"Isn't it really wonderful when you think of the obstacles men have overcome just to accomplish their desired ends?" asked Mr. Allen as he stood gazing out over the mountains. "Men have risked their very lives just for the privilege of climbing into these old hills to look for gold. Many were the narrow escapes from death by starvation or wild beasts that these hills could tell of if they could speak. Did you ever stop to think that if it hadn't been for the gold that God hid away here in this Continental Divide, that perhaps the men in the old Eastern colonies would never have crossed over and taken possession of the wonderful Westland. It was the gold that was hidden under the snow and ice of Alaska that beckoned men northward. This has always been true. The prospectors of the Nation have always been its best explorers—certainly they were its real frontiersmen. They led and civilization followed. Think of the thousands of people who endured hardships of which we can not even imagine just to follow westward that trail, blazed by such sturdy old men as Dad Wright and others like him. I've heard Dad tell many a time of that caravan of forty-niners, all their earthly possessions packed in one of those old prairie schooners, drawn by slow, patient oxen. I've heard him tell of the time gold was discovered in Cripple Creek. Cripple Creek was just a part of the great wilderness, and was only accessible by a series of uncertain trails. Yes, gold is a precious metal, to be sure; but it is magical, too, for no sooner is it discovered than a wave of industry is created. Upon a bleak and barren spot a city is built in a week—a miracle of human energy. The Midland Railroad kept great gangs of men working day and night, in order to connect that great gold field with the outer world. Before long there was a tremendous demand for a common wagon road 'to civilization,' as they put it; and this very road that we are walking on came into being—an outlet, if you please—for some of that wonderful, teeming, bubbling life and industry created by the mere discovery of gold.

"Soon this very road became the most important highway in the State. Great wagon loads of food and tools went up, and bags of precious ore came back. Stores were opened, schools were built, churches erected, and homes founded. Civilization had found another desolate mountain wilderness, and with her magic wand added it to her ever-widening domain—all because some one had discovered gold.

"Then came the first stage-coach. Daddy has often told me all about it. A great, cumbersome affair, rolling and pitching on its leathers as it came lunging and bumping along the rough, stony, mountain road. The driver was seated high above the dashboard, nearly buried in boxes, bags, and bundles, while the baggage till behind resembled a railroad truck piled high with every kind and description of trunks. As it came to a sudden stop in front of the little postoffice, its great, swinging side-doors opened and the passengers scrambled out, each one handing the jovial and loquacious driver a five-dollar note.

"Soon it took four stages to satisfy the demand, one going each way night and morning. It was at this stage of the game that Daddy built the famous Road House. Here the horses were relayed, and here the passengers stepped out to stretch their cramped limbs or, perhaps, to drink at Dad's spring. Sometimes, on stormy nights, both stages, the one going up and the one coming down, would be tied up for the night at Dad's. Then such times as there would be in that old log house! Prospectors from every gold camp on earth, promoters and mining brokers, surveyors and engineers, old-timers and tenderfeet—all brought together by one single impulse—the craze for gold.

"Many were the mining claims that passed over the poker table there; many were the conspiracies that were talked over and determined upon. Many were the stories of the old Sante Fe trail and of the Pony Express, or perhaps strange tales of Kit Carson as he roamed the great Westland from Texas to Wyoming, trapping for fur and killing every treacherous Indian that crossed his trail. You know Old Ben at Bruin Inn was for many years a stage driver for Dad on this very road, and he is chuck full of stories."

"When are you going to tell us the story of the burning of the Road House?" interrupted Ham.

"Well," replied Mr. Allen, "if I don't succeed in getting Dad to tell it to you himself, I'll tell it when we stop on top of that hogsback to rest," pointing to a great, round hill in the canyon.

"Do you think Dad will really tell us any of his stories?" queried Willis. "My father used to know him, and he has stopped at this very place. I'm sure he made many trips to Cripple Creek in those old stages." Turning to Mr. Allen, he continued, "Wouldn't father think it awfully strange if he knew I was tramping over the very road he used to travel so often?"

Mr. Allen and Willis dropped to the rear of the line, and Willis went on:

"I've been thinking I'd ask Daddy Wright if he remembered my father, and he might know where the mine is; and O, I'd so like to see it. I never want to be a miner, but I'd just like to know all about mines, so I could understand father better."

"Well, it all depends on how Dad is feeling," returned Mr. Allen. "If he is well he will be as glad to see us and as loquacious as a happy child; but if not, he will hardly notice us at all. Leave the talking all to me. He and I are old friends, and I always have some little treat in my pocket for him. He will be looking for it if he is home, but sometimes he is up at the mine."

"O, he doesn't work a mine now, does he?" exclaimed Willis.

"No, he doesn't exactly work it, but he owns one up in the gulch here behind his cabin, and sometimes there is a man up there at work. I don't know who he is."

As they rounded a great boulder that jutted out into the road, the little cabin of Daddy Wright came into view. A dog began to bark loudly, and somewhere up in the canyon that runs at right angles to the road there came the deep, muffled boom of a mine blast.

"Guess they must be working the mine, after all; still, it might be one of the others. There are half a dozen in this canyon, all of which have been worked more or less. The owners work in the city until they can get enough money to buy powder and grub stakes, then they work the mine for a season on their earnings," remarked Mr. Allen. He was carefully surveying the cabin and hill behind it. The dog had now come out from its shelter and stood in the middle of the road, doing his utmost to wake the dead. He evidently disliked visitors.

"Dad can't be very far away, for Knepp is always at his heels. He is nearly as old a timer as Dad himself, and as harmless. Hold on there, you fellows up ahead," called Mr. Allen. "Let me do the introducing of this party."

The cabin was a little log affair, well-banked around the base with dirt and moss to keep out the cold. To all appearances the only two openings in it were the front door and a double window. One of the window panes was covered over with the end of an old egg crate, and another, which was not so badly shattered, was repaired by a burlap sack, wadded into the opening. A big pine stood just outside the door and cast its shade over the roofless veranda. At one side of the house stood an ancient, moss-covered, hollow pine log, into which a pipe ran from the spring, a few paces back in the gulch. This was the old stage watering-trough, made by Dad himself when the big cabin was built. Directly up the road a hundred paces stood the old stone chimney, a famous landmark of the region.

Mr. Allen went to the watering-trough and, filling his cup, called out:

"Here, you fellows, do you want a drink of the greatest ale in the world? It's the purest of Mother Nature's brews."

The old pine door squeaked on its rusty hinges as it slowly opened.

"Well, sir, I'll be dummed. Howdy, young 'uns! Whar d' ye hail frum? Huntin' bar, er jist a roundin' up a bunch o' jay-birds? Haw, haw, haw! Yer 'bout the fightin'est bunch o' young dandies I've seen sence the war."

Daddy Wright stood in the doorway, taking in every detail of the group. He was a little, shriveled-up man, with small, watery eyes set well back under shaggy white eyebrows. His head was protected by a very disreputable and time-worn black hat that looked as if it might have been in active service for at least a half a century. His clothes were shabby and dirty, and his feet were bare. It was one of the peculiarities of the old man that he rarely ever wore shoes, except in the coldest of winter; then he preferred his old, home-made moccasins. His straggly, gray whiskers were badly stained with tobacco from his constant companion—an old, corncob pipe. He was short and stout, and had of late years become very feeble, being just able to hobble about a little each day with the aid of a cane.

"Yew fellers with all yer fixin's remind me a heap o' some o' the gangs o' green city fellers I used to see when I was freightin' on the old Spanish Trail—all guns an' blankets an' fixin's, but not much real explorin' blood in ye. Hain't that 'bout so? Say, Hallen, jist explain to me what yer ca'clatin' to do with these yere young roosters. Explorin', huh—jist as I thought. Kick me fer a stick o' dynamite if ye hain't the beatenest bunch o' explorers I've seed in many a moon. Lookin' fer gold mines? Suthin' bigger, I s'pose? I'd give half my grub stakes if Tad could see ye. Explorin', eh? Yew remind me o' the time me an' Old Ben went explorin' on Beaver Creek. We had 'nough truck 'long t' start a gold camp, an' we walked an' explored an' explored. We must o' walked fer well nigh onto three weeks, an' all we ever seed in all that time was a pole-cat—an' we wished we hadn't o' seed him, fer Ben had t' bury every livin' last stitch o' his duds an' walk home in his bare hide. Haw, haw! I wisht Tad 'ud come 'long now an' take a squint at yew fellers—he'd bust a bein' tickled!"

"Dad, how is your good health these days?" inquired Mr. Allen, as he handed the old man a little package he had taken from his haversack. Dad took it, smelled it through the paper; then a pleased smile spread over his face.

"Smells like grains o' gold, Mr. Hallen. Thank ye. As fer me health, never was no better sence I been here. A man can't git sick a livin' out in this yere country all his life. I'll be ninety-five now, in jist a few weeks, an' I'm as spry now as most any o' yew fellers. I'll live longer'n some o' ye yit. Yep, I'm feelin' mighty spry agin sence Tad's got back. Kind o' seems like the old days afore the shanty was burned. I ca'calate them there devils must o' injoyed that performance."

The fellows all stood at attention. Was the Road House story really coming, and from Dad's very own lips?

"It must have been a sad sight, wasn't it, Dad, to see your home demolished in that fashion?" quietly suggested Mr. Allen, by way of encouragement.

"'T wan't near as sad a sight as some I have seed," replied the old man. "'Bout the saddest sight I ever seed was of an old pard o' mine a wanderin' over these almighty hills a sorrowin' out his life after he'd lost his right down best friend in a mine cave-in. Poor old boy, he took it mighty serious. He used to be the happiest prospector I ever swapped lies with, till that devilish old tunnel caved in an' crushed the life out o' the feller's pardner. He hain't never ben no 'count sence, till lately. Now an' then he'd take a long, wanderin' trip back into these yere gloomy ol' gulches, an' I've seed them as say they've heerd him away off in the hills at night a callin' his pardner's name, an' a sobbin' an' a carryin' on. He's a strong man—that's why he gits out into God Almighty's hills to open his troubled heart, 'stead o' tellin' his lonesomeness to men as would make fun o' him. That's 'bout the sorriest sight I ever seed, an' I've seed 'bout my share on 'em—Indian killin's, dynamite explosions, an' sech like. 'T ain't many fellers ever has as real a friend as that!"

"What finally happened to your friend, Dad—did he get over his sorrow after a while?"

"No, no, my boy, he never got over it. He got on top of it. I mind now how he was gone a long spell in the timber; no grub, no duffel, no nothin'—only his ol' gun. He lived off'n the bounty o' these yere wooded hills, an' he let the spell o' God Almighty's woods an' crags an' streams heal up his broken heart. Then he came back. I remember one mornin' he come to my shanty, and a hungrier, starveder, wild-eyed feller ye never seed in yer born days than him; but shoot me fer a pole-cat if he didn't come back a smilin'. I was skeered he'd lost his mind. I was a pannin' mud in the gulch up back o' the shanty when he come 'long the trail. I jist looked, then I knowed what had happened. He had licked that awful sorrow. He's ben off down in civilization now fer these ten years, but now he's back agin. The silent company is callin' him, he says, an' he jist has to have a free breath an' a little more pasture, an' this is the only place he can git it."

"He must have had an extraordinary companion, if he had learned to care for him in that way," remarked Mr. Allen.

"Extraordinary, yew say," began Dad in a low, measured tone. "Bet the last button on your britches, he was that an' more. He was a youngish feller, an' quick as scat. Knowed more 'bout machinery 'n all the other fellers I ever knowed. Seems to me he growed up in Kankakee, or suthin' like that, an' he was a—"

"Where did you say he came from, Mr. Wright?" asked Willis in a voice that betrayed his excitement. Willis had been thinking very rapidly as Dad told his story. What was there in this strange tale that so fascinated him, and made him want to cry aloud? He had never felt so strange before.

"Why, I don't 'zackly recollect," replied Dad. "It was Kankakee or Kangaroo, er some sech name. Many's the night he's stopped with me in the big cabin an' told me about all kinds o' machinery. The night the big cabin burned he was here a showin' me a lot o' plans of machinery he had got up himself. They were 'bout all he saved out o' the fire, 'cept his hide, an' that was some scorched.

"I never seed a man 'at went so plumb dumb crazy over a few gold nuggets as him. 'T was here at the old cabin he met his pard, an' they made plans fer a great minin' company. Of all the fellers they was settin' up machinery in the mines a dozen years ago, this feller was the best o' the lot. Why, oncet he rigged up a—"

"O, Mr. Wright, were there lots of different men installing mine machinery here in the early days?" inquired Willis. A note of anxiety had crept into his voice.

"More'n one, do ye mean, lad? Well, I should snicker. I mind oncet they was five o' them at the cabin one night, an' every feller could prove that his machinery was the best. Sech a jamborees o' arguatin' I never heerd. I had to send 'em all t' their bunks t' keep 'em frum fightin'. Laws, yes, plenty o' 'em, boy; but this one feller, I forgit his name, now—my pard could say it quicker'n scat—was wuth all the rest o' the bunch put together. He was a reg'lar genius with machinery."

Dad had been filling his pipe from the package Mr. Allen had given him. He now lighted it and began to smoke. Mr. Allen knew that there would be no more stories that day, so, bidding good-bye to the old man, he suggested to the boys that they make a start for the Park. After a last drink from the cool, bubbling spring, they turned up the gulch, and were soon lost from view.

"Well, I hope you'll find explorin' a plenty, young fellers," called Dad. "Keep yer eye peeled fer pole-cats. They's powerful friendly to strangers in these parts."



CHAPTER VII

A Wilderness Camp

As the little party climbed upward on the gulch trail, they were discussing Dad and what they knew of his life. Each boy telling little stories and incidents that he had heard concerning the old man. Willis lagged behind, and did not seem to be particularly interested in the conversation.

"Well, old man, what are you so glum about?" inquired Ham. "One would think you had been to a funeral instead of chatting with the most humorous of old mountaineers. You aren't getting weak in the knees already, are you?"

Mr. Allen came to the rescue.

"No, Ham, he's just like me—busy thinking of the really admirable qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is gathered into that one life—frontiersman, cattle man, freighter, prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when it comes to good, common horse-sense. I'd rather take Dad's opinion of a man than any one's I know of in this world. It wouldn't be in polished English, but it would be shrewd and just."

From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.

As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man. He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props. Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, "Hello, there; must be going to build a cabin!" The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.

"Yes, an underground one," he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he continued, "Well, well, aren't you the fellows I saw over at Ben's place the other evening?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Why, yes, there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your systems?"

"Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains," said Willis. "It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are you doing up here, anyway?" He turned and surveyed the valley.

"Well, I'll tell you," replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle. "It's like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest desire—to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature's storehouse. As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed." He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent. "I've been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It's a funny thing about mines, boys—you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quantities. I've had the gold fever for twenty years."

"Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?" inquired Willis. "My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine—never developed. I'd love to find it, though, just because it was his. He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy."

The miner's face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, "Just as I thought," then continued, "Well, I—" He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.

"I can't tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one with a dump of black rock," pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, "belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs—Williams and somebody." He never took his eyes from the boy's face as he spoke.

"Williams, why—why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn't know that he—"

The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding, "And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to a young engineer, and was located many years ago. The Williams shaft has been sunk in the last few years. That hole has the very best prospects of being something of any on the mountain. The Williams outfit restaked the claim because the assessment work had not been kept up by the original owner."

"What was the original owner's name? Do you know? You say he was a young engineer?"

"Yes, his name was Thornton." The man dropped his head and worked the heel of his boot nervously in the dirt. "I used to know him quite well, years ago." Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, "I haven't seen anything of him for nearly a dozen years."

The corners of Willis's mouth twitched nervously. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.

"Would you mind telling me all about him—all you know?" asked Willis. The miner looked at him curiously a minute, then asked, in a quiet, well-controlled voice, "Did you know the man, lad?"

"Not so well as I would like to have known him, sir; but perhaps I may get better acquainted with him now. He was my father, but I hardly remember him, except for the stories and pictures that mother has told me about. I've always wanted to know more about him."

"I can't tell you much, my boy," returned the miner in a kind, friendly voice, "only that he was the best man that ever set a hoisting plant in this region, and the finest, cleanest young fellow that ever came into these hills. Every man was his friend."

"Did you ever know a Mr. Kieser who was a friend of my father's?" asked Willis, after a moment's thought.

"Seems like I did," replied the miner, "a great many years ago, but he disappeared from this region long since."

"Did you say the mine which once belonged to my father seemed to be the best in the canyon?" broke in Willis.

"Yes, it did, the last I knew of it; but nothing ever came of it, except that there have been two men there to-day, preparing to do this season's assessment work. You can never tell, you know, about a gold mine, for most of them have just been 'holes full of hope,' and the hope usually leaked out sooner or later."

Chuck halloed from up the trail to get under way, or they would never reach the top by dark.

"Going to camp up in the Park to-night, I presume?" asked the miner.

"Yes, if we can make it," replied Mr. Allen. "Have you been up to the top lately?" "Yes, I was up yesterday, and it's a grand sight at this season of the year. The Maraposa lilies are blooming in great profusion, and the spring is running a fine little stream. I had a very pleasant surprise up there, too. Years ago there was a large herd of deer which lived in that park, but they were supposedly all killed off. Yesterday, about this time, as I sat on a dead log just back from the spring, quietly thinking over some of the memories of old times when I had hunted on that very ground, I heard the dry twigs snap, and, turning, I saw a doe and two tiny, spotted fawns cross the park and enter the timber at the other side. If you build a fire to-night you may get a glimpse of them."

"I'm coming to have a long talk with you some of these days," called Willis as they started off.

At last the entrance to the Park was reached, and they came upon a stretch of level ground. The entire country changed. Instead of the stony tallus of the canyon, there was soft, black soil under foot. Instead of the great spruces and firs scenting the air, there were only tall, stately aspens on every side, their leafy tops lost in the deepening shadows. Instead of the ground cedar and berry bushes, wild grass grew in rank profusion. The air was tinged with a faint fragrance, and somewhere in the distance came the sound of gently-splashing waters, "Like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows."

The party halted and turned to the right of the trail, where a great, lone pine tree stood on a little rise of ground, directly above the tiny spring. This was to be the camping spot for the night. Packs were quickly removed and unfolded, dry sticks gathered for the fire, and sweet-scented balsam boughs were cut and brought to the tree. One generous bed was made, big enough for all, close in front of the camp-fire. Mr. Allen cleaned and filled his small acetylene lamp—"In case of need," he said. The guns were stacked in a handy place and supper operations gotten under way.

"It sure does smell awfully good up here," began Phil. "I wish we had gotten here before dark—I'd like to have had a little look around before I went to sleep. Who knows but we may be sleeping ten yards from a bear's den. We are up in a real wilderness, now!"

"Bears, your grandmother!" snorted Ham, as he deftly opened a can of baked beans with his pocket knife. "A lot of great big bare spots is about all you could find. Say, Phil, on the dead square, what would you do, now, if a black bear would sneak down here to-night and crawl into bed with you?" "I'd say, 'Mr. Bear, if you want a real sweet, tender morsel that's easily digested, just help yourself to that little imported Ham over there.'" A roar of laughter went up from the others.

Chuck was philosophizing about the value of gathering food while it was yet day, as he sat stowing away his quart of fresh raspberries.

"You can have all you want of them," retorted Mr. Allen. "I'm seedy enough now, without eating those things."

"What's the matter, Willis? Did we walk you too hard?" inquired Fat.

"No, I could walk a hundred miles yet to-night," replied Willis, as he sliced up his bacon preparatory to frying it. "But this has been a very wonderful day for me. It's all so new, you know, and I'm green, too. Besides, it all has a very special significance to me, some way. I love it. I like it better than anything in the world. I could live this way forever. I'm sure I could write poetry to-night, or paint a great picture, or even sing. It's a wonderful feeling. Did you ever feel that way? It's the charm of the great out-of-doors."

"I think we had better picket Willis to-night," dryly remarked Ham. "He's liable to be floating off in his enthusiasm. But if he happens to be fortunate enough to lie on a friendly pine knot all night, he'll feel differently in the morning."

So the merry talk went on. After supper bigger logs were laid on the fire. A collapsible canvas bucket, filled with drinking water, was hung on a low limb of the tree, and the supply of night wood was conveniently placed near Mr. Allen's end of the bed.

Then Ham got a long, cotton bag, from which he produced several handfuls of pinion nuts. They were always the introduction to the camp-fire stories. He seated himself, drew his knees up close to his body, leaned back against the great tree trunk, and shouted: "All aboard, let her flicker. What's first? Mr. Allen, let's have that promised story you didn't get out of Dad. I believe you just side-tracked him on purpose, so you could tell it yourself. Come, now, wasn't that it?" He began to whistle in a low tone as he waited for the story. Fat stretched himself at full length before the fire, his head resting on his blanket roll. Phil had backed up on one side of Mr. Allen and Willis on the other. Everybody was waiting.

"Well, once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a little fairy," began Mr. Allen.

"You don't say so," interrupted Ham, as he tossed a stick into the fire in a disgusted manner. "Was it fairy long ago? I can recite Mother Goose rhymes myself. You'll have to do better than that."

Phil nudged Mr. Allen in the ribs and chuckled to himself.

"Well, then, how's this: Not many years ago, in a wonderful little village, there—"

"Was a wooden wedding at which two Poles were married," interrupted Ham, with a mischievous grin on his face.

"You're kind of hard to please, Ham," suggested Fat, as he rolled over to warm his other side.

"How's this? The night was dark and stormy," started in Mr. Allen. Ham settled back contentedly. "That's something like it. 'The night was dark and stormy,' and what else?"

"Well, if you must have it. I have heard a good many stories of how the Old Road House was burned, but they are all different. Which one shall I tell you? I'll tell you the one that Daddy tells himself, because it probably comes nearest the truth. As a matter of fact, though, I don't believe any one knows just how it burned down.

"You know Dad spent his boyhood on a great southwestern cattle ranch, and knew at first hand a great many things about Indians and tramping and mining and 'explorin',' as he calls it. Just why he left this ranch life he never told me exactly, but I know he had his first case of real gold fever in forty-nine, and has never gotten over it. His father was a United States marshal, and was instrumental in gathering in a number of the most notorious criminals of his day. One of Dad's favorite stories is of the capture of a gang of Mississippi River pirates.

"It was Dad's father that finally cleaned out this great nuisance when he captured Mason, their leader, through the treachery of his fellows. When the final raid was made, Dad, who was then a young man, was one of the party. It seems that there was a certain boy in this pirate gang who escaped, after having been arrested with the others. Several years later Dad had occasion to remember the threats this boy had made to him at the time of the raid.

"Dad was out on a trapping trip with a group of professional trappers, and, as was the custom, each man had taken with him two good horses, one to carry his share of the hides and his food supply, the other to be used in case of emergency. They were trapping in the Arkansas valley, and after a few weeks out they began to suspect that their camp was being watched by a large band of hostile Indians. They understood the situation perfectly. The Indians were not following them for murder or for a mere fight, but for their horses and furs. They would not attack, however, until they were reasonably sure of getting away with the desired booty without loss of life to their own party.

"The trappers' hunt had been a very successful one, and a large amount of money was already represented in the heavy packs of fur. Each night these packs of fur were carefully arranged in a big circle, forming a crude rampart for the party. The furs gave the men reasonable safety as they slept, for no arrow, however swift, could penetrate a roll of green hides. The horses were always securely fastened not far from the camp, and guards posted at night.

"Finally the ideal night for attack came. It was dark as pitch, not even a star showing in the cloudy sky. As night fell, it was so stormy that the usual night guard was not deemed necessary. Instead, every man went to sleep. Sometime in the night Dad was suddenly awakened by the pounding of many hoofs on the hard gravel of the valley. In less than a second the entire camp was awake, and every man gripped his rifle in readiness. No one dared to leave the rampart. Safety lay in being all together. The pounding of hoofs grew louder and louder, the picketed horses whinnied, then there was a wild gallop past the little camp, accompanied by fiendish yells. Not a man dared to investigate, for fear of ambush. All that they could do was to patiently await the coming of morning.

"With the first rays of light all looked anxiously toward where the horses had been picketed so carelessly. They were gone, every one of them. A hasty examination told the tale. Under the cover of the intense darkness, the hobbles and the picket ropes had been cut at the pins, so as not to disturb the horses or waken the sleeping trappers. After the ropes were cut, the Indians had ridden pell-mell past the free animals, and they, finding their fastenings gone, had joined the stampede. It was a clever game, and the trappers had lost. What were they to do—fifteen days' journey from any assistance, and not a horse within a hundred miles?

"As they climbed a hill on the far side of the river, to take a look at the surrounding country, they heard a faint whinny, and there, in the bottom of the gulch, lay one of their horses, stretched at full length. His feet had become entangled in the long picket rope, and he had fallen at the edge of the washout with a badly-broken leg. The party gathered about the unfortunate animal, lamenting the fact that he must be shot to relieve him of his suffering.

"As they stood talking, Dad noticed a movement in a nearby clump of bushes. Was he mistaken? He quietly told his partner what he had seen, and, with rifles leveled, the two cautiously approached the spot. There was, however, no need of fear, for it turned out to be only a young Indian boy, and he badly injured. He had probably been riding the horse before its fall. Everybody was for instantly shooting the lad except Dad, who protested, explaining that the boy might be able to give them valuable information as to the number of Indians in the war party, and something of their future plans. This seemed to be reasonably wise, so the wounded Indian was taken back to the trappers' camp.

"For many days he kept silence, never once speaking to any one, growing weaker and weaker every day from his injuries. Finally he was taken with an awful fever, and every man in the party knew that nothing could possibly save him. Dad nursed him and cared for him as patiently as if he had been one of their own party. When the Indian learned that he was to be treated kindly for the present, at least, he called for Dad, making feeble signs that he wanted to talk to him secretly. After a long and painful effort he made Dad understand who was with the band of Indians, and why they had watched the trappers so long and so closely. There was a certain pale face with them who was their leader and who had been a 'heap big robber' on the big river. He had offered a reward for Dad's life to every Indian in the party. He had invented the stampede, and when the men were faint with hunger and watching, they would be back to kill them all. Dad was to be hung in honor of the occasion, to celebrate the day the pirate had made his escape from Dad's father. In a few hours the Indian died. Dad kept his secret to himself, although he was greatly disturbed over it. He was being hunted—hunted by a savage worse than any red man that ever shot a bow or took a scalp. He remembered, now, that many of his comrades of that memorable raid had since mysteriously disappeared. The truth flashed upon him in an instant. Shorty Thunder, the river pirate, was taking his revenge. Slowly but surely he was hounding down every man that had sought his life that day.

"In a few days the trapping party was picked up by another hunting party.

"What's the matter, Ham? Are you getting sleepy?" called Mr. Allen as he arose to replenish the fire. Ham had sprawled out on the ground and was looking off into the dark woods, all alert.

"Sh-h-, you," he whispered as he motioned them not to move. "I saw something move out there in those bushes just now; I'll bet my hat on it."

"O sugar," said Phil. "Something moved, did it? What do you suppose it was, an elephant?"

Just then Fat raised his finger cautiously. "Quiet, there, a second, you rubes. Use your eyes more instead of your mouths, and you'll see more. Can't you see that light spot right over there?" pointing into the darkness with a very crooked stick he had been fooling with. All sat quietly listening and watching, but to no avail. They could see nothing.

"Go on with your story, Mr. Allen," urged Ham. "What's river pirates got to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that's what I'd like to know." The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.

"Well, it's like this, Ham," continued Mr. Allen. "Every great story has a preface, and I've been telling you the preface so far." Ham let out a few long, extra well-developed snores. "Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to the beginning of the first chapter, will you?"

"Finally Dad came to Colorado—just why, I don't know; but he prospected hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in Cripple Creek he was right on hand. In 1873, I think it was, the county built the Cripple Creek Stage Road. Dad was a pretty old man then, but not too old to see his opportunity. With a little outside capital, he constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House. In a short time after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon producing a nice little revenue for Dad.

"The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and stormy. It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full blast. The thunder and lightning were terrific. When the down stage pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the night, fearing a possible cloudburst. It happened that the stage was full of passengers that night. There was a little Irishman who had just discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch. Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his business all to himself. As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little incidents that gave evidence to his own theory. For instance, several times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out into the night. He seemed very nervous about something. He did not mingle with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself. When it became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch near the fireplace. Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.

"The storm was at its worst. Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad's dog let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls. Dad shouted down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat outside. He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and scratched at the door. There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in a peal of thunder, then the cry of 'Fire!' The smoke of the burning logs was already streaming up the open stairway. The outside door opened and shut, yet the dog was left inside. Almost before the sleeping guests could grab their clothes, the whole house was a sheet of flame. There was a wild scramble for the back stairway. Dad hurried down the front way, stumbling through the smoke to the door. The dog gave a joyous bark and sprang toward him. As he opened the door, he stumbled over a large oil-can that always stood just under the stairway. He didn't think of it at the time because of his excitement, but later, as he puzzled over the real cause of the fire, he remembered with startling distinctness his stumbling over the empty oil-can, which he knew had been full the day before. As months went by he put this with other little bits of information, and he believed he understood, yet he had no proof. The old man who had slept downstairs had oiled the entire first floor, then set it afire. But why? That was the question.

"He remembered how the old man had insisted that the house had been struck by lightning. Dad never saw him again after that night, but a few months afterwards he recognized him in a description of one of the robbers of a stage coach, held up at Duffield's. Then, like a flash, it came to Dad. The old-timer was his enemy of the river pirates, old Shorty Thunder. He had accidently stumbled onto Dad here in these mountains, and had determined to settle scores once for all. He had meant by setting fire to the cabin to burn Dad alive, and if it hadn't been for the dog he probably would have succeeded."

"Great old tale," sighed Phil, as he arose and stretched himself.

"Let's turn in," suggested Fat, "for you know we have some walking ahead of us to-morrow." "Second the motion," joined in Ham. "Me for a good, big drink, though, to wash that fairy tale down. How about it?"

The little party gathered close about the fire after all final arrangements had been made for the night. Boots were pulled off and set away from the fire. Watches were wound and trousers unbuckled. They had all instinctively looked toward the "Chief." He had drawn close to the fire, and was turning over the leaves of a pocket Testament.

"What will you have to-night, fellows, from the Great Spirit's Message before we sleep?"

"The one about the lilies," said Ham thoughtfully. "There are several big ones in bloom just at the head of my bed." The "Chief" began to read in low, reverent tones.

"And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." So he went on reading till he came to the end of the chapter, after which there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for bed.

"They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of God," snorted Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, "but they aren't in it with a night like this spent in the open in such a country."

"There's a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham," said Mr. Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.

"How do you make that out?" asked Ham.

"Well, you're just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously; but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create such a Nature." "Too deep for me, too deep for me; I'm no philosopher," grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night's sleep.

Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.

"Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say," he remarked half-aloud, as he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. "He's the very spit'n image of Bill, now that's dead sure, and there's one thing more that's certain." He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling in the sky far above them.

"That mine belongs to the boy, but how's he going to get it?"

He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came down the trail, the smell of Dad's simple supper came floating up to him. He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him. He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be something.

"Howdy, Tad, strike it rich to-day? S'pose ye jist been a shovelin' out nuggets all day long, till yer tired o' seein' 'em, hain't ye? Tad, I seed the beatenest bunch o' young'uns to-day ye ever seed in yer life, all on a explorin' trip o' some kind."

"That so?" replied Tad, "must have been the same party I saw. Did you see that tall, slender lad with the brown eyes and dark hair?"

"Yep, b'lieve I did, come t' think on it, only I didn't pay much pertic'lar 'tention to none of 'em."

Tad helped himself to an old chair, and, leaning back against the wall, lighted his pipe. He was quiet for a long time, then he spoke in a slow, thoughtful manner, his pipe held firmly between his teeth, his eyes fixed on a spot far away down the mountain.

"Dad, the boy has come. He's come to me, and he's just like his father—tall and straight and clean-cut. Dad, he needs a father, and perhaps I'll have to act in that capacity yet, who knows, for that uncle of his is a rascal and will bear a good deal of watching."

"What? Ye don't mean the young feller ye was a tellin' me about the other evenin'? Bill's boy really come to the mountains?" asked Dad, becoming interested at once.

"Yes, he's here, Dad, as sure as I'm a living man. He went up this trail this afternoon, and I talked with him. He asked about his father the first thing; said his father owned a mine up here somewhere, and asked me if I knew Tad Kieser."

"Shoot me fer a pole-cat. Well, I'll be dum-swizzled, course ye told him Yep, ye knowed him a little, didn't ye?"

"No, Dad, I didn't, and that's just what I've come down to talk to you about this evening. You see, it's like this: If I had told him who I was, that would have been the end of it, but if he doesn't really find out who I am for a while yet, perhaps I can locate a paying gold mine for him. I always have felt that I owed him at least that much."

"So ye didn't tell him?" pondered Dad. "Well, Tad, yer head is a sight longer'n mine is, an' I s'pose ye know what's best; but, my boy, let me give ye a little advice: If ye wait till ye find a real gold mine in these here parts, the boy's likely as not to die o' old age 'fore ye find it."

"Perhaps so, Dad. Perhaps you're right; but then, if I don't ever find it, I won't tell him who I am, because he'd be disappointed. He thinks his father owned a real mine in these mountains somewhere, and he's looking for it. Do you know, I've been wondering—no, it can't be, though; I suppose I'm foolish, but someway, I've always felt that I ought to have been man enough to have worked the old tunnel just a little farther. Bill was so certain that things looked better, and—"

"Tad, hain't ye ever been in the old hole sence that day, honest Injun? I used t' think that's where ye went when ye'd go off fer a week er ten days in the hills all by yerself."

"No, Dad, I give you my word, I've never been in that hole since the day I carried poor Bill's broken body out. I've never been near since I put that great, heavy lock on the door, and then I dropped the only key into the old shaft. I thought that perhaps some time the temptation to go back in might be too strong, and I'd do it."

Both smoked silently for a long time, then Dad spoke:

"S'posin' somebody would jump ye over yonder, Tad. What's to hinder 'em a breakin' in an' startin' operations? I've heerd tell that old Williams claimed that property, but course it's a dern lie—"

"He couldn't jump it, Dad, because I hold the deed to it. We proved up on that, you know, the summer before; but I believe Williams does hold a placer claim on the property. You know placers can run into regular lode claims. He could claim the tunnel, all right, too, I suppose, if the owner couldn't be found. Especially since he seems to be the only relative Bill had, except his wife."

"What do ye s'pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer claim jest there, 'stead o' somewhere else? The dirt won't pan color, will it?" asked Dad. "That's just what has bothered me, Dad. The only way that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill's papers or letters. It wasn't two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there and staked that placer claim. He's worked assessments on it every year since. One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an assessment hole or two—most anything to get in the required hundred dollars' worth of working. It's that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested. Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said. It's taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is something I don't know about the deal."

"Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we're a sittin' on a pile o' gold nuggets this minute; but we'll never see 'em; mark my words, boy, we'll never see 'em. God Almighty's a savin' 'em fer somethin', if there is any, an' if we ain't to have 'em, we'll never git 'em, that's sure." After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad arose to go.

"Good-night, Dad, good-night," he said in an absent-minded way, as he started through the old door and up the trail.

Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and shining. A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens. The night was absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers. Far, far away a turtle dove was calling—calling so softly that it almost seemed to be imagination. Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few seconds.

Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him. He placed his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness. What was that? He shut his eyes that he might hear the better. He could not be mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap—one, two, three little dry, rasping sounds. Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel. Again he raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the shadows. There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct. The night breeze gently fanned the dying embers. Suddenly there was a series of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of light. Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself. Hardly had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.

"What is it, Mr. Allen?" softly whispered Willis. Mr. Allen jumped a trifle. "O, I don't know; I heard it a couple of hours ago. I'd like to see a wild animal, wouldn't you? I think it must be the fire that attracts it. I'd like to light my dark lantern, but I hate to strike a match." He leaned over to the fire, picked up a dry pine needle, and lighted it in the fire, applying the tiny flame to his opened lantern. Quietly Mr. Allen opened the shield, and a long, bright gleam swept noiselessly out into the darkness, revealing with almost painful distinctness the outlines of every stem of grass and flower. Then, far at the end of the path of light, something moved. There were two small, luminous spots, then in an instant two more, a little larger. Slowly the shifting lights and shadows took shape, and there, before them, stood two deer—a doe and a tiny fawn.

"O, aren't they beautiful?" whispered Willis. Just then the fawn left its mother's side and came fearlessly down the path of light—one, two, six steps—staring into the wonderful, dazzling beam. There was a gentle call from the mother, and in an instant they had disappeared into the shadows from whence they had come. There was a bound, a broken twig, a rustle of dead leaves, and all was quiet again.

For a long time Willis and Mr. Allen waited, watching for them to return; but they did not come. The fire slowly died out and turned into a pile of ghostly ashes, while the party slept on until morning.



CHAPTER VIII

The Second Day Out

Ham was the first to awaken in the morning. A pair of saucy jays had been gossiping about the little party for nearly an hour. At first they just exchanged ideas, making their observations from a reasonable distance. One perched on the topmost limb of a dead pine, the other bobbing up and down on the slender twigs of a neighboring aspen.

"Those crazy jabberers would dispute the identity of their own mates," exclaimed Ham, as he pulled on his trousers and got into his high boots. "They talk about some folks always having too much to say, but—O, shut up, you noisy robbers!" He reached for a heavy stick, and sent it flying into the air toward the aspen. There was a flapping of wings, a harsh, scolding threat, and the jays retreated to talk it over.

Very soon the camp was all astir, and there was a general call for a fire.

"You don't want to forget that we have the most important ceremony of this entire trip to go through with here yet this morning before any of us can eat breakfast. What's your hurry, anyway? Get busy here, Fat, and get another armful of wood like this that I have. In about three shakes we'll have an altar built and we'll have our oracle fire burning in less than a jiffy. Be quick, now, but don't disturb the Spirit," cried Ham.

"Oracle fire, your grandmother," interrupted Phil. "I'm as hungry as a pet lion, and it's breakfast for me, and that right soon; oatmeal, a boiled egg, and some rye bread sounds about right!"

"Me, too," chimed in Fat, reaching for his haversack. "Hungry's no name, and I don't believe I brought enough grub, either."

"Stop!" shouted Ham. "Now, Mr. Philip Dennis, Jr., hear your humble servant, the Spook Doctor, for just about a second. Long, long ago, even before our friend, Zebulon Pike, took his first peek at Pike's Peak, there was a custom common to all the Indian tribes about us," making a gesture to include all the surrounding country, "and it was believed absolutely necessary to the happiness and well-being of their mighty warriors to indulge in this orgy at stated seasons." Ham was making wild gestures as he went on with his mock oratory. "Never was a hunt started, never was a journey undertaken, never a distant quest sought after, until the tribe had first slept, then gathered around the mystic altar of the Spook Doctor."

"Ham, you're a regular heathen," called Mr. Allen from his blanket. "What has the altar got to do with it, anyway?"

"Well, it's just like this," continued Ham. "After the first night's slumbers we build an Indian signal fire just like this, then in bare feet and empty stomachs we dance around the fire and implore the Mighty Night Wind to interpret the dreams we have had during our first night out. They never fail to disclose the outcome of the journey, whether it will be a success or a failure." As he bent over and lighted the fire, he said, "You may be seated."

The childishness of it all appealed to every one of them, and they did as they were commanded. Then Ham solemnly and weirdly called, "Fat, you're first. Hurry, while the smoke is curling, curling upward."

Fat arose and made mock obeisance to the fire.

"My dream was a very queer one, but most too short to have a real meaning. I dreamed I was in a big barnyard and all I could see was pigs—little pigs, big pigs, and all kinds of pigs—and they were all standing around an empty trough. Now, Mr. Wise Man, tell me what that has to do with a quest for a cabin site, will you?"

Phil rolled over and chuckled to himself. "Oho, Fat, you will eat bacon for supper, will you? while your poor fellow-travelers sup on a rare and expensive can of beans. Ha-ha-ha! Eat pork and you dream of pigs."

Ham looked long into the fire, then, turning, cried out:

"I have it, I have it, the Spirit speaks. Fat, you will run out of provisions long before this journey is over. You will eat all you have by to-morrow, and never think of the days to follow. Beware, for so the Spirit tells me."

A roar of laughter went up from the others.

"Mr. Allen, your dream next," called Ham, mystically.

"Well, I dreamed of beautiful autumn days, spent in a splendid grove of trees, cutting choice timbers for a cabin; and then I dreamed of a crowd of old men, sitting before an open fire-place, telling about how they had built a cabin long years before, when they were boys."

"That needs no interpreter. Phil, your dream is now demanded. Tell it truly, lie and you will live to suffer. Careful, now, and do not hurry."

"Well, I dreamed a dandy," cried Phil. "I saw a crazy loon standing in front of a fire, gazing into fiery embers, and—" There was a crackling in the fire, a shower of sparks went up, and one of the altar stones turned over.

"O, how sad," groaned Ham, "that such a man should lie so to the great Spook Doctor. In wrath he tears down the altar—hisses forth his disapproval in clouds of tiny spark-thoughts. Willis, you are next. Now, do not rile the mighty Master." "Well," said Willis, "my dream was not so strange. I just dreamed over and over the thoughts I took to bed with me. I saw cabins and mines and tunnels and miners of all descriptions, only that there was one that looked very familiar, and it was a very hard one to find and get to." Ham had failed to replenish the fire, and it had burned to a tiny, smoldering heap of ashes.

"I can not answer that one," said Ham, "for the Great Spirit has now left me. Let's eat our breakfast, and I hope it will be more substantial than these dreams."

Soon breakfast was under way. It was a simple meal and soon over with. Cooking utensils were washed and packs rolled, ready for the day's journey.

"What time of day?" asked Chuck.

"Seven-ten," promptly replied Willis, "and just the time to be starting through the Park, if we want to see it before the dew is gone." At the spring they stopped to drink and to examine the deer tracks in the soft, black muck. From there the trail led off, zigzaging down the gentle slope. On either side of the path the wild grasses and ferns grew in rank profusion, while scattered here and there on the soft, green carpet were great numbers of dainty Maraposa lilies. Now and then a tall, green stalk of the columbine could be seen, and occasionally a wooly circle of bracts on the stem of a late anemone. At intervals tall ferns bent over the woodland pathway, as if to hide and protect it for the private use of the many tiny wild feet that scampered over it daily.

"Isn't this great," cried Ham. "Just take a peek at that grove of trees. I'll bet that grass is full of snakes and rabbits. I'd like to take a shot at a big 'jack' this morning."

"It's an old swamp," replied Willis. "Perhaps there was once a little lake here. Wouldn't it be a swell place for a shanty? I'll bet it's full of grouse."

"I suppose it was once an Indian camping ground," suggested Mr. Allen. "Just a little flat oasis on the summit of a granite mountain. Remember where we came up last night? Now, look away off there," pointing his finger. "We are ten thousand feet above the sea up here; up where we can see how the world is made, and how beautiful it is."

Soon the little park came to an abrupt end, and great boulders began to loom up on every side. They came to the edge of the cliff, and could look far down into the valley below. Away to the west stood Black Mountain, a rounded bluff, so densely covered with young timber that it seemed at a distance to be a mountain of black dirt. Far below them could be seen the silver thread of a tiny stream as it followed the canyon toward the sandy plains. They had climbed out onto a great boulder, now, that overlooked the canyon far below on one side and the level plains on the other. Here they sat down to rest and talk.

"Do you see that hollow spot in the plain there, just at the foot of the mountain?" Mr. Allen was saying. "It is what has been known for many years as the Big Hollow Ranch. It was homesteaded in the early days, before the war, by our friend, Daddy Wright. There is a story that tells of how, in those days, the Indians would lie in wait and steal cattle from the great Texas roundups as they passed, enroute to Kansas City, and would drive large numbers of the cattle into that great hollow. After the cattle were driven inside, a few men could guard the opening while the other Indians drove the cattle off into lonely ravines."

"My! what a fire there must have been here sometime," exclaimed Willis, noting the dead trees. "I have always wanted to see a forest fire; it must be a grand sight."

"Yes, if you're far enough away to be safe," joined in Chuck. "I saw one once, but it was several miles away. It looked fine from there. It was the year we camped at the old hatcheries up in the Middle Park. Mount Deception was very much like Black Mountain, then—very heavily timbered with fine, large trees. As the years went by a very large slab pile began to accumulate back of the mill. Some way, no one ever knew just how, those slab piles got afire. It was on a very windy summer night, when everything was as dry as chips and the hills were covered with heaps of dry toppings and pine slash. Well, the fire got into a few piles of toppings, and before the men at the mill realized that there was a fire, it was running over the hills like a wild thing. The dry pine needles are just like turpentine to burn, so in less than two hours there were several square miles of timber land afire. The mill and hundreds of thousands of feet of sawed lumber were burned, and an area of many square miles stripped of every stick of wood, so far as value was concerned."

"Did you see them fight it?" asked Phil.

"No, I didn't see them, but I've heard them tell how they did it."

"I was in a forest fire once," said Mr. Allen. "It wasn't such an awfully big one, but there was plenty of excitement while it did last, I tell you that."

"Tell us about it," came in a chorus.

"It's pretty hard to describe a forest fire, but it was a very exciting experience. It was up not many miles from Mount Deception, while I was stopping with a friend at Manitou Park. We were eating our Sunday dinner, when suddenly the door opened and in rushed the man from the adjoining farm.

"'Fire, boys,' he called. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, but we need you, and you know the law. I'll have the buggy ready in a shake, and you be ready.' As he left, my friend cried, 'Come quick, Allen, into your old clothes.' 'Why,' I said, 'we don't have to fight the forest fire, do we?' He laughed aloud. 'Well, you just bet we do!' he cried. 'The law says that every able-bodied man in reach of a forest fire must give his services. If a fire starts on Government land and burns onto private land, Uncle Sam has to pay for all the private loss. But if it starts on private land and burns onto Government land, the land owner is responsible.'

"I jumped into some old clothes, and was ready just as the buggy drove up to the door. The man handed me a big brown jug and told me to fill it with drinking water. Off to the north we saw a great cloud of gray smoke rising from the forest, but no flame. The farmer handed my friend the lines, told us to take the shortest route, and not to stop for anything, that he would follow on horseback in a few moments. I never shall forget how the little mare did go that day. We drove north on a county road until we got even with the smoke, then we turned in directly toward it through a very large potato field. After an hour's hard driving, we came to the entrance of a narrow canyon. We tied the horse, and, with as many shovels as I could carry on my shoulder, and with the jug, I followed my friend, who had taken a couple of shovels and two heavy axes. It was a sultry midsummer day, and how I did sweat!

"We hurried on, the smoke getting thicker and thicker, and still we could see no flames. We went up a long, narrow canyon in which there was a tiny stream, and about every hundred yards we stopped to drink. By and by we came to the top of a low ridge, and the farmer met us.

"'Hurry, fellows, hurry!' he shouted. 'Give me a couple of those axes. Report to the first man you meet, and come home in the buggy when you can.' He swung his horse round, and in a moment was gone. I was tired out already, and the jug of water was very heavy to carry by so small a handle. As we got near the top of the ridge, we came to an old prospect hole. An idea struck me. I would leave the jug there by the hole, and it would be easy to find when I wanted it, and I would hurry on with the shovels. As we reached the top of the ridge, the fire came into full view. My, what a sight! A great sea of burning, crackling trees below, and above an ocean of heavy smoke, floating upward in great billows. Far away, at least it seemed so to me, I heard chopping, chopping. I don't know how long I stood there wondering at the sight, but presently an old man—he looked to me like a wild man, came toward me, eyeing me with a scornful look.

"'Well, ye goin' to stand there all day with them implements, son?' He mopped away the great beads of perspiration from his forehead with a big blue bandanna handkerchief. A large Russian hound stood, panting, by his side. Nearly a year afterwards I learned that the old man was no other than Old Ben himself.

"'Where's that jug of water that Jim said ye was a bringin',' he howled as he snatched the best shovel from my hands. I don't know what I said, but I know that he cursed me roundly and I started for the prospect hole to get the jug. I was excited to the limit. I came to the prospect hole, and the jug was gone. I was starting back when I came to another hole, then a third, then a fourth. I raised my eyes and surveyed the hillside. There were at least a hundred prospect holes. Which one did I leave the jug by? Was it lost, that precious jug of water? Would I ever find it? The great clouds of smoke drifted past me and darkened the landscape; then I began to hunt for the jug, one hole at a time. But I could find no jug. While I was searching all over the hill, up rode the farmer. He called for me to follow him. I tried to explain to him that I was looking for the water, but I couldn't make him understand. When we got back to the east of the fire, he handed me an ax and showed me what to do. They were cutting an aisle down the south ridge. There were great trees cracking and crashing to the ground all along the line and all around me. I could not see more than a hundred feet ahead, but I worked like a Turk. O, but I thought my ax was dull and the tree hard! It seemed that I could never cut it through. I struck a heavy blow; there was a singing noise in the air, and the head of my ax went flying somewhere into the brush. I heard the farmer, chopping near me, yell something about a fool and a greenhorn.

"'Go, bring the water,' he yelled. I asked what water, and he yelled back, 'The jug, the brown jug.'

"I started again to find it. I don't know how long I looked, but by accident I stumbled onto it. I raised it to my lips to drink, but the water was warm and insipid. It made me feel faint. My head began to get dizzy and everything looked burned. I straightened up and went back toward the fire. When I reached the farmer, he gave me his ax and started off with the jug. I chose my tree, and began to work. I had cut but one, and was started on another, when a dozen rugged, sweating men passed me on the run and shouted, 'Look out for the blast!' I dropped my ax and followed them. The earth shook under my feet, as one after the other I saw mighty pine trees rise into the air a few feet, then crash headlong down the mountain into the flames. The fire was coming nearer. O, such a sight! The heat was intense, but the coloring was beautiful. I followed the men, but one man tripped and fell; the others hurriedly picked him up, and we went onto a safe place. Then a hurried conference was held, and orders given to cut the underbrush in a great circle around the fire. By and by the wind changed, and soon the smoke cleared away from where we were working. To my surprise, there were at least fifty sturdy men—mountain ranchmen, most of them—cutting the underbrush ahead of me, and just next to me worked Ben.

"We worked on until dark. My friend found me, and we started for the buggy. We got home some way—he drove. I was exhausted. That was my only forest fire experience, but I don't care for another. I was stiff and sore for a week."

The little party worked its way into the gulch, and then proceeded up the canyon on an old cattle trail in the second range. Every now and then they would pass a prospect hole, which showed that they were not, by any means, the first to tramp up the gulches and drink at the crystal streams. On a great, flat stone, close by a tiny spring, they stopped to eat their dinner and rest.

"Let's get as far as we can by night," suggested Phil, "for we'll never find a cabin site here in this canyon. It's too far away. We'll have to get in closer, near St. Peter's Dome."

"Let's make the Little Fountain by night. It must cross this canyon, and perhaps it will yield us a trout for breakfast. What do you say?" inquired Mr. Allen.

"Little Fountain, or bust," called Ham. "I'm in for it. Say, we ought to find a few squirrels this afternoon up in this lonesome canyon. A squirrel would taste pretty fine, stewed in a little rice, for supper. I'll bet I get the first one."

"Got some salt in your pocket?" asked Willis.

"Salt, what do I want with salt? Just keep your eye on me. I'm dead-shot at squirrels."

"Hello, here, what's this?" called out Mr. Allen about the middle of the afternoon. "This looks interesting to me. See here, I've found a few small pieces of aspen that have been cut by beaver." He held them up for inspection. Sure enough, on the ends were the marks of the tiny chisel teeth of the little water workmen. "I'd certainly like to see a real beaver dam. I've seen pieces of dams and old, wrecked dams, but never a real good one. Keep your eyes open for more sticks like this, and for stumps along the stream. This ought to be good beaver country, because it's wild and quiet."

"What do you suppose killed all those fine big trees in that valley?" asked Willis.

They turned aside to examine the great dead trees.

"Hold on, there," said Ham in a whisper, as he held up his finger. "There's my stew for to-night. Great Caesar's ghost! I'll bet these dead trees are full of squirrels. Still, now, a moment."

The squirrel sat for an instant in plain view on a dead limb of a spruce; then he barked and scampered around in great excitement, his tail bobbing up and down in time to his movements. He would run, hide behind the great tree trunk, then out again to jeer and scold and jerk his tail. As they came nearer, a second one, perhaps his mate, joined him on the limb and seconded everything he had to say. The barrel of Ham's gun was making strange movements in the air. "Hey, there, sit still, you jumping jack," called Ham. The squirrels sat up and listened to his voice in such a way that it appeared they perfectly understood the order to sit still. Fat laughed a hearty laugh; the squirrels took it as a danger signal and were gone. Ham lowered his gun.

"Fat, you stole my supper right out of my mouth," said Ham, gloomily.

"Oho," said Willis. "How do you suppose this happened? All of these big trees are girdled. See, the bark has been cut clear around the trunk with an ax, so as to cut off the supply of sap. Mr. Allen, what is your explanation?"

"Well, I'm not just sure about it, Willis. Some one may have killed them for timber or some one may have girdled them so as to be able to start a big fire. It might have been the work of timber pirates. A man would get a mighty severe punishment for that, if he were caught."

A little farther up the canyon they found traces of an old placer sluice, and what remained of some of the old, homemade cradles for panning out the gold.

"Gold, gold, gold; you find traces of it everywhere, and traces of the men who sought it. A sight like that always makes me sorry for some old, forlorn, disappointed miner," said Mr. Allen. "Of all the dilapidated, blue-producing sights that I have ever seen, it's one of these old, deserted mining camps, for they come as near representing a forlorn hope as anything you can find.

"One time I was with a crowd of boys, and we made a detour to look over a deserted mining camp. They called it Old North Cripple Creek. Years before, shrewd individuals had salted prospect holes at that point, then discovered their own gold. Of course there was a grand rush, and a boom town resulted. Crude houses were built, stores and saloons erected, and mining operations begun. A real, substantial log hotel was erected, and I've heard that their charge was upwards of ten dollars a night, payable in advance.

"But the camp died as quickly as it had been born, and the people, mostly men, pushed on to other fields.

"It was a good many years after the place was deserted that I was there, but it made a tremendous impression upon me. I had the blues for days afterward. Old, tumbled-down houses, the windows knocked out and the doors hanging on leather hinges. I remember one building that had been a saloon. The great mirrors back of the bar had never been removed, and the rains of many seasons had peeled the mercury from the plate glass and the gilt frames were faded. We entered the old hotel, and were surprised to find some of the fittings still there. In the attic we found an old chest of letters—and, speaking of strange coincidences, a large number of those letters were written and signed by Daddy Wright. Away up in the back corner of the attic sat an old owl. He looked down on us from his perch in a reproving manner, to think we would disturb the haunts of the past in that crude way. He was a weird looking old fellow as he sat there, blinking his big yellow eyes, and I couldn't help thinking that the owl of wisdom perhaps a good many times might be found perched in the dark attics of the past, instead of spending his time in the sunlight of the great and active present."

The afternoon passed, and soon the sun began to settle behind the western peaks. It was just six o'clock when the party came to the Little Fountain and chose their camping spot on a little green knoll of high ground, right by the water's edge. Some one suggested a dip, and so, in the quiet coolness of a perfect summer twilight, with a cheerful fire burning on the bank, clothes were stripped and a bath taken. Then came the evening meal, the usual round of stories, the message from the letter of the Great Spirit, then to sleep.

As Willis and Mr. Allen lay watching the firelight and listening to the thousand sounds of the night, the night breeze began to rise and to sing to them through the balsam boughs overhead.

"Do you know what I think of when I lie out in the woods on such a night and listen to the gentle sighing of the night wind?" asked Mr. Allen.

"No," replied Willis. "What do you think of?"

"It is kind of fanciful, I suppose, but I like to believe that it is God blowing His breath down on us just to let us know that He is very near and cares for us." Willis did not answer; he was thinking.



CHAPTER IX

The Third Day Out

The first gray streaks of dawn were just creeping over the ridge of old Cheyenne as Mr. Allen awoke. Up through the green leaves the bluest of blue skies showed in tiny spots. It was an autumn morning, for a light frost had settled during the night, and here and there lay the ghost of an aspen leaf that had flitted down. Everywhere the birds were chirping and hustling about their morning duties. Here and there industrious spiders were at work removing the drops of silver dew from their shining cables of silk, and the bees were already gathering the last of the summer's sweets. The squirrels scolded and chattered to each other from the big trees. All the wild life of the woodland seemed at high tide. The butterflies were already at play in the cool, dewy nooks, and all nature was rosy in the freshness of a new day.

Mr. Allen dressed quietly but quickly, unbuckled his fishing rod from his pack, glanced through his fly book, selected one here and there, then prepared to slip out of camp without waking any one. The little stream had been whispering strange tales of big fish to him all the night, and it was trout for breakfast that he was after. A saucy squirrel, observing him from a limb overhead, asked many foolish questions. Mr. Allen sat on an old moss-covered stump joining his rod and arranging his long, white leader, to which he had attached a royal coachman and a gray hackle. He paused to listen, for it seemed to him that every wild thing in that vast, rocky gorge had suddenly raised its voice to welcome the coming day.

Willis awoke and saw Mr. Allen as he sat there in the sunlight. In a soft undertone he called, "I'm going, too, just to watch. May I?" Mr. Allen nodded, and in a few moments the two were quietly sneaking off through the bushes, headed up stream.

"My, O my! isn't this a perfectly gorgeous morning. Just look off there toward Mount Rosa and Baldy. It's a perfect splendor of clouds and mist and sun; then look behind you, there, down through the big trees. It's just the morning to catch a fine big trout."

"I never caught a trout in all my life," softly called Willis, as he trailed along behind. "I don't believe I've ever even seen one."

"Many and many are the days I've fished in these old hills for a dozen; but a prouder fisherman never cast a fly than myself, when I could come home to camp, spread out my little catch of speckled beauties on the grass, and tell just how I caught each one."

"Is it more fun than casting for big black bass on a clear, warm, summer night? Lots of times I've seen the big fellows leap out of the water, then in again with a splash, making big rings of ripples on the smooth water. O, it's great! Can your trout fishing beat that?"

"Every man after his own heart," replied the "Chief," "but for me, give me the trout. You rise early on such a morning as this and slip off into the canyon. Far away on all sides rise the mountain peaks, their snow caps jauntily adjusted and their cloaks of ice drawn close about their shoulders. Then the balsam-scented air, and the dew-laden bushes along the chattering little stream as it flows over a chaos of broken granite or works itself into a boiling froth, only to jump headlong into a quiet green pool. Can you beat it?"

"Isn't that a good pool just ahead of us?" questioned Willis.

"I'm going to try it," replied Mr. Allen. "Now, be sure to keep that big boulder just ahead between you and the water, for if they see us first there's no use wasting our time here, we'll never get a strike to-day."

Slowly they crept to the great, bare rock. Here the line and flies were adjusted, and the fishing began. Willis watched every motion as for a brief second the fly was allowed to drift down the stream, "to be floated here and there by idle little eddies, to be sucked down, then suddenly spat out by tiny suction holes;" then it fell quietly into the current and floated out to the end of the line, bringing up sharply just at the edge of a bleak old granite boulder in midstream. Again the flies were cast, and again; then—both hearts stood still; there was a splash, a little line of bubbles, a tail, a silver streak tinged with red and black, then ripples, and nothing more.

"He's there, anyway," softly whispered Willis in great excitement.

The line was drawn in and inspected; the hackle was removed from the leader, and again the coachman spatted the water just above where the trout had disappeared. It floated down and down until it touched the swirl at the edge of the jagged rock. There was a short, sharp tug; the fly disappeared into the water; a plunge, a dash of spray, then everything kept time to the singing of the reel. Both jumped to their feet just in time to see the big trout clear the water, shake his head vigorously, then dive into the deep pool. It was to be a fight to the finish, and the trout had settled to the cool bottom to lay out his campaign.

After ten minutes of maneuvering in the water, up and down, out to the bank, then in again, knee deep, waist deep, the line slacked a little, then a little more. Then there was a series of quick jerks and a long singing of the reel as it unwound, only to slacken again, and this time for good. There was a silvery streak in the water, then a dark, moving shadow, a gentle pull of the winding line, and the trout slipped out of the water onto the bank, exhausted.

There was an exclamation of joy and wonder from Willis as the fish was carefully unhooked and placed in the cotton bag, brought for the purpose.

"Just eighteen inches, and a beauty," cried Mr. Allen. "You'll never get me away from this stream this morning if there are more fish like this to be had. We have just time to catch another like him, then we can all have a taste for breakfast. What will those fellows think when they wake up and find us gone?"

They clambered over a rough crag and down to a second green pool. It was not a big fish this time, but several small ones in quick succession, till there was a taste for all in camp.

"I hope the fellows will have a fire going, so we won't have to wait so long for a bed of coals, don't you?" asked Willis. "I can taste them already. Is the meat pink or white?"

"O, surely Ham will have a fire; he's enough of a camper for that, and they are expecting us to bring fish. I'll tell you, let's leave the bag in the bushes and tell them a sad tale of woe. I'm still wet, and we'll let on a big one pulled me in and I lost all the others. What do you say?"

"That's a go. You get up the story and I'll swear to it. Make it a big one."

Soon the smell of smoke came drifting through the bushes, and they knew that their return was being patiently awaited. Fat spied them coming first.

"Well, old sea-dogs, where's your catch?" he shouted.

"Hard luck," started in Mr. Allen. "Just plain hard luck; caught a few minnows, but slow as far as real fishing goes. There's nothing in it here. Where's Ham?"

"O Ham!" snorted Phil from his place by the fire. "Crazy, lunatic Ham. I'd like to see you get him into any kind of a fix he couldn't get out of. When we woke up and found you gone, Ham declared you'd played a trick on him, and he's gone off to get even."

"How do you mean, get even?"

"He wanted to go with you this morning, so he went out and found your track going up stream. He came back to camp, got your fly book, cut him a willow pole, and started off down stream to beat you fishing. He's been gone most an hour and a half now."

"Well, he won't have to fish much to beat me, that's sure; but he ought to be getting back soon, so we can get started."

"Fishie, fishie, in the brook, Hammie caught him with a hook,"

came drifting into camp from somewhere on the trail. Soon Ham came into view, a cotton flour sack thrown over his shoulder and a broad grin on his face. He had left his pole in the thicket.

"Fish, fish, fish—little, big, and in between," he cried as he waved the bag in front of him. "I've never had such fishing."

"Hurrah for the fisherman," called Chuck, as he came through the trees with a half-dozen small pails in his hands. "Ham gets the fish, I get the berries, and we all get the stomach-ache, see?"

"Let's look at the fish" shouted every one.

"Bet they are only minnies," cried Phil.

"Minnies, your grandmother," scornfully replied Ham. "I have one there that's a foot and a half long if it's an inch. The others aren't so big." He emptied the contents of the bag on the ground and stood proudly over them, a merry twinkle in his eye.

Willis nudged Mr. Allen. "He's found our bag of fish, but don't tell." Mr. Allen arose, and, holding up the big fish by the tail, said, "Ham, you're the only original fisherman. That's the very fellow that pulled me in and came near drowning me." Ham hurried off to the stream to clean the catch and to laugh over his cleverness. Breakfast was a thoroughly enjoyed meal that morning, for, besides the fish and the sweet wild berries, there were just enough fish stories told to give the real thing the proper seasoning.

"I'd rather sit on those big boulders along Goose Creek, just where it empties into the backwaters of Cheeseman Dam, and catch a few big fellows like that one than to take an extended trip to Europe," solemnly declared Ham.

"I'd rather fish in the Narrows of Platte Canyon and pull out a fine big rainbow every now and then than ride in a New York subway," added Chuck.

"And I'd rather see Mr. Allen catch another big trout like that one you're eating," remarked Willis, with a wink at Mr. Allen, "than to catch all the bass in the State of Michigan."

By nine o'clock the party was again on the trail, traveling northwest around the base of Black Mountain.

"It's going to be a scorcher," exclaimed Fat. "I'm about melted already. I hope they haven't shipped that bear away from Cather Springs yet. I'd like to see it. They caught it in a bear trap last week. There is hardly a season goes by, any more, but what they get some kind of wild game. Last year it was a big mountain lion, the year before it was a badly-wounded mountain sheep, this year it was a bear and two cubs."

"That lion must have been the one that followed Ham up Pike's Peak. How about it, Ham?" said Mr. Allen teasingly. Ham did not reply. The smile disappeared from his face, and he dropped to the back of the line. "Ham, won't you tell us that story some time?" urged Mr. Allen. "I've never heard the real story, and I'd like to know about it."

"I've forgotten every detail, Mr. Allen," said Ham, "and I've forgotten them for good. It wasn't nearly as big a joke as every one supposed, though, I'll tell you that. I'll never come any nearer to handing in my heavenly passport and not do it than I did that time. Let's forget it. It brings back unpleasant thoughts."

At noon they camped in the shadow of a great overhanging rock and rested. Fat found, upon opening his pack, that he had left what remained of his loaf of bread at the last camping place, along with two cans of milk and a box of raisins.

"The oracle is coming true," dryly remarked Ham. "It always does, if it's interpreted properly. Fat, the swine of carelessness have consumed your living."

By three o'clock the party reached Cather Springs, which was nothing but the home of an old mountaineer—a quaint little log cabin, a barn, and a corral, in which stood two very patient, tired-looking donkeys and a large, raw-boned mountain horse. A little to one side of the cabin stood the spring house—a low, rustic affair, built of young trees. A slab-door stood slightly ajar, and through the opening there came the voice of a woman, softly singing to herself. A thin column of gray smoke was curling gently from the rough stone chimney. At one side of the house, in the shade of a great pine tree, was nestled a little flower garden that gave every sign of having had careful attention each day. On the back stoop was stretched out, at full length, a husky Collie dog. He was evidently asleep, for he did not stir as the boys came down the trail toward the picturesque little cabin.