“WE SAW BEFORE US A VERY CURIOUS SIGHT”“WE SAW BEFORE US A VERY CURIOUS SIGHT”
On the right hand side of the crevice—that is to say, on the western or Second Mesa side—between the sandstone floor and the lowest ledge of lava, there issued a thin sheet of water, coming out with such force that it swept right across, and striking the opposite wall, turned and ran off southward—away from us, that is. Only for a short distance, however, it ran in that direction, for we could see that the stream presently took another turn, this time to the eastward, presumably finding its way through a crack in the lava of the First Mesa.
“I’m going to see where it goes to,” cried Joe; and pulling off his boots and rolling up his trousers, he waded in. He expected to find the water as cold as the iced water of any other mountain stream, but to his surprise it was quite pleasantly warm.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Phil,” said he, stepping back again for a moment. “This water must run under ground for a long distance to be as warm as it is. And what’s more, there must be a good-sized reservoir somewhere between the lavaand the sandstone to furnish pressure enough to make the water squirt out so viciously as it does.”
Entering the stream again, which, though hardly an inch deep, came out of the rock with such “vim” that when it struck his feet it flew up nearly to his knees, Joe waded through, and then turning, shouted to me:
“It goes down this way, Phil, through a big crack in the lava. It just goes flying. Don’t trouble to come”—observing that I was about to pull off my own boots—“you can’t see any distance down the crack.”
But whatever there was to be seen, I wanted to see too, and disregarding his admonition, I pretty soon found myself standing beside my companion.
The great cleft into which we were peering was about six feet wide at the bottom, coming together some twenty feet above our heads, having been apparently widened at the base by the action of the water, which, being here ankle-deep, rushed foaming over and around the many blocks of lava with which the channel was encumbered. As far as we could see, the fissure led straight away without a bend; and Joe was fortrying to walk down it at once. I suggested, however, that we leave that for the present and try another plan.
“Look here, Joe,” said I. “If we try to do that we shall probably get pretty wet, and stand a good chance besides of hurting our feet among the rocks. Now, I propose that we go down to the ranch again, get our rubber boots, and at the same time bring back with us my father’s compass and the tape-measure and try to survey this water-course. By doing that, and then by following the same line on the surface, we may be able to decide whether it is really this stream which keeps ‘the forty rods’ so wet.”
“I don’t think there can be any doubt about that,” Joe replied; “but I think your plan is a good one, all the same, so let us do it.”
We did not waste much time in getting down to the ranch and back again, when, pulling on our rubber boots, we proceeded to make our survey. It was not an easy task.
With the ring at the end of the tape-measure hooked over my little finger, I took a candle in that hand and the compass in the other, and having ascertained that the course of the stream was due southeast, I told Joe to go ahead. Mypartner, therefore, with his arm slipped through the handle of the lantern and with a pole in his hand with which to test the depth of the stream, thereupon started down the passage, stepping from rock to rock when possible, and taking to the water when the rocks were too far apart, until, having reached the limit of the tape-measure, he made a mark upon the wall with a piece of white chalk.
This being done, I noted on a bit of paper the direction and the distance, when Joe advanced once more, I following as far as to the chalk-mark, when the operation was repeated.
In this manner we worked our way, slowly and carefully, down the passage, the direction of which varied only two or three degrees to one side or the other of southeast, until, having advanced a little more than a thousand feet, we found our further progress barred.
For some time it had appeared to us that the sound of splashing water was increasing in distinctness, though the stream itself made so much noise in that hollow passage that we could not be sure whether we were right or not. At length, however, having made his twentieth chalk-mark, indicating one thousand feet, Joe,waving his lantern for me to come on, advanced once more; but before I had come to his last mark, he stopped and shouted back to me that he could go no farther.
Wondering why not, I slowly waded forward, Joe himself winding up the tape-measure as I approached, until I found myself standing beside my companion, when I saw at once “why not.”
The stream here took a sudden dive down hill, falling about three feet into a large pool, the limits of which we could not discern—for we could see neither sides nor end—its surface unbroken, except in a few places where we could detect the ragged points of big lava-blocks projecting above the water, while here and there a rounded boulder showed its smooth and shining head.
Joe, very carefully descending to the edge of the pool, measured the depth with his rod, when, finding it to be about four feet deep, we concluded that we would let well enough alone and end our survey at this point.
“Come on up, Joe,” I called out. “No use trying to go any farther: it’s too dangerous; we might get in over our heads.”
“Just a minute,” Joe replied. “Let’s see ifwe can’t find out which way the current sets in the pool.”
With that he took from his pocket a newspaper he had brought with him in case for any purpose we should need to make a “flare,” and crumpling this into a loose ball he set it afloat in the pool. Away it sailed, quickly at first, and then more slowly; and taking a sight on it as far as it was distinguishable, I found that the set of the current continued as before—due southeast.
“All right, Joe,” I cried. “Come on, now.” And Joe, giving me the end of his stick to take hold of, quickly rejoined me, when together we made our way carefully up the stream again, and climbing the rope, once more found ourselves out in the daylight.
“Now, Joe,” said I, “let us run our line and find out where it takes us.”
Having previously measured the distance from the point where the underground stream turned southeast to where the rope hung down, we now measured the same distance back again along the foot of the bluff, and thence, ourselves turning southeastward, we measured off a thousand feet. This brought us down to the lowest of theold lake-benches, about a hundred yards back of the house, when, sighting along the same line with the compass, we found that that faithful little servant pointed us straight to the entrance of the lower cañon.
“Then that does settle it!” cried Joe. “We’ve found the stream that keeps ‘the forty rods’ wet; there can be no doubt of it.”
It did, indeed seem certain that we had at last discovered the stream which supplied “the forty rods” with water; but allowing that wehaddiscovered it:—what then? How much better off were we?
Beneath our feet, as we had now every reason to believe, ran the long-sought water-course, but between us and it was a solid bed of lava about forty feet thick; and how to get the water to the surface, and thus prevent it from continuing to render useless the meadow below, was a problem beyond our powers.
“It beats me,” said Joe, taking off his hat and tousling his hair according to custom. “I can see no possible way of doing it. We shall have to leave it to your father. Perhaps he may be able to think of a plan. Do you suppose he’ll venture to go down the rope, Phil?”
“No, I don’t,” I replied. “It is all very well for you and me, with our one hundred and seventy pounds, or thereabouts, but as my father weighs forty pounds more than either of us, and has not been in the habit of climbing ropes for amusement as long as I can remember, I think the chances are that he won’t try it.”
“I suppose not. It’s a pity, though, for I’m sure he would be tremendously interested to see the stream down there in the crevice. Couldn’t we——Look here, Phil: couldn’t we set up a ladder to reach from the bottom up to the bulge?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “It would take a ladder twenty feet long, and the bulge in the wall would prevent its going down.”
“That’s true. Well, then, I’ll tell you what we can do. We’ll make two ladders of ten feet each—a ten-foot pole will go down easily enough—set one on the floor of the crevice and the other on that wide ledge about half way up to the bulge. What do you think of that?”
“Yes, I think we could do that,” I replied. “We’ll try it anyhow. But we must go in and get some dinner now: it’s close to noon.”
We did not take long over our dinner—wewere too anxious to get to work again—and as soon as we had finished we selected from our supply of fire-wood four straight poles, each about ten feet long, and with these, a number of short pieces of six-inch plank, a hammer, a saw and a bag of nails, we drove back to the scene of action.
Even a ten-foot pole, we found, was an awkward thing to get down to the bottom of the fissure, but after a good deal of coaxing we succeeded in lowering them all, when we at once set to work building our ladders.
The first one, standing on the floor of the crevice, reached as high as the ledge Joe had mentioned, while the second, planted upon the ledge itself, leaned across the chasm, its upper end resting against the rock just below the bulge, so that, with the rope to hold on by, it ought to be easy enough to get up and down. It is true that the second ladder being almost perpendicular, looked a little precarious, but we had taken great care to set it up solidly and were certain it could not slip. As to the strength of the ladders, there was nothing to fear on that score, for the smallest of the poles was five inches in diameter at the little end.
This work took us so long, for we were very careful to make things strong and firm, that it was within half an hour of sunset ere we had finished, and as it was then too late to begin hauling rocks, we drove down to the ranch again at once.
As we came within sight of the house, we had the pleasure of seeing the buggy with my father and mother in it draw up at the door. Observing us coming, they waited for us, when, the moment we jumped out of the wagon, before we could say a word ourselves, my father exclaimed:
“Hallo, boys! What are you wearing your rubber boots for?”
My mother, however, looking at our faces instead of at our feet, with that quickness of vision most mothers of boys seem to possess, saw at once that something unusual had occurred.
“What’s happened, Phil?” she asked.
“We’ve made a discovery,” I replied, “and we want father to come and see it.”
“Can’t I come, too?” she inquired, smiling at my eagerness.
“I’m afraid not,” I answered. “I wish you could, but I’m afraid your petticoats would get in the way.”
To this, perceiving easily enough that we had some surprise in store for my father, and not wishing to spoil the fun, my mother merely replied:
“Oh, would they? Well, I’m afraid I couldn’t come anyhow: I must go in and prepare supper. So, be off with you at once, and don’t be late. You can tell me all about it this evening.”
“One minute, father!” I cried; and thereupon I ran to the house, reappearing in a few seconds with his rubber boots, which I thrust into the back of the buggy, and then, climbing in on one side while Joe scrambled in on the other, I called out:
“Now, father, go ahead!”
“Where to?” he asked, laughing.
“Oh, I forgot,” said I. “Up to our stone-quarry.”
If we had expected my father to be surprised, we were not disappointed. At first he rather demurred at going down our carefully prepared ladders, not seeing sufficient reason, as he declared, to risk his neck; but the moment we called his attention to the sound of water down below, and he began to understand what thepresence of the rubber boots meant, he became as eager as either Joe or I had been.
In short, he went with us over the whole ground, even down to the pool; and so interested was he in the matter that he quite forgot the flight of time, until, having reascended the ladders and followed with us our line on the surface down to the heap of stones with which we had marked the thousand-foot point, he—and we, too—were recalled to our duties by my mother, who, seeing us standing there talking, came to the back-door of the kitchen and called to us to come in at once if we wanted any supper.
Long was the discussion that ensued that evening as we sat around the fire in the big stone fireplace; but long as it was, it ended as it had begun with a remark made by my father.
“Well,” said he, as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his slippered feet before the fire, “it appears to come to this: instead of discovering a way to drain ‘the forty rods,’ you have only provided us with another insoluble problem to puzzle our heads over. There seems to be no way that we can figure out—at present, anyhow—by which the water can be brought to the surface, and consequently our only resourceis, apparently, to discover, if possible, where it first runs in under the lava-bed, to come squirting out again down in that fissure—an almost hopeless task, I fear.”
“It does look pretty hopeless,” Joe assented; “though we have found out one thing, at least, which may be of service in our search, and that is that the water runs between the lava and the sandstone. That fact should be of some help to us, for it removes from the list of streams to be examined all those whose beds lie below the sandstone.”
“That’s true enough,” I agreed. “But, then again, the source may not be some mountain stream running off under the lava, as we have been supposing. It is quite possible that it is a spring which comes up through the sandstone, and not being able to get up to daylight because of the lava-cap, goes worming its way through innumerable crevices to the underground reservoir we suppose to exist somewhere beneath the surface of the Second Mesa.”
“That is certainly a possibility,” replied my father. “Nevertheless, it is my opinion that it will be well worth while making an examination of the creeks on Mount Lincoln. Thestreams to search would be those running on a sandstone bed and coming against the upper face of the lava-flow. It is worth the attempt, at least, and when the snow clears off you boys shall employ any off-days you may have in that way.”
“It would be well, wouldn’t it, to tell Tom Connor about it?” suggested Joe. “He would keep his eyes open for us. I suppose prospectors as a rule don’t take much note of such things, but Tom would do so, I’m sure, if we asked him.”
“Yes,” replied my father. “That is a good idea; and if either of you should come across your friend, the hermit, again, be sure to ask him. He knows Mount Lincoln as nobody else does, and if he had ever noticed anything of the sort he would tell us. Don’t forget that. And now to bed.”
One thing was plain at any rate: we could do nothing towards finding the source of the underground stream until the snow cleared off the mountain, and that was likely to be later than usual this year, for the fall had been exceedingly heavy in the higher parts. We could see from the ranch that many of the familiar hollows were obliterated—leveled off by the great masses of snow which had drifted into them and filled them up.
We therefore went about our work of hauling stone, and so continued while the cold weather lasted, interrupted only once by a heavy storm about the end of January, which, while it added another two feet to the thick blanket of snow already covering the mountains, quickly melted off down in the snug hollow where the ranch lay, so that our work was not delayed more than two or three days.
One advantage to us of this storm was that itenabled us to learn something—not much, certainly, but still something—regarding the source of the stream in the fissure. It did not show us where that source was, but it proved to us pretty clearly where it wasnot.
On the morning of the storm, Joe, at breakfast-time, turning to my father, said:
“Wouldn’t it be a good plan to go and measure the flow of the water down in the crevice, Mr. Crawford? We might be able to find out, by watching its rise and fall, whether the melting of the snow on the Second Mesa, or on the foot-hills beyond, or on the mountain itself affects it most.”
“That’s a very good idea, Joe,” my father replied. “Yes; as soon as we have fed the stock you can make a measuring-stick and go up there; and what’s more, you had better make a practice of measuring it every day. The increase or decrease of the flow might be an important guide as to where it comes from.”
This we did, and thereby ascertained pretty conclusively that the source was nowhere on the Second Mesa, for in the course of a couple of weeks the heavy fall of new snow covering that wide stretch of country melted off withoutmaking any perceptible difference in the volume of the stream.
Though there were several other falls of snow up in the mountains later in the season, this was the last one of any consequence down on the mesas. The winter was about over as far as we were concerned, and by the middle of the next month, the surface of “the bottomless forty rods” beginning to soften again, the freighters, who had been coming our way ever since the early part of November, deserted us and once more went back to the hill road—to our mutual regret. For a few days longer the stage-coach kept to our road, but very soon it, too, abandoned us, after which, except for an occasional horseback-rider, we had scarcely a passer-by.
As was natural, we greatly missed this constant coming and going, though we should have missed it a good deal more but for the fact that with the softening of the ground our spring work began, when, Marsden’s cattle having been removed by their owner, Joe and I started plowing for oats. With the prospect of a steady season’s work before us, we entered upon our labors with enthusiasm. We had never felt so “fit” before, for our long spell of stone-hauling had put usinto such good trim that we were in condition to tackle anything.
At the same time, we did not forget our underground stream, keeping strict watch upon it as the snow-line retreated up the foot-hills of Mount Lincoln. But though one of us visited the stream every day, taking careful measurement of the flow, we could not see that it had increased at all. The intake must be either high on the mountain, or, as I had suggested, the spring must come up through the sandstone underlying the Second Mesa and was therefore not affected by the running off of the snow-water on the surface.
As the town of Sulphide was so situated that its inhabitants could not see Mount Lincoln on account of a big spur of Elkhorn Mountain which cut off their view, any one in that town wishing to find out how the snow was going off on the former mountain was obliged to ride down in our direction about three miles in order to get a sight of it.
Tom Connor, having neither the time to spare nor the money to spend on horse-hire, could not do this for himself, but, knowing that the mountain was visible to us any day and all day, hehad requested us to notify him when the foot-hills began to get bare. This time had now arrived—it was then towards the end of March—and my father consequently wrote to Tom, telling him so; at the same time inviting him to come down to us and make his start from the ranch whenever he was ready.
To our great surprise, we received a reply from him next afternoon, brought down by young Seth Appleby, the widow Appleby’s ten-year-old boy, in which he stated that he could not start just yet as he was out of funds, but that he was hoping to raise one hundred and fifty dollars by a mortgage on his little house, which would be all he would need, and more, to keep him going for the summer.
“Why, what’s the meaning of this!” exclaimed my father, when he had read the letter. “How does Tom come to be out of funds at this time of year? He’s been at work all winter at high wages and he ought to have saved up quite a tidy sum—in fact, he was counting on doing so. What’s the matter, I wonder? Did he tell you anything about it, Seth?”
“No,” replied the youngster, “he didn’t tell me, but he did tell mother, and then mother,she asked all the miners who come to our store, and they told her all about it. It was mother that sent me down with the letter, and she told me I was to be sure and ’splain all about it to you.”
“That was kind of Mrs. Appleby,” said my father. “But come in, Seth, and have something to eat, and then you can give us your mother’s message.”
Seated at the table, with a big loaf, a plate of honey and a pitcher of milk before him, young Seth, after he had taken off the fine edge of a remarkably healthy appetite, related to us between bites the story he had been sent down to tell. It was a long and complicated story as he told it, and even when it was finished we could not be quite sure that we had it right; but supposing that we had, it came to this:
Tom had worked faithfully on the Pelican, never having missed a day, and had earned a very considerable sum of money, of which he had, with commendable—and, for him, unusual—discretion, invested the greater part in a little house, putting by one hundred and fifty dollars for his own use during the coming summer. The fund reserved would have been sufficient tosee him through the prospecting season had he stuck to it; but this was just what he had not done.
Two years before, a friend of his had been killed in one of the mines by that most frequent of accidents: picking out a missed shot; since which time the widow, a bustling, hearty Irishwoman, had supported herself and her five children. But during the changeable weather of early spring, Mrs. Murphy had been taken down with a severe attack of pneumonia—a disease particularly dangerous at high altitudes—and distress reigned in the family. As a matter of course, Tom, ever on the lookout to do somebody a good turn, at once hopped in and took charge of everything; providing a doctor and a nurse for his old friend’s widow, and seeing that the children wanted for nothing; and all with such success that he brought his patient triumphantly out of her sickness; while as for himself, when he modestly retired from the fray, he found that he was just as poor as he had been at the beginning of winter.
It is not to be supposed, however, that this worried Tom. Not a bit of it. It was unlucky, of course, but as it could not be helped therewas no more to be said; and so long as he owned that house of his he could always raise one hundred and fifty dollars on it—it was worth three or four times as much, at least.
As the prospecting season was now approaching, he therefore let it be known that he desired to raise this money, and then quietly went on with his work again, feeling confident that some one would presently make his appearance, cash in hand, anxious to secure so good a loan. Up to that morning, Seth believed, the expected capitalist had not turned up.
As the boy finished his story, and—with a sigh at having reached his capacity—his meal as well, my father rose from his chair, exclaiming:
“What a good fellow that is! When it comes to practical charity, Tom Connor leads us all. In fact, he is in a class by himself:—There is no Tom but Tom, and”—smiling at the little messenger—“Seth Appleby is his prophet—on this occasion.”
At which Seth opened his eyes, wondering what on earth my father was talking about.
“Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” the latter continued. “Seth says his mother wants anotherthousand pounds of potatoes; so you shall take them up this afternoon, Phil; have a good talk with her; find out the rights of this matter; and then, if there is anything we can do to help, we can do it understandingly.”
I was very glad to do this, and with Seth on the seat beside me and his pony tied behind the wagon, away I went.
As I had permission to stay in town over night if I liked, and as Mrs. Appleby urged me to do so, saying that I could share Seth’s room, I decided to accept her offer, and after supper we were seated in the store talking over Tom Connor’s affairs—which I found to be just about as Seth had described them—when who should burst in upon us but Tom himself. Evidently my presence was a surprise to him, for on seeing me he exclaimed:
“Hallo, Phil! You here! Got my message, did you?”
“Yes,” I replied, “we got it all right; and very much astonished we were.”
Forthwith I tackled him on the subject, and though at first Tom was disposed to be evasive in his answers, finding that I had all the facts, he at length admitted the truth of the story.
“But, bless you!” cried he. “That’s nothing. I can raise a hundred and fifty easy enough on my house and pay it off again next winter, so there’s nothing to fuss about. And now, ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Appleby, and abruptly cutting off any further discussion of the topic, “now, ma’am, I’ll give you a little order for groceries, if you please—which was what I came in for.”
So saying, he took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and proceeded to read out item after item: flour and bacon, molasses and dried apples, a little tea and a great deal of coffee, and so on, and so on, until at last he crumpled up his list between his two big hands, saying:
“There! And we’ll top off with a gallon of coal oil, if you please.”
“Ah,” said the widow, laying down her pencil—she was a slight, nervous little woman—“I was afraid you’d come to coal oil presently. I haven’t a pint of it in the house.”
“Well, that’s a pity,” said her customer. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go down to Yetmore’s for coal oil after all.”
“Yes, Yetmore can let you have it, I know,”replied the widow, in a tone of voice which caused us both to look at her inquiringly.
“He’s got a barrel of it,” she continued. “A whole barrel of it—belonging to me.”
“Eh! What’s that?” cried Tom. “Belonging to you?”
“Yes. And he won’t give it up. You see, it was this way. I ordered a barrel from the wholesale people in San Remo, and they sent it up two days ago. Here’s the bill of lading. ‘One barrel coal oil, No. 668, by Slaughter’s freight line.’ The freighters made a mistake and delivered it at Yetmore’s, and now he won’t give it up.”
“Won’t, eh!” cried Tom, with sudden heat. “We’ll just look into that.”
“It’s no use,” interposed Mrs. Appleby, holding up her hand deprecatingly. “You can’t take it by force; and I’ve tried persuasion. He’s got my barrel; there’s no mistake about that, because Seth went down and identified the number; but he says he ordered a barrel himself from the same firm and it isn’t his fault if they didn’t put the right number on.”
“Well, that’s coming it pretty strong,” said Tom, indignantly.
“Yes, and it’s hard on me,” replied the widow, “because people come in here for coal oil, and when they find I haven’t any they go off to Yetmore’s, and of course he gets the rest of their order. I might go to law,” she added, “but I can’t afford that; and by the time my case was settled Yetmore’s barrel will have arrived and he’ll send it over here and pretend to be sorry for the mistake.”
“I see. Well, ma’am, you put me down for a gallon of coal oil just the same, and get my order together as soon as you like. I’m going out now to take a bit of a stroll around town.”
Though he spoke calmly, the big miner was, in fact, swelling with wrath at the widow’s tale of petty tyranny. Without saying a word more to her, and forgetting my existence, apparently, he marched off down the street with the determination of going into Yetmore’s and denouncing the storekeeper before his customers. But, no sooner had he come within sight of the store than he suddenly changed his mind.
“Ho, ho!” he laughed, stopping short and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Ho, ho! Here’s a game! He keeps it in the backend of the store, I know. I’ll just meander in and prospect a bit.”
The store was a long, plainly-constructed building, such as may be seen in plenty in any Colorado mining camp, standing on the hillside with its back to the creek. In front its foundation was level with the street, but in the rear it was supported upon posts four feet high, leaving a large vacant space beneath—a favorite “roosting” place for pigs. It was the sight of these four-foot posts which caused the widow’s champion so suddenly to change his mind.
To tell the truth, Tom Connor, in spite of his forty years, was no more than an overgrown boy, in whose simple character the love of justice and the love of fun jostled each other for first place. He believed he had discovered an opportunity to “take a rise” out of Yetmore and at the same time to compel the misappropriator of other people’s goods to restore the widow’s property. That the contemplated act might savor of illegality did not trouble him—did not occur to him, in fact. He was sure that he had justice on his side, and that was enough for him.
Full of his idea, Tom walked into the store,where he found Yetmore very busy serving customers, for it was near closing time, and to an inquiry as to what he wanted, he replied:
“Nothing just now, thank ye. I’ll just mosey around and take a look at things.”
To this Yetmore nodded assent; for though he and the miner had no affection for each other, they were outwardly on good terms, and it was no unusual thing for Tom to come into the store.
Connor “moseyed” accordingly, and kept on “moseying” until he reached the back of the building, and there, standing upright against the rear wall, was the barrel, and beside it, mounted on a chair, a putty-faced boy, a stranger to Tom, who was busy boring a hole in the top of it.
“Trade pretty brisk?” inquired Connor, sauntering up.
“You bet,” replied the youth, laconically.
“What does ‘668’ stand for?” asked the miner, tapping the top of the barrel with his finger.
“That’s the number of the barrel,” was the reply. “The wholesalers down in San Remo always cut a number in their barrels when they send ’em out.”
“Your boss must be a right smart business man to run a ’stablishment like this,” remarked Tom, after a pause, glancing about the store.
“That’s what,” replied the boy, admiringly. “You’ll have to get up early to get around the boss. Why, this barrel here——” He stopped short, as though suddenly remembering the value of silence, and screwing up one eye as if to indicate that he could tell things if he liked, he added, “Well, when the boss gets his hands on a thing he don’t let go easy, I tell you that.”
“Ah! Smart fellow, the boss.”
“You bet,” remarked the youth once more.
All this time Tom had been taking notes. The thin, unplastered wall of the store was constructed of upright planks with battens over the joints. It was pierced with one window; and Tom noted that between the edge of the window and the centre of the barrel were four boards. He noted also that the barrel stood firm and square upon the floor and that the floor itself was water-tight.
While he was making these observations, the boy finished his boring operation and having inserted a vent-peg in the hole, walked off. As soon as he was out of sight, Tom stepped up tothe barrel, pulled out the vent-peg, dropped it into his pocket, and having done so, sauntered leisurely up the store again and went out.
For a little while he hung around on the other side of the street and presently he had the satisfaction of seeing the lights in the store extinguished, soon after which Yetmore came out and locking the door behind him, walked away to his house.
“Ah! So the putty-faced boy sleeps in the store, does he?” remarked Tom to himself; a conclusion in which he was confirmed when he saw a candle lighted and the boy making up his bed under the counter. A few minutes later the candle was blown out, when Tom set off briskly up the street for the widow’s store.
He found Mrs. Appleby and Seth tidying up preparatory to closing the store, and stepping in, he said, “You don’t take in lodgers, I suppose, ma’am? I’m intending to stay down town to-night.”
“No, we don’t,” replied the widow. “The house is not large enough. But if you’ve nowhere to sleep, you’re welcome to make up a bed on the floor—I can let you have some blankets.”
“Thank ye, ma’am, I’ll be glad to do it, if you please.”
Accordingly, after the widow had retired up-stairs to her room and Seth and I to ours, Tom spread his blankets on the floor and went to bed himself.
All was dark and silent when, at one o’clock in the morning, Tom sat up in bed, and after fumbling about for a minute, found a match and lighted a candle.
“Have to get up early to get around the boss, eh?” said he to himself, with a chuckle. “Wonder if this is early enough.”
In his stocking-feet he walked to the back door and opened it wide. After pausing for an instant to listen, he came back, and lifting the empty oil barrel from its stand he carried it outside. Next he selected two buckets, and having reached down from a high shelf a large funnel, an auger and a faucet, he carried them and his boots into the back yard, and having locked the door behind him, walked off into the darkness.
In a short time he reappeared, leading a horse, to which was harnessed a low wood-sled. Upon this sled he firmly lashed the barrel, and gathering up the other implements he took thehorse by the bridle and led him away down the silent street; for the town of Sulphide as yet boasted neither a lighting system nor a police force—or, rather, the police force was accustomed to betake himself to bed with the rest of the community—so Tom had the dark and empty street entirely to himself.
In a few minutes he drew up at the rear of Yetmore’s store, where, leaving the horse standing, he proceeded to count four planks from the edge of the window. Having marked the right plank, he took the auger, and crawling beneath the store, set to work boring a hole up through the floor. Presently the auger broke through, coming with a thump against the bottom of the barrel above, when Tom withdrew the instrument, and taking out his knife enlarged the hole considerably.
So far, so good. Next he set a bucket beneath the hole, took the faucet between his teeth in order to have it handy, and inserting the auger, he set to, boring a hole in the bottom of the barrel. Soon the tool popped through, when Tom hastily substituted the faucet, which he drove firmly in with a blow of his horny palm.
The putty-faced boy inside the store stirred inhis blankets, muttered something about “them pigs,” and went to sleep again.
Tom waited a moment to listen, and then drew off a bucket of oil. As soon as this was full he replaced it with the other bucket and emptied the first one into the barrel on the sled. This process he repeated until the oil began to dribble, when he carefully knocked out the faucet, and having collected his tools and emptied the last bucket into the barrel, he again took the horse by the bridle and silently led him away.
Arrived once more in the widow’s back yard, Tom unshipped the barrel and went off to restore the horse to its stable. He soon returned, and having unlocked the back door and re-lighted his candle, he proceeded to get the barrel into the house and back upon its stand; a work of immense labor, rendered all the harder by the necessity of keeping silence. Tom was a man of great strength, however, and at last he had the satisfaction of seeing the barrel once more in its place without having heard a sound from the sleepers overhead. Having washed the buckets and tools, he put them back where they came from, locked the door, and for the second time that night went to bed.
It was about half-past six in the morning that Tom, happening to look out of the front window, saw Yetmore coming hurriedly up the street, like a hound following the trail of the sled. Stepping to the little window at the rear, Tom peeped out and saw the storekeeper enter the back yard, walk to the spot where the sled had stopped, and stand for a minute examining the marks in the soil. Having apparently satisfied himself, he turned about and went off down the street again.
“What’s he going to do about it, I wonder?” said Tom to himself. “Reckon I’ll just mosey down to the store and see.”
As he heard Seth coming down the stairs, he unlocked the front door and stepping outside, walked down to Yetmore’s.
“Morning,” said he, cheerfully. “It’s a bit early for customers, I suppose, but I’m in a hurry this morning and I’d like to know whether you can let me have a gallon of coal oil.”
“Sorry to say I can’t,” replied the storekeeper. “Our only barrel sprang a leak last night and every drop ran out.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Tom, with anair of concern. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go up to the widow Appleby’s. She’s got plenty, I know.”
As he said this he looked hard at Yetmore, who in turn looked hard at him.
“Maybe,” said the storekeeper presently, “maybe you know something about that leak?”
Tom nodded. “I do,” said he. “I knowallabout it; and I’m the only one that does. I know the whole story, too, from one end to the other. The widow has got her barrel of oil; and you and I can make a sort of a guess as to how she got it. As to your barrel, it unfortunately sprung a leak. Is that the story?”
Yetmore stood for a minute glowering at the big miner, and then said, shortly, “That’s the story.”
“All right,” replied Tom; and turning on his heel, he went out.
Mrs. Appleby never did quite understand how her barrel of oil had been recovered for her. All she knew for certain was that her good friend, Mr. Connor, had somehow procured it from Yetmore, and that Yetmore was, as Mr. Connor said, “agreeable.”
As for myself, when Tom that morning, taking me aside, related with many chuckles how he had occupied himself during the night, I must own that my only feeling was one of satisfaction at the thought that Yetmore had been made to restore the widow’s property, and that the fear of ridicule would probably keep him silent on the subject. Sharing with most boys the love of fair play and the hatred of oppression, Tom’s cleverness and promptness of action seemed to me altogether commendable.
Nevertheless, I foresaw one consequence of the transaction which, I thought, was pretty sure to follow, namely, that it would arouse in Yetmore an angry resolve to “get even” with Tom byhook or by crook. That he would resort to active reprisals if the opportunity presented itself I felt certain, and so I warned our friend. But Tom, careless as usual, refused to take any precautions, believing that Yetmore would not venture as long as he—Tom—had, as he expressed it, two such damaging shots in his magazine as the story of the lead boulder and the story of the oil barrel; on both of which subjects he had, with rare discretion, determined to keep silence unless circumstances should warrant their disclosure.
It was not till I had reached home again and had jubilantly retailed the story to my father, that I began to understand how there might be yet another aspect to the matter. Instead of receiving it with a hearty laugh and a “Good for Tom,” as I had anticipated, he shook his head and said:
“I’m sorry to hear it. Tom made a mistake that time. That Yetmore should be made to give up the barrel of oil is proper enough; but what right has Tom to appropriate to himself the duties of judge, jury and executive officer? It is just such cases as this that earn for the American people the reputation of a nationwithout respect for law. No. Tom meant well, I know, but in my opinion he made a mistake all the same.”
“I never thought of it in that light,” said I; “so it is just as well, probably, that Tom didn’t let me into the secret beforehand, because I’m afraid I should have been only too ready to help if he had asked me.”
“Yes, it is just as well you were not given the choice, I expect,” replied my father, smiling. “I’m glad Tom had the sense to take the whole responsibility on his own shoulders. Does he expect that Yetmore will be content to let the matter rest where it is?”
“He seems to think so; though he is such a heedless fellow that it wouldn’t bother him much if he thought otherwise.”
“Well, in my opinion he will do well to keep his eyes open. As I told you before, I think Yetmore’s natural caution would prompt him to keep within the law, but it is not impossible now, Tom having set him the example—for one such transgression of the law is apt to breed another—that he will think himself justified in resorting to lawless measures in his turn; especially as he will have that fellow, Long John,jogging his elbow and whispering evil counsels in his ear all the time.”
How correct my father was in his presumption; how Long John did devise a scheme of retaliation; and how Joe and I inadvertently got our fingers into the pie, I shall have to relate in due course.
But though my father disapproved of Tom’s action, that fact did not lessen his desire to help his friend when I had related to him how Tom had indeed spent all his savings on Mrs. Murphy and her family.
“What a good-hearted, harum-scarum fellow he is!” exclaimed my father. “He knows—in fact, no one knows better—that there is a possible fortune waiting for him somewhere up here on Lincoln; he saves up all winter so that he may be free to go and hunt for it in the spring; yet at the first note of distress, away he runs and tumbles all his savings into Mrs. Murphy’s lap, who, when all is said and done, has no real claim upon him, thus taking the risk of being stranded in town while Long John goes off and cuts him out. What are we going to do about it, boys? What can you suggest?”
“It would certainly be a shame,” said Joe,“if Tom, by his act of charity, should put himself out of the running in the search for that vein of galena. Yet he will surely do so if he can’t raise that money. And even if he should raise it, he might be late in getting it, in which case Long John would get the start of him.”
“That’s the case in a nutshell,” my father assented; “and, as I said before: What are we going to do about it?”
“Why——” Joe began; and then he suddenly jumped up and coming across the room he whispered something in my ear. I replied with a nod; whereupon Joe returned to his chair, and addressing my father once more, said:
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Mr. Crawford. Phil and I made forty dollars last fall cutting timbers—it was Tom who got us our order, too—and we have it still. We’ll put that in—eh, Phil?—if it will be any use.”
“Yes,” said I. “Gladly.”
“Good!” exclaimed my father. “Then that settles it. Now,I’lltell you what we’ll do. I’ll add sixty dollars to it—that is all I can afford just now—and you two shall ride back to Sulphide this afternoon, give Tom the money, and tell him he shall have fifty more in acouple of months if he needs it. And tell him at the same time that he needn’t go mortgaging his little house. We don’t want security from Tom Connor: we know him too well. I’d rather have his word than some men’s bond. You shall ride up to see him this afternoon, and you needn’t hurry back to-day; for that rain of last night has made the ground too wet to continue plowing; and, if I’m not mistaken, we’re in for another storm to-night, in which case the soil won’t be in condition again for two or three days.”
I need hardly say that Joe and I were delighted to undertake this mission, and about four o’clock we reached Mrs. Appleby’s, where we put up our ponies in her stable. Then, as Tom would not be quitting work for another hour, instead of going direct to his house, we climbed up to the Pelican, intending to catch him there and walk home with him.
Presently arriving at the great white dump of bleached porphyry to which the citizens of Sulphide were accustomed to point with pride as an indication of the immense amount of work it had taken to make the Pelican the important mine it was, we scrambled up to theengine-house, where for some minutes we stood watching the busy engine as it whirled to the surface the buckets of waste. Then, stepping over to the mouth of the shaft, we paused again to watch the top-men as they emptied the big buckets into the car and trundled the car itself to the edge of the dump, upset it, and trundled it back again for more.
As we stood there, a miner came up, and stepping out of the cage, nodded to us in passing.
“Want anybody, boys?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for Tom Connor,” I replied. “He’s down below, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s down in the fifth. I’ll take you down there if you like. I’m going back in a minute.”
“What do you think, Joe?” I asked.
“Yes, let’s go,” my companion replied. “I’ve never been inside a mine, and I should like to see one.”
“All right,” said the miner. “Come over here to the dressing-room and I’ll give you a lamp and a couple of slickers. It’s a bit wet down there.”
Joe and I were soon provided with water-proof coats, and in company with our new friend westepped into the cage, when the miner, shutting the door behind us, called out to the engineer, “Fifth level, McPherson,” and instantly the floor of the cage seemed to drop from under us. After a fall of several miles, as it appeared to us, the cage stopped, when, peering through the wire lattice-work, we saw before us a dark passage, upon one side of which hung a white board with a big “5” painted upon it.
“Here you are,” said the miner, stepping out of the cage and handing us a lighted lamp. “Just walk straight along this drift about three hundred feet—it’s all plain sailing—and you’ll find Tom Connor at work there. I’m going on down to the seventh myself.”
With that he stepped back into the cage, rang the bell, and vanished, leaving us standing there eyeing each other a little dubiously at finding ourselves left to our own guidance, four hundred feet below the surface of the earth.
“I hadn’t reckoned on that,” said I. “I thought he was coming with us.”
“So did I,” replied Joe. “But it doesn’t really matter. All we have to do is to walk along this passage; so let’s go ahead.”
That our obliging friend had been right whenhe stated that it was “a bit wet” down here was evident, for the drops of water from the roof of the drift kept pattering upon our slickers, and presently, when we had advanced something over half the distance, one of them fell plump upon the flame of our lamp and put it out!
We stopped short, not knowing what pitfalls there might be ahead of us, and each felt in all his pockets for a match. We had none! Never anticipating any such contingency as this, we had ventured into this black hole without a match in our possession.
I admit that we were scared—the darkness was so very dark and the silence so very silent—but fortunately it was only for a moment. Standing stock still, for, indeed, we dared not move, we shouted for Tom, when, to our infinite relief, we heard his familiar voice call out:
“Hallo, there! That you, Patsy? I’m coming. Does the boss want me?”
The next moment a light appeared moving towards us, and as soon as we could safely do so we advanced to meet it.
“How are you, Tom?” we both cried, simultaneously, assuming an off-hand manner, as though we had not been scared a bit.
Tom stopped, not recognizing us for a moment, and then exclaimed:
“Hallo, boys! What are you doing down here? Who brought you down?”
We told him how we came to be there, and how our lamp had gone out; at which Tom shook his head.
“Well, it was certainly a smart trick to send you down into this wet hole and not even see that you had a match in your pocket. What would you have done if I’d happened to have left the drift?”
The very idea gave me cold chills all down my back.
“We should have been badly scared, Tom, and that’s a fact,” I replied; “but I hope we should have kept our heads. I believe we should have sat down where we were and shouted till somebody came.”
“Well, that would have been the best thing you could do, though you might have had to shout a pretty long time, for there is nobody working in this level just now but me, and, as a matter of fact, I should have left it myself in another five minutes. But it’s all right as it happens; so now you can come along with me.I’m going out the other way through Yetmore’s ground.”
“Yetmore’s ground?” exclaimed Joe, inquiringly.
“Yes, Yetmore is working the old stopes of the Pelican on a lease—it is one of his many ventures. In the early days of the camp mining was conducted much more carelessly than it is now; freight and smelter charges were a good bit higher, too, so that a considerable amount of ore of too low grade to ship then was left standing in the stopes. Yetmore is taking it out on shares. His ground lies this way. Come on.”
So saying, Tom led the way to the end of the drift, where, going down upon his hands and knees, he crawled through a man-hole, coming out into a little shaft which he called a “winze.” Ascending this by a short ladder, we found ourselves in the old, abandoned workings, and still following our guide, we presently walked out into the daylight—greatly to our surprise.
“Why, where have we got to, Tom?” cried Joe, as we stared about us, not recognizing our surroundings.
Tom laughed. “This is called Stony Gulch,”he replied. “The mine used to be worked through this tunnel where we just came out, but the tunnel isn’t used now except temporarily by Yetmore’s men. He only runs a day shift and at night he closes the place with that big door and locks it up. The Pelican buildings are just over the hill here, and we may as well go up at once: it will be quitting-time by the time we get there.”
We climbed over the hill, therefore, and having restored our slickers, went on with Tom down to his little cottage, which was only about a quarter of a mile from the mine.
It was not until we were inside his house that we explained to Tom the object of our visit, at the same time handing over to him my father’s check for one hundred dollars. The good fellow was quite touched by this very simple token of good-will on our part; for, though he was ever ready to help others, it seemed never to have occurred to him that others might like sometimes to help him.
This little bit of business being settled, we all pitched in to assist in getting supper ready, and presently we were seated round Tom’s table testing the result of our cookery. As we sat there,Joe, pointing to a window-sash and some planed and fitted lumber which stood leaning against the wall, asked:
“What are you going to do with that, Tom? Put in a second window?”
“Yes,” replied our host. “And I was intending to do it this evening. You can help me now you’re here. The stuff is all ready; all we have to do is to cut the hole in the wall and slap it in. It’s just one sash, not intended to open and shut, so it’s a simple job enough.”
“Where does it go?” asked Joe.
“There, on the right-hand side of the door. Old man Snyder, in the next house west, put one in some time ago, and it’s such an improvement that I decided to do the same. We’ll step out presently and look at Snyder’s, and then you’ll see. Hallo! Come in!”
This shout was occasioned by a tapping at the door, and in response to Tom’s call there stepped in a tall miner, whom I recognized as George Simpson, one of the Pelican men.
“Come in, George,” cried our host. “Come in and have some supper. What’s new?”
“No, I won’t take any supper, thank ye,” replied the miner. “I must get along home. Ijust dropped in to speak to you. You know Arty Burns?—works on the night shift? Well, Arty’s sick. When he came up to the mine to-night he was too sick to stand, so I packed him off home again and told him to go to bed where he belonged and I’d see to it that somebody went on in his place, so that he shouldn’t lose his job. I’m proposing to work half his shift for him myself, and I want to find somebody——”
“All right, George,” Connor cut in. “I’ll take the other half. Which do you want? First or second?”
“Second, if it’s all the same to you, Tom. If I don’t get home first my old woman will think there’s something the matter. So, if you don’t mind, you can go on first and I’ll relieve you at half-time.”
“All right, George, then I’ll get out at once. You boys can wash up, if you will; and you’ll find a mattress and plenty of blankets in the back room. I’ll be back soon after eleven.”
With that, carrying a lantern in his hand, for it was getting dark, away he went; while the miner hurried off across lots for town; neither of them, apparently, thinking it anything out of the way to do a full day’s work and then, insteadof taking his well-earned rest, to go off and do another half-day’s work in order to “hold the job” for a third man, to whom neither of them was under any obligation.
Norwasit anything out of the way; for the silver-miners of Colorado, whatever their faults, did in those days, and probably do still, exercise towards their fellows a practical charity which might well be counted to cover a multitude of sins.
“Look here, Phil!” exclaimed my companion, after we had washed and put away the dishes. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s pitch in and put in Tom’s second window for him!”
“Good idea!” I cried. “We’ll do it! Let’s go out first, though, Joe, and take a look at old Snyder’s house, so that we may see what effect Tom expects to get.”
“Come on, then!”
The row of six little houses, of which Tom’s was the third, counting from the west, had been one of Yetmore’s speculations. They were situated on the southern outskirts of town, and were mostly occupied by miners working on the Pelican. Each house was an exact counterpart of every other, they having beenbuilt by contract all on one pattern. Each had a room in front and a room behind; one little brick chimney; a front door with two steps; and a window on the right-hand side of the door as you faced the house. All were painted the same color.
Yetmore having secured the land, had laid it out as “Yetmore’s Addition” to the town of Sulphide; had marked out streets and alleys, and had built the six houses as a starter, hoping thereby to draw people out there. But as yet his building-lots were a drug in the market: they were too far out; there being a vacant space of a quarter of a mile or thereabouts between them and the next nearest houses in town. The streets themselves were undistinguishable from the rest of the country, being merely marked out with stakes and having had no work whatever expended upon them.
The six houses, built about three hundred feet apart, all faced north—towards the town—and being so far apart and all so precisely alike, it was absolutely impossible for any one coming from town on a dark night to tell which house was which. Not even the tenants themselves, coming across the vacant lots after nightfall,could tell their own houses from those of their neighbors; and consequently it was a common event for one of the sleepy inmates, stirred out of bed by a knock at the door, to find a belated citizen outside inquiring whether this was his house or somebody else’s. Not infrequently they neglected to knock first, and walking straight in, found themselves, to their great embarrassment, in the wrong house.
Old man Snyder, a somewhat irritable old gentleman, having been thus disturbed two nights in succession, determined that he would no longer subject himself to the nuisance. He bought a single sash and inserted a second window on the other side of his door; a device which not only saved him from intrusion, but served as a guide to his neighbors in finding their own houses. It was also a very obvious improvement, and we did not wonder that Tom Connor had determined to follow his neighbor’s example.
Old Snyder’s house was the second from the western end of the street, Tom Connor’s, three hundred feet distant, came next, while next to Tom’s, another three hundred feet away, was ahouse which still belonged to Yetmore and was at that moment standing empty.
You will wonder, very likely, why I should go into all these details, but you will cease to wonder, I think, when you see presently of what transcendent importance to Joe and me was the situation of these three houses.
Joe and I, laying hands on our host’s kit of tools, at once went to work on the window. As Tom had said, it was a simple job, and though it was something of a handicap to work by lamplight, we went at it so vigorously that by nine o’clock we had completed our task—very much to our satisfaction.
Stepping outside to observe the effect, we saw that old Snyder’s windows were lighted up also; but we had hardly noted that fact when his light went out.
“The old fellow goes to bed early, Joe,” said I.
“Yes,” Joe replied; and then, with a sudden laugh, added: “My wig, Phil! I hope there won’t be anybody coming out from town to-night. If they do, there’ll be complications. They will surely be taking our two windows forold Snyder’s, for, now that his light is out, you can’t see his house at all.”
“That’s a fact,” said I. “If Snyder’s right-hand neighbor should come out across the flats to-night he would see our two windows, and, supposing them to be Snyder’s windows, he would be almost sure to go blundering into the old fellow’s house. My! How mad he would be!”
“Wouldn’t he! And any one coming out to visit Tom would pretty certainly go and pound on the door of the empty house to the left.”
“Well, let us hope that nobody does come out,” said I. “Come on, now, Joe. Let’s get back. It’s going to rain pretty soon.”
“Yes; your father was right when he predicted more rain. It’s going to be a biggish one, I should think. How dark it is! I don’t wonder people find a difficulty in telling which house is which when all the lights are out. Here it comes now. Step out, Phil.”
As he spoke, a blast of wind from the mountains struck us, and a few needles of cold rain beat against our right cheeks.
We were soon inside again, when, having shut our door, we sat down to a game of checkers, in which we became so absorbed that we failed tonote the lapse of time until Tom’s dollar clock, hanging on the wall, banged out the hour of ten.
“To bed, Joe!” I cried, springing out of my chair. “Why, we haven’t been up so late for weeks.”
Stepping into the back room, we soon had mattress and blankets spread upon the floor, when, quickly undressing, I crept into bed, while Joe, returning to the front room, blew out the light.
Five minutes later we were both asleep, with a comfortable consciousness that we had done a good evening’s work; though we little suspected how good an evening’s work it really was. For it is hardly too much to say that had wenotput in Tom’s second window that night we might both have been dead before morning.