Off we ran to where our horse was standing, eating hay out of the back of the buckboard, threw on the harness, hitched him up, and scrambling in, one on either side, away we wentas fast as we dared over the uneven, rocky stretch of the mesa which lay between us and home.
The course of the stream being more circuitous than the one we took across country, we beat the water down to the ranch; but only by a few seconds. We had hardly reached the bridge when the swollen stream leaped into the pool in such volume that I felt convinced it would sweep it clear of all the sand in it whether black or yellow; rushed under the bridge, and went tearing down the valley—a sight to see! Luckily the creek-bed was fairly wide and straight, so that the banks did not suffer much.
As to the bridge, the stringers being very long and well set, and the floor being composed of stout poles roughly squared and firmly spiked down, it did not go out, though the water came squirting up between the poles in a way which made us fear it might tear them loose at any moment.
To prevent this, we ran quickly to the stable, harnessed up the mules to the wood-sled, loaded the sled with some of our big flat lava-rocks, and driving back to the bridge, we laid these rocks upon the ends of the poles, leaving acauseway between them wide enough for the passage of a wagon.
We had just finished this piece of work, when we heard a rattle of wheels, and looking up the road we saw coming down the hill an express-wagon, driven by Sam Tobin, a San Remo liveryman, and in the wagon sat my father and mother.
“Why, what’s all this?”cried the former, as the driver pulled up on the far side of the bridge. “Where does all this water come from?”
Then did the pent-up excitement of the past week burst forth. The flood of water going under the bridge was a trifle compared with the flood of words we poured out upon my bewildered parents; both of us talking at the same time, interrupting each other at every turn, explaining each other’s explanations, and tumbling over each other, as it were, in our eagerness. All the details of the strenuous days since the snow-slide came down—the discovery of the Big Reuben, the recovery of the stolen ore, and above all the heading-off of the underground stream—were set forth with breathless volubility; so that if the hearers were a little dazed by the recital and a trifle confused as to theparticulars, it was not to be wondered at. One thing, at least, was clear to them: we had found and turned the underground stream; and when he understood that, my father leaped from the wagon, and shaking hands with both of us at once, he cried:
“Boys, you certainlyhavedone a stroke of work! If it had taken you a year instead of a week it would have been more than worth the labor. As to its actual money value, it is hard to judge yet; but whether that shall turn out to be much or little, there is one thing sure:—we have our work cut out for us for years to come—a grand thing by itself for all of us. And now, let us go on up to the house: Sam Tobin wants to get back home as soon as possible.”
This the driver was able to do at once, for the livery horses, frightened by the water which came spurting up through the floor of the bridge, declined to cross, so Joe and I, taking out the trunk, placed it on the wood-sled and thus drew it up to the house.
As we walked along, my mother said:
“So the hermit has been staying with you, has he? And what sort of a manisyour wild man now you’ve caught him?”
“He isn’t a wild man at all,”cried Joe, somewhat indignantly. “He’s a fine fellow—isn’t he, Phil? He has been of great help to us these last few days. We could never have finished our trench in time if he hadn’t taken the chores off our hands. He is in the kitchen now, getting the supper ready. I’ll run and bring him out.”
So saying, Joe ran forward—we others walking on more leisurely—and as we approached the house the pair came out of the front door side by side.
In spite of Joe’s assurance to the contrary, my parents still had in their minds the idea that any one going by the name of “Peter, the Hermit”must be a rough, hirsute, unkempt specimen of humanity. Great was their surprise, therefore, when Peter, always clean and tidy, his hair and beard neatly trimmed in honor of their return, issued from the doorway, looking, with his clear gray eyes, his ruddy complexion and his spare, erect figure, remarkably young and alert.
There was an added heartiness in their welcome, therefore, when Joe proudly introduced him; and though Peter threw out hints aboutsleeping in the hay-loft that night and taking himself off the first thing in the morning, my mother scouted the idea, telling him how she had long desired to make his acquaintance, and intimating that she should take it as a very poor compliment to herself if he should run off the moment she got home.
So Peter, set quite at his ease, said no more about it, but went back into the kitchen, whence he presently issued again to announce that supper was ready.
A very hearty and a very merry supper it was, too, and long and animated was the talk which followed, as we sat before the open fire that evening.
“I feel almost bewildered,”said my father, “when I think of the amount and the variety of the work we have before us; it is astonishing that the turning of that stream should carry with it so many consequences, as I foresee it will—that and Tom Connor’s strike.”
“There’s no end to it!”cried Joe, jumping out of his chair, striding up and down the room, and, for the last time in this history, rumpling his hair in his excitement. “There’s no end to it! There’s the hay-corral to enlarge—rock haulingall winter for you and me, Phil! We shall need a new ice-pond; for this new water-supply won’t freeze up in winter like the old one did! Then, when the ‘forty rods’ dries up, there will be the extension of our ditches down there; besides making a first-class road to bring all the travel our way—plenty of work in that, too! Then, when we bring the old lake-benches under cultivation, there will be new headgates needed and two new ditches to lay out, besides breaking the ground! Then——Oh, what’s the use? There’s no end to it—just no end to it!”
Joe was quite right. There was, and there still seems to be, no end to it.
The effect of Tom Connor’s strike on Mount Lincoln was just what my father had predicted: our whole district took a great stride forward; the mountains swarmed with prospectors; the town of Sulphide hummed with business; our new friend, Yetmore, doing a thriving trade, while our old friend, Mrs. Appleby, followed close behind, a good second.
As for Tom, himself, he is one of our local capitalists now, but he is the same old Tom for all that. Just as he used to do when he waspoor, so he continues to do now he is rich: any tale of distress will empty his pocket on the spot. Though my father remonstrates with him sometimes, Tom only laughs and remarks that it is no use trying to teach old dogs new tricks; and moreover he does not see why he should not spend his money to suit himself. And so he goes his own way, more than satisfied with the knowledge that every man, woman and child in the district counts Tom Connor as a friend.
The fate of those two poor ore-thieves was so horrible that I hesitate to mention it. It was six months later that a prospector on one of the northern spurs of Lincoln came upon two dead bodies. One, a club-footed man, had been shot through the head; the other, unmistakably Long John, was lying on his back, an empty revolver beside him, and one foot caught in a bear-trap. Though the truth will never be known, the presumption is that, setting the stolen trap in a deer run in the hope of catching a deer, they had got into a quarrel; Clubfoot, striking at his companion, had caused him to step backward into the trap, when, in his pain and rage, Long John had whipped out his revolver and shot the other.What his own fate must have been is too dreadful to contemplate.
And the Crawford ranch? Well, the Crawford ranch is the busiest place in the county.
Peter, for whom my parents, like ourselves, took a great liking, quickly thawed out under my mother’s influence, and related to us briefly the reason for his having taken to his solitary life. He had been a school-teacher in Denver, but losing his wife and two children in an accident, he had fled from the place and had hidden himself up in our mountains, where for several years he had spent a lonely existence with no company but old Socrates. Now, however, his house destroyed and his mountain overrun with prospectors, he needed little inducement to abandon his old hermit-life; and accepting gladly my father’s suggestion that he stay and work on the ranch, he built for himself a good log cabin up near the waterfall, and there he and Socrates took up their residence.
There was plenty of work for him and for all of us—indeed, for the first two years there was almost more than we could do. It took that length of time for the “forty rods”to drain off thoroughly, but by the middle of the third summerwe were cutting hay upon it; the ore wagons from Sulphide and from the Big Reuben were passing through in a continuous stream; the stage-coach was coming our way; the old hill road was abandoned.
In fact, everybody is busy, and more than busy—with one single exception.
The only loafer on the place is old Sox—tolerated on account of his advanced age. That veteran, whose love of mischief and whose unfailing impudence would lead any stranger to suppose he had but just come out of the egg, spends most of his time strutting about the ranch, stealing the food of the dogs and chickens; awing them into submission by his supernatural gift of speech. And as though that were not enough, his crop distended with his pilferings to the point of bursting, he comes unabashed to the kitchen door and blandly requests my mother, of all people, to give him a chew of tobacco!
But the mail-coach has just gone through, and I hear Joe shouting for me; I must run.
“Yetmore wants fifty-hundred of oats, Phil,”he calls out. “You and I are to take it up. We must dig out at once if we are to get back to-night. To-morrow we break ground on our newditches. A month or more of good stiff work for us, old chap!”
He rubs his hands in anticipation; for the bigger he grows—and he has grown into a tremendous fellow now—the more work he wants. There is no satisfying him.
We have been very fortunate, wonderfully fortunate; but I am inclined to set apart as pre-eminently our lucky day that one in the summer of ’79, when young Joe Garnier, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stopped at our stable-door to ask for work!
By Amy E. BlanchardWar of the Revolution SeriesThe books comprising this series have become well known among the girls and are alike chosen by readers themselves, by parents and by teachers on account of their value from the historical standpoint, their purity of style and their interest in general.A Girl of ’76ABOUT COLONIAL BOSTON. 331 pp.It is one of the best stories of old Boston and its vicinity which has ever been written. Its value as real history and as an incentive to further study can hardly be overestimated.A Revolutionary MaidA STORY OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD IN THEWAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.No better material could be found for a story than the New Jersey campaign, the Battle of Germantown, and the winter at Valley Forge. Miss Blanchard has made the most of a large opportunity and produced a happy companion volume to “A Girl of ’76.”A Daughter of FreedomA STORY OF THE LATTER PERIOD OF THEWAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.In this story the South supplies the scenery, and good use is made of the familiar fact that a family often was divided in its allegiance. It is romantic but not sensational, well-written and rich in entertainment.War of 1812 SeriesThis period is divided into two historical volumes for girls, the one upon the early portion describing the causes, etc., of the war, the latter showing the strife along the Northern border.A Heroine of 1812A MARYLAND ROMANCE. 335 pp.This Maryland romance is of the author’s best; strong in historical accuracy and intimate knowledge of the locality. Its characters are of marked individuality, and there are no dull or weak spots in the story.A Loyal Lass.A STORY OF THE NIAGARA CAMPAIGN OF 1814. 319 pp.This volume shows the intense feeling that existed all along the border line between the United States and Canada, and as was the case in our Civil War even divided families fought on opposite sides during this contest. It is a sweet and wholesome romance.EACH VOLUME FULLY ILLUSTRATED. Price, $1.50W. A. WILDE COMPANY,—Boston and Chicago
The books comprising this series have become well known among the girls and are alike chosen by readers themselves, by parents and by teachers on account of their value from the historical standpoint, their purity of style and their interest in general.
A Girl of ’76
ABOUT COLONIAL BOSTON. 331 pp.
It is one of the best stories of old Boston and its vicinity which has ever been written. Its value as real history and as an incentive to further study can hardly be overestimated.
A Revolutionary Maid
A STORY OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD IN THEWAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.
No better material could be found for a story than the New Jersey campaign, the Battle of Germantown, and the winter at Valley Forge. Miss Blanchard has made the most of a large opportunity and produced a happy companion volume to “A Girl of ’76.”
A Daughter of Freedom
A STORY OF THE LATTER PERIOD OF THEWAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.
In this story the South supplies the scenery, and good use is made of the familiar fact that a family often was divided in its allegiance. It is romantic but not sensational, well-written and rich in entertainment.
This period is divided into two historical volumes for girls, the one upon the early portion describing the causes, etc., of the war, the latter showing the strife along the Northern border.
A Heroine of 1812
A MARYLAND ROMANCE. 335 pp.
This Maryland romance is of the author’s best; strong in historical accuracy and intimate knowledge of the locality. Its characters are of marked individuality, and there are no dull or weak spots in the story.
A Loyal Lass.
A STORY OF THE NIAGARA CAMPAIGN OF 1814. 319 pp.
This volume shows the intense feeling that existed all along the border line between the United States and Canada, and as was the case in our Civil War even divided families fought on opposite sides during this contest. It is a sweet and wholesome romance.
EACH VOLUME FULLY ILLUSTRATED. Price, $1.50
W. A. WILDE COMPANY,—Boston and Chicago
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.