I wish we could make him some return.”
“Well, perhaps we may, some day,” Joe replied.
Whether we did or not will be seen later.
Though we got back to camp pretty late, we set to work to load our poles at once, fearing that there was going to be a fall of snow which might prevent our getting them to town. This turned out to be a wise precaution, for when we started in the morning the snow was already coming down, and though it did not extend as far as Sulphide, the mountains were covered a foot deep before night.
This fall of snow proved to be much to our advantage, for one of the timber contractors, fearing he might not be able to fill his order, bought our “sticks” from us, to be delivered, cut into certain lengths, at the Senator mine.
This occupied us several days, when, having delivered our last load, we thanked Mrs. Appleby for the use of her back yard—the only payment she would accept—and then set off home, where we proudly displayed to my father and mother the money we had earned and related how wehad earned it; including, of course, a description of our meeting with the wild man of the woods.
“And didn’t he tell you who he was?” asked my father, when we had finished.
“No,” I replied; “we were afraid to ask him, and he didn’t volunteer any information.”
“And you didn’t guess who he was?”
“No. Why should we? Who is he?”
“Why, Peter the Hermit, of course. I should have thought the presence of the raven would have enlightened you: he is always described as going about in company with a raven.”
“So he is. I’d forgotten that. But, on the other hand he is always described also as being half crazy, and certainly there was no sign of such a thing about him that we could see. Was there, Joe?”
“No. Nobody could have acted more sensibly. Who is he, Mr. Crawford? And why does he live all by himself like that?”
“I know nothing about him beyond common report. I suppose his name is Peter—though it may not be—and because he chooses to lead a secluded life, some genius has dubbed him ‘Peter the Hermit’; though who he really is,or why he lives all alone, or where he comes from, I can’t say. Some people say he is crazy, and some people say he is an escaped criminal—but then people will say anything, particularly when they know nothing about it. Judging from the reports of the two or three men who have met him, however, he appears to be quite inoffensive, and evidently he is a friendly-disposed fellow from your description of him. If you should come across him again you might invite him to come down and see us. I don’t suppose he will, but you might ask him, anyhow.”
“All right,” said I. “We will if we get the chance.” And so the matter ended.
It was just as well that we returned to the ranch when we did, for we found plenty of work ready to our hands, the first thing being the hauling of fire-wood for the year. To procure this, it was not necessary for us to go to the mountains: our supply was much nearer to hand. The whole region round about us had been at some remote period the scene of vigorous volcanic action. Both the First and Second Mesas were formed by a series of lava-flows which had come down from Mount Lincoln,and ending abruptly about eight miles from the mountains, had built up the cliff which bounded the First Mesa on its eastern side. Then, later, but still in a remote age, a great strip of this lava-bed, a mile wide and ten or twelve miles long, north and south, had broken away and subsided from the general level, forming what the geologists call, I believe, a “fault,” thus causing the “step-up” to the Second Mesa. The Second Mesa, because the lava had been hotter perhaps, was distinguished from the lower level by the presence of a number of little hills—“bubbles,” they were called, locally, and solidified bubbles of hot lava perhaps they were. They were all sorts of sizes, from fifty to four hundred feet high and from a hundred yards to half a mile in diameter. Viewed from a distance, they looked smooth and even, like inverted bowls, though when you came near them you found that their sides were rough and broken. I had been to the top of a good many of them, and all of those I had explored I had found to be depressed in the centre like little craters. From some of them tiny streams of water ran down, helping to swell the volume of our creek.
Most of these so-called “bubbles,” especially the larger ones, were well covered with pine-trees, and as there were three or four of them within easy reach of the ranch, it was here that we used to get our fire-wood.
There was a good week’s work in this, and after it was finished there was more or less repairing of fences to be done, as there always is in the fall, and the usual mending of sheds, stables and corrals.
The weather by this time had turned cold, and “the bottomless forty rods” having been frozen solid enough to bear a load, Joe and I were next put to work hauling oats down to the livery stable men in San Remo, as well as up to Sulphide.
Before this task was accomplished the winter had set in in earnest. We had had one or two falls of snow, though in our sheltered Basin the heat of the sun was still sufficient to clear off most of it again, and the frost had been sharp enough to freeze up our creek at its sources, so that our little waterfall was now converted into a motionless icicle. Fortunately, we were not dependent upon the creek for the household supply of water: we had one pump which neverfailed in the back kitchen and another one down by the stables.
The creek having ceased to run, the surface of the pool was no longer agitated by the water pouring into it, and very soon it was solidly frozen over with a sheet of ice twelve inches thick, when, according to our yearly custom, we proceeded to cut this ice and stow it away in the ice-house; having previously been up to the sawmill near Sulphide and brought away, for packing purposes, several wagon-loads of sawdust, which the sawmill men readily gave us for nothing, being glad to have it hauled out of their way. We had taken the opportunity to do this when we took our loads of oats up to Sulphide, thus utilizing the empty wagons on the return trip.
The pool, as I have said, measured about a hundred feet each way, though on account of its shallowness around the edges we could only cut ice over a surface about fifty feet square. Being frozen a foot thick, however, this gave us an ample supply for all our needs.
The labor of cutting, hauling and housing the ice fell to Joe and me, my father having generally plenty of other work to do. He had taken ina number of young cattle for a neighboring cattleman for the winter, and having sold him the bulk of our hay crop and at the same time undertaken to feed the stock, this daily duty alone took up a large part of his time. Besides this, “the forty rods” having become passable, the freighters and others now came our way instead of taking the longer hill-road, and their frequent demands for a sack, or a load, of oats, and now and then for hay or potatoes, added to the work of stock-feeding, kept my father pretty well occupied.
Joe and I, therefore, went to work by ourselves, beginning operations on that part of the pool nearest the point where the water used to pour in. We had taken out ten or a dozen loads of beautiful, clear ice, when, one day, Yetmore, who was riding down to San Remo, seeing us at work, stopped to watch us.
He was a queer fellow. Though he must have been perfectly well aware that we distrusted him; and though, after the late affair of the lead-boulder—a miscarriage of his schemes which was doubtless extremely galling to him—one would think he would have rather avoided us than not, he appeared to feel no embarrassment whatever,but with a greeting of well-simulated cordiality he dismounted and walked over to the pool to see what we were doing. Perhaps—and this, I think, is probably the right explanation—if he did entertain the idea of some day “getting even” with us, he had decided to postpone any such attempt until he saw an opportunity of doing so at a profit.
“Fine lot of ice,” he remarked, after standing for a moment watching Joe as he plied the saw. “Does this creek always freeze up like this?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It heads in Mount Lincoln, and is made up of a number of small streams which always freeze up about the first of November. That reduces the flow to about one-third its usual size; and when the little streams which come down from three or four of the ‘bubbles’ freeze up too, the creek stops entirely; which makes it mighty convenient for us to cut ice, as you see.”
“I see. Is the pool the same depth all over?”
“No,” I answered. “Just here, under the fall, it is deepest, but round the edges it is so shallow that we can’t take a stroke with the saw, the sand comes so close up to the ice. In fact, in some places, the ice rests right upon the sand.”
“How deep is it here?”
“Four or five feet, I think. Try it, Joe.”
Joe, who had just laid down the saw and had taken up the long ice-hook we used for drawing the blocks of ice within reach, lowered the hook, point downward, into the water. Then, pulling it out again, he stood it up beside him, finding that the wet mark on the staff came up to his chin.
“Five feet and three or four inches,” said he.
“Is the bottom solid or sandy?” asked Yetmore.
“I didn’t notice. I’ll try it.”
With that Joe lowered the pole once more.
“Seems solid,” he remarked, giving two or three hard prods. But he had scarcely said so, when, to our surprise, several bits of rough ice about as big as my hand bobbed up from the bottom.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Yetmore. “Ground ice!”
“What’s ground ice?” I asked.
“Why, ice formed at the bottom of the pool. It is not uncommon, I believe, though I don’t remember to have seen any before. Pretty dirty stuff, isn’t it? Must be a sandy bottom.”
So saying, he stooped down, and picking upthe only bit of ice which happened to be within reach, he examined its under side. As he did so, I saw him give a little start, as though there were something about it to cause him surprise, but just as I reached out my hand to ask him to let me see it, he threw it back into the water out of reach—an action which struck me as being hardly polite.
“I must be off,” said he, in apparent haste, “so, good-bye. Hope you will get your crop in before it snows. Looks threatening to me; you’ll have to hurry, I think.”
This prediction seemed to me rather absurd, with the thermometer at zero and the sky as clear as crystal; but Yetmore was an indoor man and could not be expected to judge as can one whose daily work depends so much upon what the weather is doing or is going to do. It did not occur to me then—though it did later—that he only wanted us to get to work again at once, and so divert our minds from the subject of the ground ice.
As I made no comment on his remark, Yetmore walked away, remounted his horse and rode off; while Joe and I went briskly to work again.
We had been at it some time, when Joe stopped sawing, and straightening up, said:
“It’s queer about those bits of ground ice, Phil. Do you notice how they all float clean side up? Wait a bit and I’ll show you.”
Taking the ice-hook, he turned over one of the bits with its point, showing its soiled side, but the moment he released it, the bit of ice “turned turtle” again.
“Do you see?” said he. “The sand acts like ballast. It must be heavy stuff.”
“Yes,” said I. “Hook a bit of it out and let’s look at it.”
This was soon done, when, on examining it, we found the under side to be crusted with very black sand, which, whatever might be its nature, was evidently heavy enough to upset the balance of a small fragment of ice.
“What is it made of, I wonder?” said Joe.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but perhaps it is that black sand which the prospectors are always complaining of as getting in their way when they are panning for gold.”
“That’s what it is, Phil, I expect,” cried Joe. “And what’s more, that’s what Yetmore thought, too, or else why should he throw that bit of iceback into the water so quickly when you held out your hand for it? He didn’t want you to see it.”
“It does look like it,” I assented. “Poke up a few more, Joe, and we will take them home and show them to my father: perhaps he’ll know what the stuff is.”
Joe took the ice-hook and prodded about on the bottom, every prod bringing up one or two bits of ice, each one as it bobbed to the surface showing its sandy side for a moment and then turning over, clean side up. Drawing these to the edge of the ice, we picked them out, laying them on a gunny-sack we had with us, and when, towards sunset, we had carried home and housed our last load, and had stabled and fed the mules, we took our scraps over to the blacksmith-shop, where the tinkle of a hammer proclaimed that my father was at work doing some mending of something.
He was much interested in hearing of the ground ice and of the way it brought up the black sand with it, and still more so in our description of Yetmore’s action.
“Let me look at it,” said he; and taking one of our specimens, he stepped to the door to examineit, the light in the shop being too dim. He came back smiling.
“Queer fellow, Yetmore!” said he. “One would think that the lesson of the lead-boulder might have taught him that a man may sometimes be too crafty. I think this is likely to prove another case of the same kind. I believe he has made a genuine discovery here—though what it may lead to there is no telling—and if he had had the sense to let you look at that piece of dirty ice, instead of throwing it back into the water, thus arousing your curiosity, he would probably have kept his discovery to himself. As it is, he is likely to have Tom Connor interfering with him again—that is to say, if this sand is what I think it is. I don’t think it is the ‘black sand’ of the prospectors—it is too shiny, and it has a bluish tinge besides—I think it is something of far more value. We’ll soon find out. Give me that piece of an iron pot, Phil; it will do to melt the ice in.”
Having broken up some of our ice into small pieces, we placed it in a large fragment of a broken iron pot, and this being set upon the forge, Joe took the bellows-handle and soon had the fire roaring under it. It did not take longto melt the ice, when, pouring off the water, we added some more, repeating the process until there was no ice left. The last of the water being then poured away, there remained nothing but about a spoonful of very fine, black, shiny sand.
The receptacle was once more placed upon the fire, and while my father kept the contents stirred up with a stick, Joe seized the bellows-handle again and pumped away. Presently he began to cough.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” asked my father, laughing.
“Sulphur!” gasped Joe.
“Sulphur!” cried I. “I don’t smell any sulphur.”
“Come over here, then, and blow the bellows,” replied Joe.
I took his place, but no sooner had I done so than I, too, began to cough. The smell of sulphur evidently came from our spoonful of sand, and as I was standing between the door and the window the draft blew the fumes straight into my face. On discovering this, I pulled the bellows-handle over to one side, when I was no more troubled.
The iron pot, being set right down on the “duck’s nest” and heaped all around with glowing coals, had become red-hot, when my father, peering into it, held up his hand.
“That’ll do, Phil. That’s enough,” he cried. “Give me the tongs, Joe.”
My father removed the melting-pot, and making a hole with his heel in the sandy floor of the shop, he poured the contents into it.
“Lead!” we both cried, with one voice.
“Yes, lead,” my father replied. “Galena ore, ground fine by the action of water.”
“Do you mean,” I asked, “that there is a lead-mine in the bottom of the pool?”
“No, no. But there is a vein of galena, size and value unknown, somewhere up on Lincoln Mountain. The fine black sand sticking to the ground ice was brought down by our stream, being reduced to powder on the way, and deposited in the pool, where its weight has kept it from being washed out again.”
“I see. And do you suppose Yetmore recognized the sand as galena ore? Would he be likely to know it in the form of sand?”
“I expect so. He’s a sharp fellow enough. He must have seen pulverized samples ofgalena many a time in the assayers’ offices. I’ve seen them myself: that was what gave me my clue.”
“And what do you suppose he’ll do?”
“He is pretty certain, I think, to try to get hold of some of the stuff, so that he may test it and make sure; though how he will go about it there’s no telling. It will be interesting to see how he manages it.”
“And what shall you do, father? Go prospecting?”
My father laughed, knowing that this was a joke on my part; for I was well aware that he would not think of such a thing.
“Not for us, Phil,” he answered. “We have our mine right here. Raising oats and potatoes may be a slow way of getting rich, but it is a good bit surer than prospecting. No, we’ll tell Tom Connor about it and let him go prospecting if he likes. You shall go up to Sulphide the first Saturday after the ice-cutting is finished and give him our information. There’s no hurry about it: he can’t go prospecting while the mountains are all under snow. Come along in to supper now. You’ve fed the mules, I suppose.”
It was a snapping cold night that night, and about half-past eight I went into the kitchen to look at the thermometer which hung outside the door. As I came back, I happened to glance out of the west window, when, to my surprise, I thought I saw a glimmer of light up by the pool. Stepping quickly into the house again, I went to the front door and looked out. Yes, there was a light up there!
“Father,” I called out, “there’s somebody up at the pool with a light.”
My father sprang out of his chair. “Is there?” he cried. “Then it’s Yetmore, up to some of his tricks. Get into your coats, boys, and let’s go and see what he’s about.”
As we went out I took down the unlighted stable-lantern and carried it with me in case we might need it, and shutting the door softly behind me, ran after the others. We had not covered half the distance to the pool, however, when the light up there suddenly went out, and a minute later we heard the sound of galloping hoofs, muffled by the thin carpet of snow, going off in the direction of Sulphide. Our visitor, whoever he was, had departed.
“Well, come on, anyhow,” said my father. “Let us see what he was doing.”
As the thermometer was then standing at three degrees below zero, we knew that the sheet of clear water we had left in the afternoon should have been solidly frozen over again by this time. What was our surprise, therefore, to find that such was not the case: there was only a thin film of ice; it was but just beginning to form.
“That is easily explained,” remarked my father. “The ice did form, but some one has chopped it out and thrown it to one side there. See?”
“Yes,” replied Joe, “and then he took the ice-hook, which I know I left standing upright against the rocks, and poked up the ground ice. See, there are several bits floating about, and I remember quite well that we cleared out every one of them this afternoon. Didn’t we, Phil?”
“Yes,” said I, “I’m sure we did, because I remember that those two or three bits that had no sand in them we threw into that corner instead of pitching them into the water again. I suppose it’s Yetmore, father.”
“Oh, not a doubt of it. Did he leave any tracks?”
By the light of the lantern we searched about, and though there were no tracks to be seen on the smooth ice, there were plenty in the snow below the pool. They were the foot-prints of a smallish man, for his tracks, in spite of his wearing over-shoes, were not so big as the prints made by Joe’s boots—though, as Joe himself remarked, that was not much to go by, he being a six-footer with feet to match, “and a trifle over,” as his friends sometimes considerately assured him.
Following these foot-prints, we were led to the south gate, where, it was easy to see, a horse had been standing for some time tied to the gate-post.
“Well, he’s got off with his samples all right,” remarked my father. “He’s a smart fellow, and enterprising, too. He would deserve to win, if only he were not so fond of taking the crooked way of doing things. Come along. Let’s get back to the house. There’s nothing more to be done about it at present.”
“
Boys,” said my father next morning, “I’ve been thinking over this discovery of ours. It won’t do to wait till you’ve finished the ice-cutting to notify Tom Connor. He has been a good friend to us, and I feel that we owe him some return for enabling me to get this piece of land from Yetmore, even though it was, in a manner, accidental; and as Tom is sure to go off prospecting in the spring, whether or no, we may as well give him the chance—if he wants it—to go hunting for this supposed vein of galena.”
“He’s pretty sure to want to,” said I.
“Yes, I think he is. And as Yetmore will certainly find out the nature of the black sand, and will be sending out a prospector or two himself as soon as the snow clears off, we must at least give Tom an equal chance. So, instead of waiting for you to finish cutting the ice, I’ll write him a letter at once, telling him all about it, and send it up by this morning’s coach.”
One of the advantages to us of the frosty weather was that the mail coach between San Remo and Sulphide came our way instead of taking the hill-road, so that during the winter months we received our mail daily, whereas, through the greater part of the year, while the “forty rods” were “bottomless,” we had to go ourselves to San Remo to get it. The coach, going up, passed our place about ten in the morning, and by it my father sent the promised letter.
We quite expected that Tom would come flying down at once, but instead we received from him next morning a reply, stating that he could not leave his work, and asking my father to allow us boys to do a little prospecting for him—which, I may say, we boys were ready enough to do if my father did not object.
He did not object; being, indeed, very willing that we should put in a day’s work for the benefit of our friend. For, as he said, to undertake one day’s prospecting for a friend was a very different matter from taking to prospecting as a business.
It is a fascinating pursuit; men who contract the prospecting disease seldom get the fever entirelyout of their systems again, and it was for this reason my father was so set against it, considering that no greater misfortune could befall two farmer-boys like ourselves than to be drawn into such a way of life. Now that we were seventeen years old, however, and might be supposed to have some discretion, he had little fear for Joe and me, knowing, as he did, that we shared his sentiments. We had seen enough of the life of the prospector to understand that a more precarious way of making a living could hardly be invented.
How many men get rich at it? I have heard it estimated at one man in five thousand; and whether this estimate—or, rather, this guess—is right or wrong, it shows the trend of opinion.
Suppose a prospector does strike a vein of ore: what is the common result? By the time he has sunk a shaft ten feet deep he must have a windlass and a man to work it, and being in most cases too poor to hire a miner, his only way of getting help is to take in a partner. The two go on sinking, until presently the hole is too deep to use a windlass any more—a horse-whim is needed and then a hoisting engine. But it is seldom that the ore dug out of a shaft will paythe expense of sinking it—for powder and drills, ropes, buckets and timbers, are expensive things—much less enable the owner to lay by anything, and the probability is that to buy a hoisting engine he must sell another portion of his claim. And so it goes, until, by the time his claim has been turned into a mine—for, as the common and very true saying is, “Mines are made, not found”—his share of it will probably have been reduced to one-quarter or less; while it is quite within the limits of probability that, becoming wearied by long waiting for the slow development of his prospect, he will have sold out for what he can get and gone back to his old life.
But though I do not advocate the business of prospecting as a way of making a living—I had rather pitch hay or dig potatoes myself—I am far from wishing to disparage the prospector himself or to belittle the results of his work. He is the pioneer of civilization; and personally he is generally a fine fellow. At the same time, as in every other profession, the ranks of the prospectors include their share of the riff-raff. It was so in our district, and we were destined shortly to come in contact with one of them.
Tom Connor in his letter instructed us as to what he wished us to do: it was very simple. He asked us to walk up the little cañon along which our stream flowed, when it did flow, and to examine the bed of each of its feeders as we came to them, to determine, if possible, which of the branch streams it was that brought down the powdered lead-ore. He also suggested that we get out some more of the black sand from the bottom of the pool for him to see, and at the same time ascertain, if we could, how much of a deposit there was there.
The last request we performed first. Taking down to the pool a long, pointed iron rod, we lowered it into the water, marking the depth by tying a bit of string round the rod at high-water-mark, and then bored a hole down through the frozen sand until we struck bed-rock. By this means we discovered that the deposit was five inches thick at the upper end of the pool. A few feet further from the waterfall, however, the deposit was thicker, but we noticed at the same time that the ground ice which came up carried with it more or less yellow sand. The further we retreated from the waterfall, too, the larger became the proportion of yellow sand,until towards the edge of the pool it had taken the place of the black sand altogether.
Having done this, we poked up a lot of the ground ice, which we collected and put into a tin bucket, and taking this home we melted the ice, poured off the water, and made a little parcel of the sand that remained.
A few days later we had finished our ice-cutting and had stowed away the crop in the ice-house, when we were at length free to go off and make the little prospecting expedition that Tom had asked us to undertake.
First walking up the bed of the cañon, where the water was now represented by sheets of crackling white ice, we arrived presently at the first branch creek which came in on the right. This we ascended in turn, going some distance up it before we found a likely patch of sand, into which we chopped a hole with the old hatchet we had brought for the purpose, disclosing a little of the black material at the bottom; though the amount was so scanty that we could not be sure it was really the black sand we were seeking.
Going on up this branch creek, much impeded by the snow which became deeper and deeperthe higher we ascended, we were nearing one of the bends when Joe, who was in advance, suddenly stopped, exclaiming:
“Look there, Phil! Tracks coming down the bank. Somebody is ahead of us.”
“So there is,” said I. “What can he be doing, I wonder?”
Following these tracks a short distance, we very soon discovered the reason for their being there. The man was on the same quest as ourselves!
In a bend of the stream where the snow lay two feet thick, he had dug a hole down to the sand, and then through the sand itself to bed-rock. At the bottom of the hole was a little black sand, showing the marks of a hatchet or knife-blade where it had been gouged out, but all around the hole, between the bed-rock and the yellow sand above, was a black line an inch thick, composed of the shiny, powdered galena ore. There could be no doubt that the man ahead of us was hunting the same game as we were.
“Do you suppose it’s Yetmore, Joe?” said I.
“No,” Joe answered, emphatically, “I’m sure it isn’t. Look at his tracks: they are bigger than mine.”
“It can’t be Tom, himself, can it?”
“No, I’m pretty sure it isn’t Tom either. Tom is a big, powerful fellow, all right, but he’s not more than five feet ten, while this man, I think, is extra-tall—see the length of his stride where he came down the bank. Whoever he is, though, Phil, he’s an experienced prospector. He hasn’t wasted his time, as we have, trying unlikely places, but has chosen this spot and gone slap down through snow and everything, just as if he knew that the black sand would be found at the bottom.”
“That’s true,” said I. “I wonder who it is. We must find out if we can, Joe, so that we may be able to tell Tom who his competitor is. Let’s follow his tracks.”
Getting out of the creek-bed again, we walked along the bank for nearly a mile, until Joe, stopping short, held up his finger.
“Hark!” he whispered. “Somebody chopping.”
There was a sound as of metal being struck against stone somewhere ahead of us, so on we went again, making as little noise as possible, until presently Joe stopped again, and pointing forward, said softly, “There he is, look!”
The man was down in the creek-bed again, andall we could see of him above the bank was his hat. We therefore went forward once more, timing our steps by the blows of the hatchet, until we could see the man’s head and shoulders; but we did not gain much by that, as he had his back to us and was too intent upon his work to turn round. At length, however, he ceased chopping, and gathering the chips of frozen sand in his hands, he cast them to one side. In doing so, he showed his face for a moment, and in that brief glimpse I recognized who it was.
Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows, as much as to say, “Do you know him?” to which I replied with a nod, and laying my hand on my companion’s arm, I drew him back until only the top of the man’s hat was visible again, when I whispered, “It’s Long John Butterfield.”
“What! The man they call ‘The Yellow Pup’? How do you supposehecame to hear of the black sand?”
“From Yetmore. He is a prospector whom Yetmore grub-stakes every summer.”
“‘Grub-stakes,’” repeated Joe, inquiringly.
“Yes. Some prospectors go out on their own account, you know, but some of them are ‘grub-staked.’ This man is employed by Yetmore.He sends him out prospecting every spring, providing him with tools and ‘grub’ and paying him some small wages. Whether it is part of the bargain that Long John is to get any share of what he may find, I don’t know, but probably it is—that is the general rule. There is very little doubt that Yetmore has sent him out now, just as Tom has sent us out, to see which stream the lead-ore in the pool came from.”
“Not a doubt of it. Well, shall we go ahead and speak to him?”
Before I could reply, the man himself rose up, looked about him, and at once espied us. At seeing us standing there silently watching him, he gave a not-unnatural start of alarm, but perceiving that he had only two boys to deal with, even if we were pretty big, he climbed up the bank and advanced towards us with a threatening air.
Standing six feet five inches in his over-shoes, he was a rather formidable-looking object as he came striding down upon us, a shovel in one hand and a hatchet in the other; but as we knew him by reputation for a blusterer and a coward, we awaited his coming without any alarm for our safety.
Long John Butterfield was a well-known character in Sulphide. Though a prospector all summer, he was a bar-room loafer all winter, spending his time hanging around the saloons, and doing only work enough in the way of odd jobs to keep himself from starving until spring came round again, when Yetmore would provide for him once more.
It had formerly been his ambition to pass for a “bad man,” though he found it difficult to maintain that reputation among the unbelieving citizens of Sulphide, who knew that he valued his own skin far too highly to risk it seriously. He had been wont to call himself “The Wolf,” desiring to be known by that title as sounding sufficiently fierce and “bad,” and being of a most unprepossessing appearance, with his matted hair, retreating forehead, long, sharp nose and projecting ears, he did represent a wolf pretty well—though, still better, a coyote.
As the people of Sulphide, however, declined to take him at his own valuation, greeting his frequent outbreaks of simulated ferocity with derisive jeers—even the small boys used to scoff at him—he was reduced to practising his arts upon strangers, which he always hastened to dowhen he thought it was not likely to be dangerous. Unluckily for him, though, he once tried one of his tricks upon an inoffensive newcomer, with a result so unexpected and unwelcome that his only desire thereafter was that people should forget that he had ever called himself “The Wolf”—a desire in which his many acquaintances, whether working-men or loafers, readily accommodated him. But as they playfully substituted the less desirable title of “The Yellow Pup,” Long John gained little by the move.
It happened in this way: There came out from New York at one time a young fellow named Bertie Van Ness, a nephew of Marsden, the cattle man, some of whose stock we were feeding that winter. He arrived at Sulphide by coach one morning, and before going on to Marsden’s he stepped into Yetmore’s store to buy himself a pair of riding gauntlets. Long John was in there, and seeing the well-dressed, dapper little man, with his white collar and eastern complexion—not burned red by the Colorado sun, as all of ours are—he winked to the assembled company as much as to say, “See me take a rise out of the tenderfoot,” sidled up to Bertie, who was a foot shorter than himself,leaned over him, and putting on his worst expression, said, in a harsh, growling voice, “I’m ‘The Wolf.’”
It was a trick that had often been successful before: peace-loving strangers, not knowing whom they had to deal with, would usually back away and sometimes even take to their heels, which was all that Long John desired. In the present instance, however, the “bad man” miscalculated. The little stranger, seeing the ugly face within a foot of his own, withdrew a step, and without waiting for the formality of an introduction, struck “The Wolf” a very sharp blow upon the end of his nose, at the same time remarking, “Howl, then, you beast.”
Long John did howl. Clapping his hands over his face, he retreated, roaring, from the store, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of those present.
Thus it was that the name of “The Wolf” fell into disuse and the title, “Yellow Pup,” was substituted; and if at any time thereafter Long John became obstreperous or in any way made himself objectionable, it was only necessary for some one in company to say “Bow-wow,”when the offender would forthwith efface himself, with promptness and dispatch.
This was the man who came striding down upon Joe and me, looking as though he were going to eat us up at a mouthful and think nothing of it. Doubtless he supposed that, being country boys, we had not heard the story of Bertie Van Ness, for, advancing close to us he said fiercely:
“What you doing here? Be off home! Do you know whoIam? I’m ‘The Wolf’!”
“So I’ve heard,” said I, calmly; a remark which took all the wind out of the gentleman’s sails at once. He collapsed with ridiculous suddenness, and with a sheepish grin, said, “I was only just a-trying you, boys, to see if you was easy scart.”
“Well, you see we’re not,” remarked Joe. “What areyoudoing up here? Pretty early for prospecting, isn’t it?”
“Not any earlier for me than it is for you,” replied Long John, with a glance at the hatchet in Joe’s hand. He was sharp enough.
Joe laughed. “That’s true,” said he. “I suppose we’re both hunting the same thing. Did you find any of it in that hole up there?”
Long John hesitated. He would have preferred to lie about it, probably, but knowing that we could go and see for ourselves in a couple of minutes, he made a virtue of necessity and replied:
“Yes, there’s some of it there; but it don’t amount to much. I guess the vein ain’t worth looking for. Come and see.”
We walked forward and looked into the hole Long John had chopped, when we saw that his prospector’s instinct had hit upon the right place again. Here also was a black streak an inch thick below the yellow sand.
It was evident that the vein of galena was somewhere up-stream, though we ourselves were unable to judge from the amount of the deposit whether it was likely to be big or little. Long John might be telling the truth when he “guessed” that it was not worth looking for, though, from what we knew of him, we, in turn, “guessed” that what he said was most likely to be the opposite of what he thought.
We could not tell, either, whether our new acquaintance was speaking the truth when he declared that he was satisfied with his day’s work and had already decided to go home again;I think it rather likely that, being unable to devise any scheme for shaking us off, and not caring to act as prospector for us as well as for Yetmore, he preferred to go back at once and report progress. He was right, at any rate, in saying that the drifts ahead were too deep to admit of further prospecting; for the mountains began to close in just here, and the snow was becoming pretty heavy.
Nevertheless, Joe and I thought we would try a little further, if only for the reason that Long John would not, and we were about to part company, when we were startled to hear a voice above our heads say, “Good-morning,” and, looking quickly up, we saw, seated on a dead branch, a raven, to all appearance asleep, with his feathers fluffed out and his head sunk between his shoulders.
That it was our friend, Socrates, we could not doubt, and we looked all around for the hermit, but as there was no one to be seen, Joe, addressing the raven, said:
“Hallo, Sox! Where’s your master?”
“Chew o’ tobacco,” replied the raven.
At this Long John burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a cute one,” said he; and thrusting hishand into his pocket he brought out a piece of tobacco which he invited Socrates to come and get. Sox flew down to a convenient rock and reached for the morsel, but the moment he perceived that it was not anything he could eat, he drew back in disdain, and eying Long John with severity, remarked, “Bow-wow.”