"Great Caesar's ghost!" exclaimed Ham. "Take a peep at a few of those jay-birds. I never saw so many in my life. I'll bet the lady feeds them. Watch me knock that saucy fellow off that dead limb."

He raised his gun and shot. There was an awful scolding, jabbering, and flapping of wings, but no deaths—fortunately for Ham. The dog came to life in less than a second, and expressed himself freely on the imprudence of such an interruption to his mid-day nap. Likewise, the spring-house door suddenly opened and out popped a funny, little old lady.

"Boys, boys!" she called in a high, quavering voice, "don't shoot the blue jays. It does beat all how right-down destructive all boys are, anyway—shooting poor, harmless little birds for sport." The jays, on hearing the familiar voice of their benefactress, began to alight in twos and threes close by, and approved her every word with as much vigor as their tiny throats could command. The little old lady came straight toward Ham.

"Young man," she cried, as she shook her long, bony finger in his face, "young man, who ever gave you the right to come into this beautiful wilderness to maraud and murder and kill such beauties as them jays that God has put in these woods to be companions and friends to us lonely mountain folks? Who do you s'pose built this here canyon and that green meadow and this little spring and these hills, and all the little wild folks as lives in 'em? I should think you would hang your head and look like a whipped puppy if ye're little enough to shoot jay-birds, just to see the blue feathers a flutterin' in the air. 'Pon my soul, you hunters is beyon' my understandin'. S'pose that bird you shot has a nest, which, like as not, she has, an' it's full o' little fuzzy balls o' bird flesh this minute, all mouths an' stomachs, a waitin' for their mother to bring supper, an' they just keep a waitin' an' a waitin' till they starve, cause you was mean enough to kill the mother bird just for fun." Ham's hat had long since come off, and he stood with downcast eyes, not knowing what to say. The old lady looked him up and down with a look of abject pity and scorn as she went on:

"Didn't you ever stop to consider how many things the Almighty has put into these hills to love, young man, if you ain't too selfish an' proud an' mean to see 'em? I wonder what He thinks of a boy like you, anyway? You're like a demon sneakin' through a wonderful picture gallery a cuttin' holes in the pictures just for fun. I know every jay in this valley, young man, every single one—and they know me. When food gets scarce, an' cold nights come, an' snow begins to fall, I feed 'em. They understand all I say to 'em, an' they bring their young ones for me to see as quick as they're big enough. They tell me when it's goin' to storm, an' when a hawk is flyin' over my chicken pen, an' when berries is ripe, an' when strangers is comin'. They're my little family; I care for 'em every day an'—" The flood gates were opened. The little old lady cried as if her heart would break, while the jays gossiped and chattered at the unusual uproar.

Suddenly she turned and went into the house, and the boys, without a word, quietly passed up the trail and into the flat, green meadow ahead. Ham whistled softly to himself as he strode along.

"Beats the Dutch," he said to Mr. Allen, as the two dropped back together, "how a fellow will forget himself now and then. I'd have done just what she did, only I would have gotten mad instead of just feeling bad. I'm mighty thankful I didn't kill that bird."

"What a great joy these simple out-of-doors people get out of nature," replied Mr. Allen. "I'd give half my college education to be able to see and hear and understand the things that little old lady does in these old hills. Every time a bird chirps or a squirrel barks she knows what it says. I think the Master must have been thinking of some such a pure-hearted body as she when He told the people that the poor in spirit would inherit the earth. She doesn't go out in society much, nor she hasn't any party dresses, nor probably never saw a grand opera in her life; but see what she has that most people never get."

In a few moments more they had crossed the little meadow, climbed up through a zigzag trail through the trees, and came out onto the railroad track, just where it crossed the stage road. Directly in front of them rose the crag-tipped cap of St. Peter's Dome. On one hand was the old wagon road, that first pathway of mountain civilization, winding down the canyon in long, graceful curves until it was lost in the distant haze, while on the other hand ran the steel rails of more modern civilization.

As they stood resting for a few moments they heard the rumble of heavy wheels, a wheezing and puffing, a shrill whistle, a cloud of black smoke, a shower of cinders, and the evening express passed upward into the cool, dark shadows, carrying its load of human necessities into the heart of the Rockies.

It was six o'clock when the last one in the party reached the rickety wooden stairs that made the last ascent of a hundred feet to the Dome possible. Ham and Willis had been on top for some minutes, and were sitting on a huge boulder just at the foot of a lodge-pole that had been erected on the very summit for a flagstaff. Certainly it was a sight to be remembered for many a day—a marvelous wonderland, stretching out in every direction. The detail of plants, trees, and winding trails was swallowed up, and only the vastness of the valleys and canyons could be seen, with here and there a silver ribbon of a stream. Far up in the blue vault two great eagles soared and circled. Here and there the last golden rays of sunlight fell on the distant ridges and lighted up the tree tops with a beautiful iridescence.

"What a sight!" exclaimed Willis. "Now, where is Cookstove Mountain, for I am especially interested in it. O yes, I see it. It's that great granite cliff that is so flat on the top. Wouldn't it be grand if we could build a cabin near St. Peter's Dome, so sometimes in the evening we could climb up here to sit and watch the stars come out? I want to be in the mountains and camp in them and hike in them. I am beginning to understand their charm more and more. I know now what it is that Old Ben has, and Daddy Wright, and the little old lady we saw this afternoon, that I have not. It is a big optimism, a love for everything that lives and is a part of the Great Creation."

"I don't know of anything that will take the selfishness and conceit out of a fellow like a few hours spent on a mountain top," said Mr. Allen.

"It makes a fellow right down glad he's alive," remarked Ham. "I always get more out of a view like this than I do out of the best sermon I ever heard."

"I wish we could camp right here," exclaimed Chuck; "but we can't, and we had better be getting down before dark."

Just at the base of the Dome a little stream trickled over the rocks and down into the canyon. They followed it back from the railroad and soon had a cheery fire burning and a comfortable camp made for the night. It was in a little meadow just at the edge of a grove of small aspens, and at one side of the tiny stream lay a great round boulder that had evidently rolled down from the summit of the Dome at some previous date. Beds were arranged in a row along the side of it, and a pile of dead sticks placed in a convenient position for the night's fire. The evening breezes were already beginning to play hide-and-seek in the valley, and the leaves on the trees were clapping their innumerable hands in applause at the brightly-burning fire. The sparks flew upward and the shadows danced in and out of the illuminated circle like so many happy fairies.

"Do you hear it, fellows? There, now, listen! Don't you hear it?" Ham was saying as he sat back from the fire. "There it is, calling, calling!"

"What is calling?" asked Willis, straining his ear to catch the sound.

"Mother Nature," answered Ham, dryly. "Mother Nature's call—the call of the wild. See, even the leaves are beckoning us back farther into the deep, quiet wilderness. Some day I will part with my earthly possessions and answer that call, for, do you know, I believe that the Indian did come the nearest to living an ideal life of any of us!"

Every one knew that Ham was in for a long, private soliloquy, and so began supper operations, for, although they had all heard the call of Mother Nature, as Ham put it, to some of them at least it was only an empty stomach calling to be fed.

Mr. Allen and Willis were the last ones to take to their blankets, for they had many things to talk over between themselves.

What can draw out the innermost thoughts of a fellow's heart more quickly than a chat with a sympathetic friend when both are seated before a fire in such a place and on such a night? If you really wish to know a fellow in a few days' time, you need to camp with him, to eat with him, and to sit with him before an open fire in the wilderness under a canopy of stars with the music of Nature about you. Then man speaks with man, and all the conventionalities of life are forgotten.

"Yes, I have often wondered if I will ever find my father's partner," Willis was saying. "I would rather see him than any man on earth, sometimes."

"Wouldn't you be happier if you didn't ever find him, though?" questioned Mr. Allen.

"No, I wouldn't, Mr. Allen, because he could explain so many things to me that I have wondered about. I don't know that I ever told you, but it has always seemed so strange to me that my uncle, Mr. Williams, has never once mentioned my father's name to me. He was the last man that saw him alive, yet he has never spoken of him. I have been going to talk with him several times, but he is so gruff and absorbed I can't get up my nerve. There is one thing that has bothered me a lot lately, though, and I've never told you of it, but I'm going to now. I probably never would have thought much about it if it hadn't been for what the old prospector told me the other day over on Cheyenne. I've been wondering if there possibly could be any connection between his not wanting me to come on this trip and the fact that he was just then sending men to do his assessment work on the claim that once belonged to my father.

"There is another thing, too, Mr. Allen. I feel ashamed of even thinking of such things, yet the night we had our meeting at Bruin Inn I heard that same prospector discussing a Mr. Williams with Old Ben. I heard him say that Williams was a thief and a sanctimonious old hypocrite. The thing that bothers me is, how much does Williams know of my father's affairs that he has not told my mother. Surely he would not dare to be crooked in such a thing as that."

"If you could locate Mr. Kieser, he probably could tell you some things," slowly added Mr. Allen. "Well, there is one thing sure: 'Murder will out,' and with the suspicion I now have, I'll keep quiet, keep my eyes open, and see what I can learn. That Cheyenne claim must be worth holding, or he wouldn't send men away up there to do that work. That costs money!"

"Don't worry about it, anyway, boy. I wouldn't be building any air castles concerning that gold mine. It was, no doubt, just like thousands of others here in these mountains—"

"I know that, but I want to see the mine that my father dug. Do you suppose I ever will?"

"Who can tell but that you have already seen it on this trip? I don't know, but let's go to bed. To-morrow we must find that cabin site, or go home empty-handed. I think we'll get over into these little canyons on the north and work over to the railroad. If we don't find a place there, somewhere, then I'm afraid there is none. Most all of this land is Forest Reserve, and we'll have to get a ninety-nine years' lease if we locate on Government land; but you know, I've been thinking we could build a dandy cabin of these large quaking-aspens, if we could find a place in a good grove. Build a frame, then fit them in, standing them on end, and line with building paper, and perhaps boards. These aspens cut very easily in the winter when they are cold. What would you think of that idea?"

Willis was already nodding by the fire, and did not answer.

"Good-night," said Mr. Allen, as he pulled his blanket up about him. "Sleep tight, and no dreams, mind you."



CHAPTER X

A Glimpse of Buffalo Roost

The little party gathered about the fire the next morning, cooking the last breakfast of the trip. To-morrow they would be home again. Would they take back a glowing description of a cabin site, situated in some cool forest nook, in the shadow of some mighty crag, or would they be forced to disappoint the anxious crowd of fellows who would be waiting for their return?

By seven o'clock they were jogging down the railroad at a lively gait, keeping their eyes open for a canyon that would lead in back of Cookstove Mountain. They had come down the track at least two miles without finding any encouraging signs when they came upon a trail that seemed to lead from the railroad into an unknown canyon. Perhaps it was one of the many trails from the railroad back to the remains of some of the old construction camps. Perhaps it was a cowpath that led into a fertile meadow where cattle loved to rest by cool springs. Might it not have been the connecting link between some old prospector's diggings and his point of supplies? Possibly it had been worn by the ever-watchful forest ranger as he rode over the reserve, watching for the fires of careless campers, the trespass of cattle, or, perhaps, to make a timber sale to some mountain ranchman. Perhaps it was one of these, but more likely it was a combination of them all. What strange stories it could tell if it could but speak! Had it been on the southern slope it might have been lost in the cool shadows of the forest, or have disappeared in the leafy molds and decaying twigs of many autumns. But it was on the north slope, from which the hungry flames of a giant forest fire had snatched every tree and bush, leaving only the barren hillside.

It was a very alluring trail, for it led to no one knew just where. Just at the point where it slipped over the rocky ridge and dropped down out of sight into the canyon beyond there rose a group of great, tall pines, which seemed to be guarding the pathway. Just ahead stood Cookstove, its rocky crest bathed in the morning light, while far away to the north the sharper outlines were lost in a great army of evergreens, which seemed to be trooping restlessly up the hill and descending again into the great unknown of the valley. It led straight away down a gently-curving aisle of beautiful large trees that had already begun to carpet the floor with dull pine needles, picked from their shaggy heads by the mischievous dryads of the valley. Away up on the shoulder of Cookstove could be seen a long silver ribbon of water, the lower end of which was lost in the treetops of the canyon. From somewhere down below the trail there came the gentle murmur of jubilant little dashes of mountain spray as they frolicked and chased each other in the happy play of a mountain stream. On the inside of the trail the trees dropped away rapidly until you could look into their topmost branches without raising your eyes, while on the other side they trooped noiselessly upward, like some great, silent army, showing only their weather-beaten bodies.

As the boys hastened down this trail, deeper into the land of enchantment, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.

"I've about changed my mind about the location of the Garden of Eden," Ham sung out.

"That's the twentieth time," announced Chuck.

"We're just on the edge of it yet," shouted Mr. Allen. "Let's hurry and get into it."

The trail began immediately to descend, and before they knew it the party found themselves beside a crystal stream that seemed to be lost in a narrow park of great trees and mighty boulders. The trail crossed the stream by an ancient corduroy bridge, then off it ran again up the opposite side of the canyon, penetrating deeper into the quiet forest.

"This is the forest primeval, The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"

quoted Ham. There was a perfume of the forest dampness in the air. Every tree seemed to shelter a bird family or a host of squirrels, to say nothing of the tiny creatures that made chorus together from their hiding places. Softly filtering through the trees came the constant melody of a waterfall, now far away, now just ahead, crying, laughing, sobbing, in a strange intermingling of feeling.

The trail made a sharp turn to the left, the trees suddenly came to an end, and in their place were large piles of mossy, ragged boulders. The canyon ended in a perpendicular, moss-covered wall, hundreds of feet high, and from the top of this wrinkled old cliff leaped the stream into the canyon below. On an old tin sign, fastened to the stump of an immense tree, were the words, "St. Marys." Directly at the base of the falls, and at their extreme edge, stood a grand old spruce tree, straight and clean as an arrow, its slender top reaching nearly to the top of the falls. They seemed to be happy comrades, for the tree was gently vibrating with the soft, half-wild music of the crystal stream.

After every nook and cranny had been explored, the group began to retrace their steps down the canyon.

"Isn't it a wonderful little spot?" asked Phil, as they sat down by the bridge to rest. "Who do you suppose ever built this trail away up here? See, it has been dug from the very mountain-side in many places, and this bridge wasn't built as a mere footbridge—it was built to support heavy loads of something."

"Perhaps somewhere way up in those trees there is an old mine," suggested Fat.

"I've been wondering if there was," slowly questioned Willis. "I'd like to go and look, for I'm not a bit tired." His eyes were big with the wonder of the place.

"It surely is a treat to him, isn't it?" asked Mr. Allen.

"Yes, and to us all," replied Ham. "I just wonder what some city people would think of it. When I get old, fellows, I'm going to find me some such a little canyon as this and live out my life in it. I don't believe a fellow could ever think a mean thought out here, could he? He'd be almost afraid to."

"It's an ideal place, all right," returned Mr. Allen.

"Why, I believe I'd be an orator if I just had this valley for a class," went on Ham.

"It's a good thing such places can't be moved," suggested Phil, "or some of these wealthy fellows would be buying them all up and putting them in their art galleries. This view would create quite a sensation in New York City, don't you think? Fifty thousand dollars is not much for a few feet of masterpiece, but this can be had for a few dollars an acre. Strange, isn't it?"

"A man paints a little picture on a canvas and worries over it until his hair gets long and his face sad. He is then a genius. People go wild over a man that can copy a little scene. Yet those same people declare there is no Creator. Account for a valley like this without Him, can you?" declared Fat.

"The man that can deny Him, standing here in this little bit of His handiwork," solemnly declared Ham, "is blind, deaf, and dumb, besides having marked tendencies toward insanity."

"Halloo," came in a clear shout from up on the hillside.

"By gracious, he's found a mine!" cried Ham, jumping up.

"Halloo," he shouted back. "What did you find?"

"Two more trails," came the answer. "Come up and look. One goes down the canyon on this side." A wild scramble up through the trees followed. Soon they were all traveling down one of the newly-discovered trails. The other one began at an old log cabin, and ran zigzag up the mountain till it was lost in the gravel slopes.

"I've been trying to make up my mind where this canyon leads to," said Mr. Allen. "I'm wondering if it can be Buffalo Park."

A bridge was visible down the stream, and there was the sound of water splashing. An immense boulder that had rolled from the cliff above obstructed any further view. Ham and Willis were in the lead, the rest following as rapidly as possible. The two ahead disappeared, then came into view beyond the big boulder.

"A house!"

"A cabin!" Every one broke into a run. Just above the bridge a crude dam of logs had been built to back up a supply of water, and it was running over from the little pond behind in a happy, babbling waterfall. Then it turned to the south around the base of a patch of high ground. On this bit of high country, overlooking the stream on one side and the upper canyon on the other, stood the loudly-announced cabin.

It was a typical mountain log-house, except for its roof, which was covered with cedar shingles instead of the customary split poles, thatched over with marsh hay. Its every line suggested age. In some places the mud chinking had dried and dropped out, yet, strange to say, the windows were all there, and even the door, which was of city manufacture, was not past repair. One corner of the roof had been slightly damaged by the falling of a monstrous pine log that was still lying where it had fallen several years before.

The cabin had evidently been used as a summer home only, for there was no fireplace or a chimney of any kind, except a dilapidated old length of stovepipe that stuck through the gable at one end. It was this feature that made it look so completely forlorn and abandoned. Besides the door and two windows that opened on the trail side, there was a window on the up end and a door on the stream side which led out onto a crude back porch, built entirely of aspen poles. The floor was of pine boards, and had once been a marvel of beauty and convenience for a mountain cabin; but time had played strange pranks with it, till now it was uneven and sloped off in a jerky fashion toward the back door. On one wall was fastened a rude set of shelves, on which was perched a motley collection of pickle bottles and tin cans. Stretched along one wall stood a crude, home-made table, and in one corner stood the remains of a little, old-fashioned stove. A wooden chest stood under the shelves, and had probably been used for a grub box. It still contained a few pounds of yellow cornmeal, half a can of baking powder, a badly molded loaf of rye bread, and a surprisingly sturdy sample of butter. Hung on a nail in the corner above the chest was a once-stylish skillet and the battered lower part of a double boiler. A rusty tincup lay on the floor beside a powder can that had been used for a bucket, while just inside the south door stood a comical homemade shakedown. The frame was built of straight young aspen poles, while the springs were just a carefully woven layer of balsam boughs spread over a bottom of limber young saplings. It had once been a wonder of comfort and ease, but its value had passed with the departure of its builder.

The trail ran close in front of the door and then climbed over the sandy base of a great crag, and disappeared over the hill. Just as it left the level of the house and started upward, there stood an immense Douglas spruce like some faithful guard, his proud green helmet stretched up into the sky so that he might be the more able to see any approaching danger. A great smoke-stained rock lay just at the end of the house, before which was built a primitive fireplace. An assortment of tin cans, lying in the little ravine, told the simple tale of bygone campfire suppers and of hunters and explorers and miners.

"Well, this is what I call luck—pure, unadulterated luck, with sugar on it," drawled Ham as he surveyed the house.

"Luck, your grandmother," said Phil. "Do you call something that you have been searching for for four long days luck?"

"Excuse me," answered Ham, in mock courtesy. "I forgot when I made that statement that there is no such thing as luck. It was my old friend, 'William Shakespeare,' that wrote that famous line about luck, 'Luck is pluck in action,' or something like that, wasn't it? That's what it was here, anyway."

"Well, at any rate," said Mr. Allen, as he joined the group after his round of inspection, "the old shanty is chucked full of possibilities."

"I'm glad something is full," interrupted Fat. "We certainly aren't in the same class, that cabin and I. It's been so long since I've fed that my floating ribs have run ashore. The worst of it is that all I have left is a can of condensed milk, about a teaspoon of sugar, and a little butter that's a second cousin to what's in that grub box yonder. I'm going to borrow a few possibilities from the cabin and beg for food. Let's have dinner."

"Right here by this old rock," called Willis. "Perhaps we can roast a little information out of these rocks."

Chuck had gone down stream into a grove of large aspens, and at this moment came panting up the trail.

"Bees—peach of a tree—honey galore—millions of them!" he panted.

"That sounds like something to eat," cried Fat. "Come along, Chuck, I'm with you. Do you know how to make that 'milk and honey' that the Good Book speaks about? I've got the milk, let's get the honey." Ham, Chuck, and Fat started for the bee tree, Ham singing his favorite, "A Preacher went a Huntin'."

"Better let up, Ham," shouted Phil. "The bees will be after the sweetness in that melody of yours."

Phil stretched out at full length in the sun while Mr. Allen busily made figures and sketches in his note book. Willis rose and started down the trail toward the bee tree. At the edge of the timber he stopped, and a curious smile spread over his face. Then suddenly, as the real significance of what he saw dawned upon him, he doubled up with a howl and laughed till his sides hurt.

The fellows were unable to roll over the great dead tree, so had decided to "smudge the brutes out," as Ham said. Accordingly, they built a fire at the side where the bees had been seen to enter the tree. Chuck had carried water from the stream in his hat to make the fire smoke, and, as they watched the hole, the bees came swarming out at the end of the log behind them, "with spears sharpened and ready for action," as Ham afterward said. Such lively gymnastics and hurried departures Willis had never before witnessed. Fat completely forgot that he was hungry, and Ham took occasion to severely chastise himself, using his old felt hat for a paddle, while Chuck went ploughing through the underbrush like a young bull-moose, murmuring strange, inarticulate sentences. Fortunately for them all, the bee tree was nothing but a nest of marsh-wasps, and there were nowhere near as many as Chuck declared there were. The damage was slight to all except Fat, and he had enough signs of battle to warrant a leather medal for bravery. The saddest thing was that the hoped-for "milk and honey" did not materialize.

As the party sat together eating the last of their rations, Ham fell into one of his philosophical moods.

"I like this kind of life," he began. "Out here you let go your hold on man-made things and shift for yourself." He looked cautiously over at Fat, who was trying to scratch a particularly itchy sting just out of reach in the middle of his back. "I like the unchanging condition of nature," he continued. "The wilderness is all yours, and you may take from it all the essentials of primitive living—shelter, warmth, and food."

"Ham, you're an unmitigated prevaricator," cried Fat as he scratched and made faces. Ham paid no attention to him. "Here in the open country you can get mighty close to the great wilderness with its myriads of busy lives, and—" Fat picked up a pine cone and threw it, but Ham disappeared around the end of the big rock.

"Ham, you're just like the loons we have on the Michigan lakes," taunted Willis. "You can do and say more crazy things than all the rest of us ducks put together; but when any one takes a shot at you, you're out of sight."

By this time Fat had managed to make two holes in his can of milk and was drinking the contents. Mr. Allen had returned to his sketching, and Willis had gone over to the little dam to get a drink. Suddenly there was the snort of a horse and the rapid tramping of hoofs. A dog gave two or three barks, then horse, rider, and dog appeared on the trail. In a second another rider, with a pick and shovel thrown over his shoulder, came over the ridge. The first pulled in his horse and, turning in his saddle, looked to see if his companion was coming. Being confident that he was not far behind, he again urged his horse forward, apparently not noticing the group by the big boulder. Ham got to his feet and spoke to the dog. The horseman gave a quick exclamation of surprise, then called out, "Howdy!" Mr. Allen rose.

"Well, well!" called the man. "Seems to me yew fellers are travelin' some, ain't ye?"

"O, a little," returned Mr. Allen.

"You don't happen to know, do you, whether there are two cabins above here, do you? We was directed to the middle cabin."

"No, only a very badly decayed one—just a pile of tumbled-down logs," replied Mr. Allen. The second rider had come up and dismounted, and together they studied a sketch which he had taken from his pocket.

"This must be the one, that's all," he drawled, as he spat out a great quid of tobacco, "'cause he said it was by the bridge. We must o' missed the other cabin in the trees somewhere below here."

Willis was eyeing the newcomers closely. A stern, hard look crossed his face as he quickened his pace. He reached Mr. Allen's side, and the first rider nodded to him. He drew nearer and observed the sketch very closely, listening intently to all the strangers had to say. His heart was beating fast, but just why he could not have told.

"Well, Jim, I guess we'd better unsaddle an' give the nags a drink an' a rest," said the stranger as he carefully folded up the sketch and put it in his pocket. "Seems strange as how we'd meet twice in these mountains in nearly as many days, don't it?" remarked the man, as he began to loosen the saddle girths and to untie the sacks of grub that were fastened on behind.

"How is that?" queried Mr. Allen.

"Why, wasn't it you that went up the trail to the top of Cheyenne the other day?" questioned the man. Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on: "We was doin' an assessment up there that day an' seed you as you stood talkin' to that crusty old prospector that works that tunnel."

"O yes," said Mr. Allen, "so you are the men that were up there by that black dump?"

"Yep, we're the fellers, Jim an' me."

"Are you going to do more assessment work here in this canyon?" questioned Ham.

"Yep, we've got two assessments to do here somewhere," returned the stranger. "This canyon, or at least part of it, belongs to a real estate company in Colorado Springs. I don't believe there is any gold here, but they are holdin' the property as an investment. Seems like they expect sometime to open this canyon to tourist trade to see some swell falls that's up in it somewheres."

"O, is that so?" returned Mr. Allen. "Then you don't think there is any gold here at all?"

"Nope, I don't, an' I'll tell ye why. Gold, as it's found in these parts, runs in a strata of quartz. Now, there ain't no quartz in this range, except on Cheyenne. The old-timer down at the inn says that there's gold up here, an' he knows where it is, but you can't take no stock in these old fellers. They're daft on the gold question."

Mr. Allen looked at his watch, then, turning to the fellows, he suggested that they had better start for home. After a little more conversation the two parties separated, one to camp for the night in the cabin, the other to return to the city.

Willis motioned Mr. Allen to the back of the line as they worked their way down the trail and into the park.

"The plot thickens," began Willis, with a queer little smile on his face. Then with a slight chuckle he added: "To be more accurate, I suppose I should say 'The plot thins.' Those are the two men that were at my uncle's house the morning we started on this trip, and my uncle drew that sketch—I'm sure of it. The heading was torn from the paper, but I feel it in my bones that he was the artist. Those are the men that were doing the assessment on my father's old claim on Cheyenne for my uncle. He never dreamed of my seeing them here and knowing they were in his employ. I understand now why he didn't want me to come on this trip. A coward is always suspicious. I never would have put the two together in the wide world if he hadn't made such a fuss about my coming. One thing is absolutely certain—my Uncle Williams is crooked, and that isn't all, either. My Uncle Williams owns that cabin, and we'll never get it for our use in this wide world. What will the fellows say when they know it belongs to my uncle and we can't get it? The cabin is ideal, and it could be repaired with very little cost. It is isolated and in a beautiful spot, and is the only thing we have found. Don't tell the fellows about it, please, until I see what I can do. I'll do my very best."

"Now, look here, my boy; don't let that bother you," replied Mr. Allen. "Wait. Don't trouble trouble till trouble troubles you. He hasn't troubled you yet, he's just getting ready to. Let's beat him at his own game. There are more ways than one to skin a cat."

"But how?" inquired Willis.

"Well, the first thing to do is to get the exact location of the cabin, then go to the county recorder's office and see to whom the property belongs. If it ever belonged to your father, as you are now disposed to believe—"

"Yes, I'd bet my hat, Mr. Allen, that this is the very cabin that my father and Tad Kieser built. O, how I 'd like to have it all for my very own!" Mr. Allen interrupted him. "As I was saying, the records will show very plainly if it was ever transferred or if it was anything but a lode claim. If your father owned it, that settles it. Williams has nothing to say about it. Placer claims can't be taken on deeded property. However, let's not worry about it, but let's count it ours and work toward that end."

"O my, if Tad were only here, we'd soon know a thing or two!" exclaimed Willis.

"Now, boy, listen! Don't go home and spoil all this business. Keep still about it until to-morrow, when we can get at the records and find out for certain just what is what. Will you do that?" questioned Mr. Allen.

"I'll tell my mother," replied Willis, "and to-morrow I'll go with you."

The trail was winding back and forth through a great park of aspens. On every side were prospect holes, remains of old cabins, and places where the wilderness was again reclaiming her own after men had spent their time, money, and energy attempting to force her to give up her gold.

At the top of the hogsback that over-looked Bruin Inn the fellows sat down to rest. They were back in familiar territory, now, and the cabin quest was nearly over.

"Of course, the very first thing to do," Ham was saying, "is to get in stone and get our fireplace built before the frost comes. It will be a simple matter—just throw down stones from the mountain; they are flat slabs and will lay up very easily. We'll use that big, flat stone at the end as a foundation, and run the chimney up outside the house—a real big, life-sized one, too. And we want a grand old-fashioned crane in the grate, and andirons of stone, and a big cement hearth."

"Going to do all your cooking in the fireplace?" asked Chuck.

"Not on your life," put in Fat. "We'll bring up our old camp stove, the one we had on the trip last summer—it's a dandy."

"I've got the only stunt, though," said Ham. "Let's build a great big bed on the rafters that run from wall to wall. We'll just cut a lot of saplings and lay them in close and support the bed from the roof. After it has about two feet of balsam boughs on it, it will be a choice roost, I tell you that. I'm going to be architect and boss carpenter of that job."

"Yes," said Mr. Allen gravely, "but it's not a fireplace, an aerial bunk, or a place to eat that I'm thinking of. There is no use putting our time, effort, and money into this place unless we can take care of at least twenty fellows at a time, and how can we do it?"

"The eating won't be any trouble," advised Fat. "They will get enough to eat some way—I always do." "We'll build an addition," suggested Phil, "a bunk house addition. That will be easy; we can build it out where that old back porch is, can't we? And say, talk about great logs, what's the matter with those aspens right there ready for us?"

"We could buy tin dishes, but where is the money coming from? That is the main question," said Mr. Allen. "Money," snorted Ham, "that will come if we're in earnest, dead earnest. How about that circus? How much money do we need, anyway?"

Mr. Allen drew out his note-book, and made some rapid calculations. "Well, the very least that you can do with, fellows, is two hundred and fifty dollars."

"Good-bye, fond dreams!" cried Fat tragically.

"Two hundred and fifty dollars!" exclaimed Phil and Ham together. "How do you get that?"

"Well, cement and lime for the fireplace, freight to Fairview on boards, shingles, furnishings, and so on; rent on donkeys to do the packing, dishes, and pantry boxes, for everything will have to be kept in tin boxes. Then you'll have to hire a mason to put in the fireplace. You'll need axes, saws, and tools. I'll wager it won't cost a cent less than two hundred dollars, and great loads of hard work."

"Hard fun, you mean," interrupted Phil.

As the evening shadows began to lengthen and the cool breeze to rise from the snow-clad peaks of the Middle Range, the little group of explorers dropped into the canyon and hurried home. All were very full of ideas and suggestions except Willis. He had listened to their talk, but was saying over and over to himself, "If it doesn't come true, it's my fault, or my uncle's, and that's the same thing."



CHAPTER XI

A Strange Turn of Fate

"Let's take Mr. Dean to the courthouse with us, Willis," said Mr. Allen. "He is very shrewd, and we can depend on his judgment in such matters as we have before us to-day." Willis found Mr. Dean, and in a short time they were on their way, Mr. Allen explaining to Mr. Dean the possible difficulty that had arisen in regard to the ownership of the cabin.

Upon their arrival at the courthouse, the first thing was to study a United States geological map to find the township, section lines, railroads, and streams. Then began the search through old, yellow volumes of records, one after another, each one bringing them nearer to the desired information.

"Section five, west of range sixty-seven," read Mr. Dean. "That's the place, boys; now we must locate an exact point in that section. You say the cabin is located on a stream and a trail. The falls are marked here;" he pointed with his pencil. "Now downstream a little; here we are, three trails marked instead of one. You came over from the railroad, didn't you?"

"Yes, right here," said Willis, pointing. "The cabin is where these two trails cross each other."

In the center of the next volume, for there had been many claims located and recorded on the little stream, they found the record of a property belonging to Willis's father and a Mr. Kieser. The record showed the date of its refiling, after the country had become a part of the Pike's Peak Forest Reserve. The survey lines were given, but of course they could not be located on the map. Was the cabin on the property there recorded or not? Willis remembered that his mother had said not, so they pushed further into the books and came to the description of a lode claim, the corner of which, according to the record, was at the intersection of the two trails, just where the stream swings south. It was originally staked and recorded by a man named Briney as a placer claim. Six consecutive assessments were recorded, then two years later the claim was relocated by a Joseph H. Williams. Willis frowned as he made notes and took down the dates of the assessments.

"There you are," he said despondently; "just as I thought yesterday—Mr. Joseph H. Williams, my uncle, owner. Great chance of getting that cabin, isn't there?"

"Now, hold your horses," interrupted Mr. Dean. "Let's finish the rest of this record. Well, that's the strangest thing I ever heard of. His last assessment is dated last summer, August 3, 19—. This year's work hasn't been done yet. Why—well, anyway, there must be something worth while around that cabin. 'Claim jumped and re-recorded as a lode claim August 22, 19—.' Why, that's the day you started on the trip to look for a cabin!"

"You are right," exclaimed Mr. Allen. "Let's look at the list of records filed on August 22d last." The clerk showed them the page. It read as follows:

"Assessment on Joseph H. Williams lode claim, Cheyenne Mountain." Then followed the description. Directly under it was the following:

"Lode claim, Buffalo Park, located by Beverly H. Pembroke, as described on page 1162."

"The cabin then belongs, by right of relocation, to Beverly H. Pembroke," remarked Mr. Allen, "and we are just exactly four days late. Too bad we didn't start at this end of the trip."

"Who is Beverly H. Pembroke?" asked Mr. Dean. No one could tell. "Well, this much is clear," he went on: "there was some very good reason for the relocation of that claim, and it couldn't have been for that old cabin. Men don't locate claims to get possession of old, tumbled-down log cabins nowadays."

"Well, there's this much that isn't clear," returned Willis: "why that change was made the day we started over this route, and furthermore, how does it come that the same men worked the assessment on the two claims if they belong to different parties? No, sir, men, listen: my Uncle didn't want that cabin in his possession at this time for some reason, so he transferred the claim to this man, Pembroke. Anyway, I'm glad it doesn't belong to my uncle now, whether we get it for our purpose or not."

"Now, you listen," said Mr. Dean: "let's go and see Mr. Pembroke at once and inquire about it. He can't do more than throw us out, and it might be he'd be tickled to let us have the cabin. Every hundred dollars' worth of work done on that property, whether it's mine, trail, dam, or housework, is equal to an assessment. If we remodel the house and use it, he can buy the property or, as they say, 'prove up' on it. What do you say? I believe we can make a bargain."

"It's a go!" cried Mr. Allen. "I was sure we would need your brains for this job, Mr. Dean. Let's go right now." They looked up the desired gentleman in the directory, then started for his office.

"Cheer up, old boy," cried Mr. Allen as he slapped Willis on the back. "Here's where we win, uncle or no uncle. Isn't that right, Mr. Dean?"

"You feel too confident," returned Willis. "I see the game. You don't. Mr. Beverly H. Pembroke will politely refuse any offer. My uncle has coached him on what to say to any inquiries. See if I'm not right!"

"You haven't a very good opinion of that uncle of yours, have you?" said Mr. Dean. "I don't see why he should be so vitally interested in keeping you away from an old cabin. I think you imagine things, boy."

"You know some things are true that you can't see," tersely replied Willis. "You can't see a pain in your stomach, but you can feel it and it tells you something is wrong. It's just the same in this case. I can't see it, but I know something is wrong, and the next thing for us to do is to get our heads together and find out the causes. We're interested in the causes."

Mr. Beverly H. Pembroke sat idly in his office. His feet were hoisted up on the window sill, his straw hat tipped far back on his head, while a long, slender cigar was held between his teeth. He was decidedly an Englishman, and a very nervous, fidgety one at that. As the three entered he got to his feet and inquired concerning their wants.

"Log cabin—Buffalo Park—Lode claim located August 22d." He puffed meditatively at his cigar, endeavoring to focus his thoughts on the matter before him. A frown clouded his face, then suddenly disappeared.

"Why-a, yes, ba Jove, this 'ot weather 'as nearly set me crazy. My brains 'ave been bemuddled all day, don't you know. Ba Jove, I most forgot that new claim. Yes, yes, and you want 'ow many shares?"

Mr. Allen looked at Mr. Dean and smiled. "You do the talking," he said.

"Well, it's like this," said Mr. Dean. Then he laid his proposition before the Englishman, who puffed away on his cigar and listened in silence. "Sorry, very sorry, gentlemen," he began, "but I 'ave just arranged with a party to 'old that site for a summer 'otel or a fruit farm, or some such a thing, don't you know. Sorry, beastly sorry, though, because I 'ave to refuse you."

Mr. Allen looked at Mr. Dean, a great disappointment showing on his face. He turned to Willis, who was standing in the background. The boy was squinting out between half-closed eyelids and his fists were clenched hard at his sides. He was gazing steadfastly at the floor. Suddenly he looked up at Mr. Allen, then shoved himself behind the railing that separated them from the Englishman and spoke in clearcut tones.

"Mr. Pembroke—" The little Englishman batted his eyes nervously and straightened noticeably. He was all attention in a second. Willis looked him straight in the eye and continued: "I don't suppose you know who I am, at least you don't appear to. I hate to ask favors of any man, or take undue advantage of any one, but in this instance I feel that I have just a little claim upon your attention and your consideration." Mr. Allen looked at Mr. Dean in utter astonishment.

"Very early this spring you and I were fellow passengers on a D. & P.W. train coming to Colorado Springs. Do you remember? That train was wrecked on a stormy afternoon by the splintering of the rails, which caused a collision with a heavy freight. It was my pleasure at that time to save the life of your little son."

"Ba Jove," murmured the Englishman, as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "It was a deucedly nasty business. I'm very pleased to meet you again, Mr.—a—a—"

"Thornton," said Mr. Allen.

"Mr. Thornton, and—"

"Never mind that," continued Willis. "All I have to say is that I would count it a very great favor, personally, if you could see your way clear to let us have the use of that cabin for an Association camp, until such time as you are ready to build or make other improvements there."

"Why—a—yes, I'll be pleased to do that," returned Mr. Pembroke confusedly. "Deucedly glad to 'ave a chance to serve you, don't you know. Now, just what is your plan again, gentlemen?"

The plan was carefully gone over, this time with Willis as spokesman. Mr. Pembroke listened carefully till he had finished, then he replied, "Ba Jove, I like the idea, it 'as points to it. I'd like to furnish the necessary lumber for the desired addition myself. It will be a deucedly comfortable 'ome for the boys. You know it was the Association boys that returned my dog to me."

Before leaving his office, a three years' lease was arranged for and everything looked lovely. What was more, the addition could be started at once.

"Well, by the Great Horn Spoon!" ejaculated Mr. Dean when they were well outside. "You are a wonder! That is what I call nerve. Now tell me all about it."

"Bah!" replied Willis, "I hated to do it, but I had to. I was going to ask the old boy what Mr. Williams would say to him, but I thought better of it. To-night is when I have my fun. I'll tell my uncle about our deal and watch him squirm. I wonder if he'll get mad. I can tell by the way he acts if this recording business was a put-up job. There still remains the question, though—why does he want to keep me away from that cabin? It has something to do with my father's old mine, I'm sure of that much; and I'll find out, you see if I don't."

The evening papers gave a glowing account of the interest of Mr. Beverly H. Pembroke in the new Y.M.C.A. cabin project, and gave the plan of work. A circus was already being planned to raise funds for the building, and a stock company had been organized among the boys of the Boys' Department to furnish funds with which to begin work at once. Work would be started the next Saturday. The stockholders and some others would go to the cabin on Friday evening, camp around a fire all night, and be ready to begin work in the morning. After supper that evening Willis had a long chat with his mother, and talked over with her all the things that had been disturbing him in regard to his uncle's recent actions.

"I think you must surely be mistaken," she said. "What object could he have in doing such things. You must remember that you have a very vivid imagination, and you must watch it."

"No, mother, it is not imagination, for this is how I know this time: Didn't you see how red and nervous he got when I told him what Mr. Pembroke had agreed to do. Right after supper he left for down town without a word. I don't know what it is, but there is some fact relative to father's death that he has never told us. If we could only find Tad, I'm sure he could help us out. I'm going to find father's mine, though, and it's not so very far from that cabin, either. Mother, isn't it wonderful that we are going to have the very old house that father built so long ago? After I find the mine, I'll find out about its worth; but it can't be worth so very much or Tad would never have left it. If the tunnel is still locked up like you said Tad wrote it was, why, we can't get into it. It belongs to Tad. Perhaps it will never be opened. Mother, some day when you have a chance, talk with Uncle Joe and see what you can find out. Father might have left keys and information concerning the mine with him."

"No, son, he wouldn't have keys, because it was Tad that locked up the tunnel. It is Tad that has the keys. But listen, don't worry over it a bit or build any false hopes on it. School will open in a week, and I want you to take advantage of all it can give you. We'll be here until Christmas, anyway, I think, unless Aunt Lucy should slip away before that time."

"I wonder what uncle would say to me if I asked him about Tad when he comes home tonight. I think that's what I'll do."

About nine o'clock he heard the heavy footsteps of his uncle on the veranda, and in another moment heard him in the hall. After hanging up his hat and coat, he came into the library, picked up the Evening Telegraph, and began to read, entirely ignoring Willis. After they had sat thus silently for some minutes, Willis spoke:

"Uncle, did you ever know a man named Tad Kieser, who was a great friend of my father's?" The man moved uneasily in his chair, but, without looking up from his paper, he inquired of the boy what he knew of Tad Kieser.

"Not much, to be sure," returned the boy, half sadly, "only what mother has told me about him; but I'd like to know more. I think he must have been a very interesting old character, wasn't he?"

"An old devil and a cut-throat," retorted Mr. Williams. "You couldn't count on him to be square even to his own mother. A sly old fox always on the hunt."

"That's very strange," replied Willis. "He surely was not that sort of a man or my father never would have chosen him for a partner. You surely must be mistaken." "Your father didn't have enough dealings with him to find him out; that was all. I know him."

"Tell me about some of the awful deeds he has committed if he is such a fox," questioned Willis. "I've always thought him absolutely square. I've heard he was the finest man in these mountains, years ago."

"Who told you any such rot? I have enough circumstantial evidence against him to put him behind the bars right now," growled the uncle.

"Evidence along what lines, Uncle?" persisted Willis.

"Blackmail!" snorted Williams. "What difference does it make to you, anyway? He would be a capital fellow to join in on such an absurdly foolish scheme as you are just about to pull off at the Y.M.C.A. now. Going into somebody else's property and absorbing its benefits to yourselves. That's his scheme exactly. He watches my mining claims like a hawk, and if my assessments should be a day late he'd jump my claims. He hates me."

"What did you ever do to make him hate you?" innocently inquired Willis.

Again Mr. Williams ignored the question and went on: "He'd just love to work on that old cabin again."

"I should think that cabin would interest him," calmly replied Willis. "I only wish he was here to join us, for I'd rather know him than any man I can think of just now. A man who builds a house ought to know how best to build onto it, hadn't he? Personally, I think he must have been a very clever old miner and as true as steel."

"Yes, true to his own interests."

"It takes two to make a fight, though, doesn't it? By the way, Uncle, why did you let that sapheaded Englishman jump your claim last week? I should think you'd hate him for such tricks as you do Tad?" Willis eyed his uncle closely, then in a half undertone he casually remarked, "Anyway, I think a whole lot of this mining business is mighty crooked business." Then again to his uncle, "Is Tad still around in the mountains somewhere, Uncle?"

Mr. Williams smiled in a preoccupied way and said, "Yes and no."

"I don't understand?" questioned Willis.

There was no reply. Soon the man laid down his paper and left the room.

"Well, I'll be jiggered," said Willis half-aloud. "What can he have against the man who was my father's partner? I don't know, but I'll find out." He closed his book with a slam and went off to bed.

* * * * *

The last Friday night of the summer vacation saw a large group of husky high school boys board the car en route to the cabin. All were equipped with blanket rolls, and several carried picks, shovels, and other tools, for "to-morrow" real work on the cabin was to begin. It seemed that the coloring of the leaves had given everything their delicate tint. The squirrels were already gathering stray acorns that Mother Nature had dropped for them. The little canyon lay in perfect quiet, except for the chattering of the line of boys stretched out along its leafy woodland trail. The whole physical body seemed to respond in a mysterious way to its every call, for "In the city we live, but in the mountains we live more abundantly."

By eleven o'clock the party sat around a half-dozen blazing campfires, munching at a midnight lunch and speculating on various phases of the work. Ham was keeping the fellows around one fire laughing over his remarks; Fat was giving expression to his views on camp grub and food in general. Mr. Dean entertained another group by his stories of army life, while Mr. Allen and a number of the boys' Cabinet were laying out a plan of work for the morrow. Shorty Wier advised work on the fireplace first, because, as he pointed out, "the fireplace would be the cabin's heart." It might have fine decorations and new rooms, a well-stocked pantry and new furniture, yet what would all these be to a dead thing? The fireplace would be the spot around which all the cabin life would congregate—around which every strange experience would be put into words. "Yes, I'll help cut the logs and pack in the lumber and build the furniture, but first of all let me see the rugged stone chimney with a fire quietly burning on a great, wide, friendly hearth to cheer me as I work."

"You are right, Shorty," cried Willis. "I'm with you, for when the old fireplace is built, and the wind is whistling down the canyon, bringing messages of snow, we'll forget everything outside and just be happy toasting before a great log fire."

And so the night slipped along. After a while they began to drowse, until one by one the little groups became quiet and fell asleep. Only the glowing, flickering pine knots stayed awake to watch the tired sleepers.

The first streak of dawn found the fellows up and eager for work; besides, there was so much to see and learn before the day's work was begun. The remains of the midnight lunches were drawn out of their hiding places and eagerly devoured. The fragrant smell of broiling bacon and the delicious aroma of campfire coffee filled the air. The pine-scented smoke from the campfire hung low in the valley, and every sound carried plainly in the morning air. The squirrels were out in great numbers and at their morning play, while every now and then the harsh, rasping cry of a bewildered bluejay would float up the canyon.

The stone crew were strung out in skirmish order across the front of the high ridge and were rolling down every loose stone. Some came with a merry hop, skip, and jump; others with a shower of gravel and a crash as they struck the bottom. One great stone leaped into the top of a spruce tree and stuck fast. Another jumped over the great boulder at the base of the hill and rattled into the open door of the cabin. Still another dashed in mad frenzy down the slope, through the alders and into the stream, throwing spray in every direction. So the pile steadily grew.

In the afternoon the cabin was cleaned out and a part of the back porch demolished, ready for the new addition. It had been decided to build a room eight by twenty-eight feet, and in it lay one great balsam-bough mattress. Under Ham's direction the aerial bunk was begun, and it very soon showed signs of being built by a master builder. It was what might be termed "rustic," as Ham said. Logs from the woodpile were substituted for the rotting ones in the floor of the bridge. A great pile of brush, twigs, and trash were set afire and destroyed. So the day slipped away—all too quickly. Four o'clock found a group of royal good fellows again on the trail—that trail that was soon to become so dear to every one of them. Their muscles were tired with unselfish work, and their minds and hearts were full of the joy of living. There was already something of the great social bond that was later to tie their lives together for all time with a cord of pleasant memories.

Ham had fastened his blanket to a nail away up in the topmost rafter of the cabin, and here he left it for another time.

"Where your blanket is, there will your heart be also, sometimes," he quoted as they took the trail that led down out of the wilderness.



CHAPTER XII

The Discovery of the Mine

Two weeks later another crowd was organized to do a day's work on the cabin, and it seemed every boy in the Department wanted to go. "Unless you feel as husky as a steam elevator, you better stay home," was Ham's advice to one small boy, for Ham had been chairman of the committee that had been so busy since the last trip, purchasing all manner of supplies, equipment, and building material for the cabin, all of which would have to be packed over from Fairview on donkeys, and there was nearly a carload of it. Ham was under the impression that the donkeys would fall dead when they saw the "pile of junk," and that every single fellow in the crowd would have to "wiggle his ears, bray once or twice, and get busy," if the cabin ever became the possessor of the new equipment.

Twenty fellows besides the "Chief" and Mr. Dean were on hand at the appointed time. At the mouth of the canyon two very faithful old donkeys, that had years before belonged to a prospector, were rented for the trip. Under their former master they had been trained to carry heavy loads of ore from the little mine far back in the mountains out to the city, and to return again heavily laden with the provisions for another winter in camp. They had learned their lessons well, so were perfectly trustworthy.

Peanuts was the oldest, and therefore came in for the most consideration and the lightest load. As he raised his tired, patient old head, his long gray ears pointed forward at the sight of the pack saddles. One glance and he was satisfied. He perfectly understood what was coming, and visions of the long, zigzag paths through shaded valleys all fresh from the summer showers flashed through his brain. Peanuts loved the trail, the deep, long, grassy trail, that crept along close to the little stream, then up and up into the great Silent Places. Tradition told that Peanuts had been the first donkey to carry a pack up Pike's Peak, as well as the first to bring real "high grade" out of the Cripple Creek; but of course tradition might have been mistaken. At any rate, Peanuts was a gentle, slow, patient toiler of the trail, and it was largely due to his good judgment that the cabin was ever equipped.

Many were the trips he made after that first journey. There were summer trips in the hot sun of July days; autumn trips in the cool, sweet-scented evenings when the mountain twilight lingers on the treetops and the rocky crests. There were trips in the winter when the trail was hidden underneath heavy blankets of snow or lost in the deep white drifts. Once he had gone in beyond his depth and had settled down and down into the fluffy snow until just his head and big ears were visible above the snowbank.

His companion, Tuberculosis, was a little different type of beast. His legs were long and his spirits high. He was in the prime of life and was not as trustworthy as his partner. Certainly Tuberculosis had his idiosyncrasies, and that fact often spelled trouble for both himself and his masters. Now, Peanuts had learned that his driver was always boss, and acted accordingly; but not so with Tuberculosis. He believed that his own judgment in certain matters of conduct was best. For instance, it was absolutely against his principles to ever cross a stream, no matter how well it was bridged or how insignificant its size. Yet, after many experiences, seasoned with a little strenuous persuasion from the end of an alder limb, he began slowly to change his views. However, he positively had no use for burned stumps, and when it came to passing a campfire, Tuberculosis absolutely declined. There was just one thing that both donkeys very firmly believed, and that was that each was to lead and the other follow when on the trail. This was the only point upon which they really ever quarreled, and most every time Peanuts, because of his mature judgment and statesmanship, won out.

When the pack saddles were on, and the pack bags of food adjusted on either side, the blanket rolls piled high on top, they were ready to begin the journey, "Donkeys are a good deal like some men," observed Ham as the little column came to the base of the hogsback, "they always have to travel by freight."

"How is that?" questioned Willis, who had appointed himself guardian to Peanuts and was just ahead of Ham.

"Why, because they can't express themselves," was the reply.

"Not verbally, perhaps," suggested Fat, "but they do have a signal code, of which their hind legs are the main features. I've had them signal at me more than once."

"And if you ever receive the completed message," added Ham, "it usually says, 'Six weeks in the hospital.'"

At the top of the hogsback the party separated into two groups. The one under Mr. Allen continued on up the trail with the two donkeys, while the other, under Mr. Dean, took the railroad, walking around by Fairview, to see if their equipment had arrived.

It was decided the boys would sleep around a rousing fire rather than on the cold floor of the cabin. The shakedown was too dry to be comfortable, and Ham's aerial bunk had not yet been completed. They therefore chose a spot for the night's camp across the stream from the cabin on a piece of high level ground covered with a thick brown carpet of pine needles. Very soon a bright fire was burning and the night's wood gathered. From the bulging packsacks a real camp supper was gotten under way. Every fellow cooked his own piece of meat and baked his potato in the coals, while Mr. Allen made the coffee and opened the cans of beans. Each fellow fashioned himself a spoon from a dry stick, and the new cabin tincups were initiated into service. Ham, who had had some previous experience with donkeys, warned everybody to be sure to save all the scraps, for beans, rye bread, or beefsteak were all dainties to the faithful animals.

One of the fellows had brought his mouth-organ, and under his leadership they sang every song from "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" to "Nearer, My God, to Thee." When the fire had had time to work its wonders on the hearts and spirits of the campers, Mr. Allen suggested a few stories. Of course, he just voiced what was in the minds of many others, for who ever heard of a campfire, a grand night, a happy crowd, and no stories? Such a situation was inconceivable. Every fellow looked forward to the campfire because of the stories, and remembered the stories because of the campfire. They were inseparable. Mr. Dean opened the program. One story suggested another, and that one another, until nearly every one in the circle had told a story except Ham. Willis told Indian legends of the great Kankakee Swamp and of the disappearance of the Pottawattomie Indians. Another told of a wonderful trip through Yellowstone Park; another of a deer hunt in Routt County; and still another of a mountain goat expedition in the Canadian Rockies. All the while Ham lay flat on his back, shading his face from the fire with his hands, and looking up at the stars. He was reveling in the spirit of the fire and of the night.

"What are you dreaming about, Ham?" called Willis from the other side of the fire, to which Ham made no reply.

"What's on your mind?" asked Fat, as he rolled over, facing Ham, and punched him in the ribs.

"Nothing special," drawled Ham as he rose to a sitting position and drew his legs up under him. "I've just been listening. Your stories have been the words to the music that is in the air to-night. I love to lie still before a fire and listen to its music. I never realized before how many out-of-door noises are liberated when a pile of dry sticks are burned. That old fire has just been singing all the imprisoned songs of the forest wild to-night, and giving out again in its little flames a hundred thousand tons of absorbed sunshine."

"Ham, let's have the Pike's Peak story," urged Mr. Dean; but Ham only laughed.

"Yes, let's do," begged Willis.

"What's the Pike's Peak story?" inquired Sleepy from his place against an old stump.

"Well, if every one of you fellows will promise to never mention it again to me," said Ham hesitatingly; "but I'm not going to tell you all the details—just the plot—remember that!" He settled himself comfortably and began:

"The three of us had been in the habit of taking long Sunday afternoon tramps in the mountains, but because of the cold weather we had been pretty well shut in all winter. The snowfall for the season had been heavy and the cold, especially in the mountains, had been intense. It was the eighth of March, I think, and the very first signs of spring had just put in their appearance. We decided that we would walk to the Half-Way House on the Cog Road, or at least as far as we could. We didn't know how much snow there was, or where it began, but we were all feeling good and anxious for another real hike. We were all three dressed in our Sunday clothes, and I was the proud possessor of a new spring suit and a pair of low shoes. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when we started up the track from Manitou; by five o'clock we reached the Half-Way House, and much to our surprise found the keeper there. We had encountered very little or no snow that far on the track, and, as the days were getting longer, we knew we had two good hours yet before dark. We inquired of the inn keeper how far the track was open, and he informed us that it was clear as far as Windy Point, that there the great ice sheets began. There is always more snow on the great south shoulder of the Peak than anywhere else. You remember Son-of-a-Gun Hill? Well, we decided that we would push on to the top of Son-of-a-Gun, then come back. We left the Half-Way House and started up the track. The walking was fine on that flat stretch just after you leave the inn, and we covered space very rapidly. At the bottom of the great hill, in a grove of young aspens, we stopped and cut us some walking sticks.

"If it had been summer, and the snow and ice gone, we would probably have noticed that there was a terrible storm gathering in the valley back of Cameron's Cone; but with the range all white and dreary we did not notice it. You fellows who have lived here near the mountain know that a storm often rises up there as if by magic. They come so quickly you often wonder where they came from. Of course, being directly in the shadow of Pike's Peak, the sun went down very early, and our twilight was not as long as we anticipated. I was the first to notice the cold breeze that had sprung up, and I remarked about it; but we were walking fast and were really too much interested in reaching the edge of the snow to pay much attention to anything. Suddenly it grew dark and the wind increased. In less than ten minutes we were in the midst of a howling mountain blizzard and the snow was being driven before the wind at a terrific speed. John suggested turning back, but Al and I were for pushing on, thinking it was just a squall, and, as it seemed to be headed straight down the canyon, we thought we would soon get above it. John insisted that we were crazy, but we made all manner of fun of him, so on we went.

"'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,' sometimes. That is just what we did. We walked on in silence as fast as we could for half an hour. Then we stopped and held a parley. We suddenly awoke from our little dream of foolishness and began to realize that instead of getting out of that storm, we had gotten into it. Up there on that great mountain side we could not see ten feet in any direction. Above us and around us was a raging sea of frozen pellets. The snow was drifting along the track, and in some places it was already completely hidden. Night was coming, and there was no shelter from the swirling winds. In number of miles we were a good deal nearer the summit of the Peak than we were home, and somewhere ahead of us was the old printing station. We would make for it and its shelter—it would be foolish to expose ourselves to the storm by returning in the open valley. Then, too, we might lose our way and slip into the canyon below. We fought on bravely in the dark until finally the wind went down a little and the snow grew soft and wet. Our shoes were wet through and our bodies completely chilled, yet we could not find the printing station. Had we passed it, or was it still ahead. We differed in our opinions.

"Finally the snow ceased, and we could see about us a little by the reflected light. We spied a few straggly trees and made for them, for we were just at timber line. We found a great tree that had blown over, and, breaking limbs from its prostrate trunk, we built a large fire and sat on the log to dry our feet. We were now very keenly alive to our situation, and knew it was becoming serious. We suddenly realized that our only safety depended on the locating of that old printing station. Our shoes were so wet and our feet so cold that the leather burned before we knew it; but, as a real matter of fact, we didn't realize how badly they were burned until an hour later, when the shoes began to crack away in bits and the uppers to rip open along the seams.

"We reached the great snowbanks. The track and roadbed was buried deep. The last straggling trees were far behind. We stood on a great white waste of snow, thirty feet in depth, not a landmark to be seen. If the station was ahead, it was buried; if it was behind, we had missed it. With that realization our spirits fell, for to turn back now meant certain death. Then, to add to our danger, it had begun to turn fearfully cold—that kind of a clear, steady cold that comes only in the mountains, when the thermometer drops twenty-five degrees below zero and the air cuts like a knife, while your nostrils freeze together when you breathe. At the fire we had tied handkerchiefs over our ears and tied strings around our trouser legs to keep the wind and snow out.

"Every little while we sat down and pounded our feet with our walking sticks to keep up the circulation. At last we came to about two feet of a telephone pole sticking up through the snowbank. We knew then that we were off the road and were high up on the mountain. Luckily for us, the snowbanks were so heavily crusted that they held us up without breaking through. John suggested a plan: We would follow the post ends to the Summit House; in that way we could not get lost. Two of us would stop at the tip of one post, while the other, usually John, would push on to find the next one. When it was located he would call and we would go to him. Just how long we traveled in that manner I do not know. It seemed days, but, of course, it was only a brief time. Often I was positive that the posts were at least a half a mile apart. My shoes were so badly cracked at the seams that my feet grew very numb with the cold, and before long I knew I was freezing.

"Time and again we thought we heard something coming over the snow behind us. The air was clear as a bell, and, as we pushed on, this sound frightened us more and more. Our imaginations began to play strange pranks. I remember that I was too frightened to even move, so sometimes I would just stand shivering and listening. We hardly spoke a word. By and by the time came when I was too cold to leave my post for the next one. I just put my arms about it and begged the fellows not to wait for me, but to go on and save themselves; to dig a hole in the snow and leave me in it. But John, dear old John, refused and, putting his arm about me, he dragged me on and on. He tried to make me angry by striking me, and warned me not to go to sleep or I would freeze. But I told him I must sleep, for my feet and legs were numb and my arms and shoulders ached with sharp pains; then I cried like a baby. Soon Al began to play out also, and John plead with him not to give up. Al took me by one arm and John the other, and together they fairly dragged me over the snow.

"When we least expected it, we stumbled over the steps that led to the Summit House. In a few moments we were at the door, but I was helpless. The summit was completely buried, except at one end, where the wind had kept it clear. John hastily examined the windows, only to find that every opening was securely covered with an iron shutter. We were lost! I heard John muttering to himself; then he slipped his fingers under the bottom of the shutter, braced his feet, and pulled with a superhuman strength—the strength of a last hope. With a creak the shutter gave at its fastenings, then bent in the middle, and slipped out. He then knocked out the double window with his elbow and soon had me inside.

"We found candles in a jar, and there was a great wood stove in the room, but no fuel. He didn't hesitate, but went to the counter, removed the shelves from it, and, with a meat cleaver which lay on the table, he cut the shelves, and we soon had a fire. We heard sounds outside, and realized that the something we had heard behind us on the snow was at the window. We were conscious of a presence without being able to see it. John went to the broken window and looked out, but he could see nothing. Soon we heard stealthy steps back and forth on the flat roof above. He barricaded the window, brought snow on the end of a board, and rubbed my face, feet, and legs with it, then wrapped me in tablecloths which he found in the cupboard. Several times he brought a great armful of shelves from the storeroom and cut them up for the stove.

"As soon as the fire was started, Al lay down on the floor and fell into a heavy sleep. We could not waken him, and it frightened us badly. John began to cry, and I think if it had not been for the constant pacing back and forth of the strange animal on the roof we would all have given up. Soon the first streaks of dawn began to show themselves, and with the light the pacing on the roof stopped. John climbed up the tower steps and peered out just in time to see the animal jump from the roof and disappear.

"The house was fairly overrun with rats that scampered in every direction. I thought I had seen rats, mountain rats, but I had never seen any like those. They were so bold we were afraid to sleep, for they were large enough to be dangerous.

"When Al awoke he was very sick and weak. John found a big tin box in the kitchen, and in it were coffee, grapenuts, and the remains of a ham. He melted snow for water, and got us a little breakfast. We were three pretty serious fellows, for we knew only too well how the folks at home would be worrying about us and how near we had come to freezing to death on that great mountain of snow and ice.

"After we had had breakfast, we made us crude snowshoes from the ends of grocery boxes, which we fastened to our feet with strings. Our shoes became hard when they dried, and it was only after painful effort that we got them on at all. We took the piece of ham, cooked the grease from it, and with this oiled our shoes as best we could. Traveling was very slow, for we were weak and sick, so it was nearly evening before we reached Manitou. There we met several rescue parties just starting to find us. I can shut my eyes and see them now. Some carried blankets and some food. Mr. Allen had a big red sweater on his arm and a coil of heavy rope hung from his shoulder. Old Ben was there, too, for they had sent word to him at Bruin Inn, inquiring if we were there, and when he found out we were lost he insisted on joining the rescue party. In fact, it was he that suggested that we had probably gone up Pike's Peak. Ben and I have always been great friends ever since.

"We held out some way till we reached home, then we all three gave up. O, the awful sickness that followed and the pain of frozen feet! I was in bed nearly a month, and every time I slept I dreamed of that awful night. I came very near slipping off this earth then. Of course the newspapers made fools of us and all the fellows teased us nearly beyond endurance. It was only a few weeks later that an immense mountain lion was shot near the cabin on the carriage road. There you are, you have my story, now let's forget it."

Not a fellow moved. They all sat looking intently into the dying fire. After a few minutes Mr. Allen suggested a sleep, and before long the camp was quiet, each camper wrapped in his blanket and stretched full length on the ground.

* * * * *

Very early the next morning the transportation of equipment was begun. The entire party went over to Fairview to bring the first load of tin dishes, plates, cups, knives, forks and spoons, kettles, pots, frying-pans, sugar cans—and so the list went on. The old shelves were removed from the blind end of the cabin and placed near the window in the other end. These were to serve as pantry shelves in the kitchen corner.

After breakfast was over one group returned to the car for another load, while Ham, with a helper, pushed forward the construction of the aerial bunk. The queer old shakedown was torn to pieces and the poles used for Ham's bed, the rest of it was shoved out of the back door and set afire. On this load the stove came, two fellows supporting it on the pack-saddle of old Peanuts. It was set up near the window and a work table built at the end of it. Another set of shelves was made for the pantry, and soon all was in readiness at that end of the house. The old grub box was converted into a bread box, and the little old stove was set back in an out-of-the-way corner. It was, indeed, the passing of the old to give place to the new.

Tuberculosis seemed to enter completely into the spirit of the new, for he had walked calmly back and forth over the shaky old bridge which crossed the stream with load after load of shingles and sacks of cement and a thousand other things that were to have a place in the cabin. There were windows and a heavy pine door for the new room. There were axes and saws and hammers. There were buckets and lanterns and iron bars to put over the windows, and stove-pipe for the kitchen stove. Then, too, there was a grand old crane for the fireplace and the frame for a wire screen to keep the flying brands on the hearth. Not a thing that would be needed had been forgotten. It was a weary crowd of fellows that came slowly along the trail at noon with the last load of boards, hung on the sides of Peanuts' saddle, the nails and hardware, packed in heavy canvas bags, loaded on Tuberculosis.

The aerial bunk was all completed before dinner time, except thatching it with balsam boughs, and all hands would help at that after the noon meal. Mr. Allen prepared the meal, and it was a real camp dinner. Could fellows ever have been so hungry before?

In the afternoon the rest of the old back veranda was demolished and cleared away. A large number of great, tall aspens, the choice of the grove, were cut, trimmed, and dragged in, in readiness for the new structure. It seemed that all the jays for miles around and all the squirrels in the valley came to investigate when they heard the crashing of the big trees and the merry sound of the axes. Great piles of balsam boughs were dragged down from the mountain side opposite the cabin. These were carefully trimmed before they were handed up to Ham, who was in the bunk doing the thatching. The early afternoon saw the completion of the fine, big bed—big enough for five people; and as the fellows became too tired to work, the bunk became more and more popular. Every one was anxious to try it.

A heavy hasp was spiked to its place, and the cabin was put under lock and key for the first time. They had really taken possession of it—it was theirs.

"It beats the Dutch how much that yard of stovepipe sticking out there adds to her looks," observed Mr. Dean when the stove had been set up.

"It isn't the stovepipe so much," replied Chuck, "as it is the smoke coming out of it."

"What pipe are you talking about?" inquired Sleepy as he dropped down out of the new bunk to inspect the work the others had been doing since noon. "Who's smoking a pipe?" he persisted, not understanding the conversation.

"The cabin," tersely remarked Chuck. "But it has to get warm before it can smoke, and it has to work before it can get warm. The cabin might teach you a lesson."

Later in the afternoon there was a great commotion a little distance up the trail, and Mr. Allen hastened to investigate the shouting and sounds of chopping. To his great disgust he found Sleepy dealing heavy blows to an old pine tree with an ax while the perspiration was running down his face. He was prancing about in great excitement.

"What on earth?" questioned Mr. Allen.

"I'm trying to get a squirrel. I saw him up in this tree just a moment ago," cried Sleepy.

"Is that all you can find to do to use up your energy?" asked Mr. Allen dryly. Sleepy looked at him sheepishly, then hung his head and slowly returned to the cabin, brought a pail of water from the stream, then crawled up into the bunk, out of sight.

By the time things were straightened around in the cabin so that the mason could build the fireplace it was time to be starting home, but every one was too tired from the day's work. They decided they would rest in the cool shade for an hour before beginning the tramp down. It would then be twilight.

Willis took this occasion to do a little exploring on his own account. He had worked faithfully all day and was very tired, but he did so want to find his father's mine before he went home this time. He slipped away unobserved and took the lower trail, which followed up to the remains of the second bridge, then climbed to the tumbled-down cabin they had found the first day. Here he took the trail that led far up into the timber. Finally he saw far up above him what appeared to be an old mine dump. Quickly he clambered up over rocks and rotting logs toward it, and in a few moments he stood on the dump itself, which was of hard black stone, with the exception of just a little quartz. He was sure it was the same kind of stone he had seen on the old mantle at his grandfather's. The quartz was apparently the last stone dumped.

At one side stood an old mine shaft, perhaps fifty feet deep, with an ancient hand-made windlass still at the top. Then just to one side and entering the mountain was a great log door, put together with bolts. The lock was a strong powder-house lock, made of heavy brass. The place gave no appearance of having seen a man in many years. The hinges and hasp on the great door were heavily corroded, and an old metal wheelbarrow lay on the dump, rusted red. A tin sign fastened to a tree at the side of the tunnel had become a target for expert gunners. Willis tried the door, but could not force it a particle. Turning, he stood looking off into the canyon toward Cheyenne. "So this is the spot," he mused; "and it has never been touched in these ten years. Poor old daddy, poor old daddy!" He leaned heavily against the log door, and his thoughts came thick and fast, only to conclude, as they always did, with, "Where is Tad Kieser and why does my uncle try to keep me away from this spot?"

He was standing where his father had stood many times, and the boy seemed to be very conscious of his presence just then. He wondered if, perhaps, there had not been something of just love for the place itself, as well as for the gold, which had drawn his father there so irresistibly. Such a spot for a long, quiet visit with one's self! Below him the stream and the little cabin; to one side, and a little farther up, the beautiful falls, with Cookstove in the background; to the other side the park, all resplendent in yellow leaves, with here and there a tall pine standing like a green island in a sea of gently-moving gold. Far away over the ridge was the blue outline of Cheyenne with its stage road creeping round the base. He sat down to rest and to think. He was suddenly awakened from his dream by seeing Mr. Allen closing and locking the cabin door below him. He rose and hastened down the trail. In a few moments he had joined the party, but he kept silent about where he had been and what he had seen.

"You'll have to let me in the cabin a moment, Mr. Allen," he called; "I left my coat up in the bunk—I forgot it." The door was unlocked and Willis entered, hastily climbing the little ladder up the side of the wall to the bunk. It was dark in the cabin, for the sun had set. As he stepped into the bunk he touched something, then jumped back with an exclamation. Sleepy raised up on his elbow and looked about him. In a terror-stricken voice he called out, "Who are you?" Willis laughed so heartily that the fellows came hurrying into the cabin to see what occasioned it. Then followed a great deal of fun at Sleepy's expense. Sleepy only hung his head and tried to act as if his feelings had been badly hurt.

"Dirty trick, after a fellow's worked hard all day, to go and lock him in and start for home without him. I'd have starved in there, I suppose," he said gloomily, "and no one would have cared."

"I suppose you would," laughed Ham, "for you would be too lazy to cook you a meal after you found the food. We'll have to keep guard all the way home on Sleepy, fellows, or he'll fall into some ravine and go to sleep. He worked so hard to-day, poor boy. I never did believe in this child labor business, anyway."

The fellows took turn about riding the donkeys home, and a unique experience it was, for pack saddles are not the most comfortable seats in the world, especially for a tired boy. Ham gave practical demonstration until the others caught on, then he walked. They were all too tired to chat much, so just jogged along homeward, happy that another day's work was done on the cabin.

"A few more like this trip and we will be ready to entertain," called Mr. Dean.



CHAPTER XIII

Sleepy Smith has an Experience

Two weeks later another trip was made to the now-beloved cabin, but the party was small and, because of the lack of leadership, the amount of constructive work done was not great. Enough logs were cut and dragged in to complete the addition, a new layer of fragrant boughs added to the aerial bunk, and the dam improved and strengthened. The rest of the day was spent in hunting squirrels and chipmunks and in investigating the immense valley above St. Mary's Falls. School was keeping the fellows very busy, and because the fall social life had begun the young men found spare time very scarce. The autumn activities in the Boys' Department were also in full swing, demanding their share of time and attention. The standing committee for the coming circus were already appointed, and were scratching their heads for new and novel stunts.

The O.F.F. were to present the afterconcert, and Fat was busy on the program. The fall gymnasium was being entered into with great zest, and already there had been a call for basket ball. The Bible study groups were getting together for the winter, the new Cabinet had been elected, so that, someway, there was not a great deal of time left for the cabin.

Mr. Allen and a few picked fellows had made a trip the week before, primarily to take up a supply of food for the mason and his helper, and had gotten the entire frame of the addition up, ready to roof and shingle.

The next week another small group went up to roof the addition and close it in so as to keep out the snow, if, perchance, it might come before they were able to finish the improvements. They found the fireplace completed, crude but artistic, of jagged boulders with an immense cement hearth. The iron crane had been built in, and now hung lazily in the big fire-box.

Next came the cutting of the aspen poles for the floor of the addition. They had hoped to get at least one layer of boughs on the great bed so that the next time a larger crowd could be accommodated, but the long autumn shadows warned them that twilight was approaching long before they started it, so consequently they had to go back without seeing that task accomplished. The curtains had been put on the windows, white oilcloth had been tacked on the board tables, and a mirror, if you please, was hung over the tin wash basin just inside the door. Hooks made of crooked branches were fastened upon the logs on which to hang coats and haversacks. The place had really undergone a genuine transformation.

"Well," said Ham, as he took a long drink from the bucket of fresh water that stood on the kitchen table, "that's the best water that ever flowed down a mountain side. There's life and health in every shining drop of it. To tell you the real truth, fellows, I'm beginning to feel mightily at home here in this little shack. Shack! that doesn't sound right, though, does it? What are we going to call this place, anyway, Mr. Allen? Y.M.C.A. Cabin is no good. It sounds too civilized. Now, does that old fireplace look civilized? And that iron crane, and those twisted rustic seats in the corner, and that bed out there big enough to accommodate twenty fellows? It reminds me of a home the old Vikings must have had long ago, way up in the great pine woods of Northern Europe. Someway, it has a look of health and strength about it that I like. Don't you see the smile on that old fire-box? Can't you hear the happy peasant children gathered there on that hearth singing their woodland songs and drinking their mugs of warm soup? Then, over yonder, all stretched out, his head to the fire, lies a great, gaunt dog, tired from the chase. Then the tap, tap on the wooden floor of the old woman's cane as she hobbles about the cabin. Can't you smell the bear haunch that's roasting there on that long spit before the fire? Don't you hear the merry music of the ax, just outside the door, as brawny arms swing it, cutting the great backlog for the long night? Civilized? Yes, in a way, but not in our way, is it? But what are we going to call this cabin?"

Willis had slipped out a few minutes before and had wandered up the canyon to the last point from which the cabin could be seen. There he stopped and turned to survey the valley. The air was clear and cool and was completely filled with the fragrant murmuring of the pines. Far down in a vista of shifting lights and shadows stood the cabin.

The next week brought the first signs of the approaching winter. The warm fall rains gave way to cold showers. The leaves fell in countless millions, and the voices of the feathered folk seemed to have blown away with the autumn leaves. Heavy white mists hung over the mountains, lifting occasionally to show curious eyes that the lofty summits were already being painted white. The grass lost its fresh, green color, and the wild purple asters dropped their lovely heads and slept. The first real snow came in the night.

The desire to go to the cabin on the part of a large number of healthy, stalwart boys was matched against a foot of fluffy snow. The fact that they had not seen the new, completed bunk-house, nor the fireplace, added greatly to their intense desire to go. Added to this was the natural boyish love for possible adventure, so, of course, it was decided to go, snow or no snow.

Twenty strong, they were on hand at the appointed hour. Soft shirts had given way to sweaters, outing shoes to high boots or leggings. Still the boys were just the same—happy, healthy, and free, ready for anything the trip might bring. Old Peanuts raised sad eyes as he was led forth and saddled. To think that such as he should tramp through all that snow on such a night. Tuberculosis was disgusted beyond all measure. It was only by much bribing from his bag of precious pinion nuts that Sleepy was able to get him to even move. The snow was dry and fluffy, so walking was not really disagreeable, but necessarily very slow. Somehow Peanuts seemed to have grown old with the season, and many times Ham almost gave up in desperation, declaring they would not reach the cabin by morning. Darkness settled very early that night, and with it came the clear, cold breeze from the snowy peaks beyond. How white everything looked, and how quiet! Even the stream seemed to have been buried under a white blanket. On the hogsback the snow had drifted badly, completely obliterating the trail. It seemed like it took hours to climb that rugged hill. Twice the donkeys slipped from the trail, floundered in the fluffy drifts, and then lay down. Twice they both refused to go another step; then darkness—the black darkness of a stormy winter night, settled about them just as they entered the Park. Who knew the trail—that narrow pathway that led between trees, around buried stumps, across shallow fords, and back again? Who could now general this little disheartened army and lead it on to warmth and shelter? Sleepy complained bitterly because the trail was long, and many times threatened to go back when he was taunted with "Baby!" First it was a false step, then a splash into the cold stream; next it was a false lead into the heart of an aspen thicket, only to return and try again. Ham broke the trail until he was too tired to go another step, while Mr. Allen brought up the discouraged rear.

It was a gloomy line that worked its way up the snow-filled canyon that night. Minutes seemed like hours, and already the cold winds were making every fellow weak and hungry. Ham was the life of the party, and kept the fellows hopeful at his end of the line, even when he was so tired from breaking trail that it seemed that he could not go another pace. Willis was behind him, ready to lend a hand whenever he tripped on treacherously-covered poles or slipped from the trail into the icy stream. At last the little belt of thick timber was reached, and Ham's heart rejoiced, for he knew the cabin was on the other side of it. Before long they stood on the high trail and looked down into the valley where stood the cabin, gloomy and gray, the light from the snow caught and faintly reflected by the windows. Ham gave a loud shout that cheered and strengthened every heart, and in another moment he was unlocking the door.

Ham's little pocket ax sang out in the winter night, and soon his efforts were rewarded by a tiny blaze on the hearth. He ordered his forces like a veteran, and they obeyed him without question—all save Sleepy, who chose a comfortable spot in the corner and sat down, refusing to move. Very soon the kitchen stove began to heat its end of the house, and the big tin teakettle sang and sighed over the flames. Mr. Allen was busy with supper and Fat was clearing a space before the open fire so they could all sit down together. Some brought in the wood and piled it high in one corner, while others scraped the snow away from the lea of a big boulder, thus making a shelter for the donkeys. Ham smuggled a half a dozen frozen potatoes for them and a half loaf of rye bread.