A column of merry sparks rose from the chimney, while the candles threw weird, funny little shadows out on the snow through the barred windows. Ham and Willis were watering the donkeys and discussing their trip up, when Ham, without any apparent reason, burst into a merry laugh.

"I have an idea, Willis, and it's a capital one, too. Will you help me carry it out?" and he laughed again.

"Well, that depends," returned Willis.

Ham put his hand to his ear and listened, then turned and looked eagerly toward the cabin. When he was satisfied they were alone he continued: "When I first came out here to feed the mules I heard an owl hooting up in that big tree. My, but it startled me at first, until I had time to think what it was. You know they shot a young mountain lion over on Black Mountain day before yesterday. Now, we aren't so far from Black Mountain, and if we are ever going to make a real, worth-while member for O.F.F. out of Sleepy Smith, we have got to begin soon, and, besides, I'm satisfied we will have to use a few extraordinary tactics. We have nursed him long enough; besides, his spirit is rotten. He has been sitting in there by that fire all evening and hasn't turned his hand to do a thing. He will probably want some one to put him to bed, yet, to-night. All the way up the trail he whined and acted like a baby. You remember the tricks he pulled off the day we moved the stuff over from Fairview on the donkeys—sneaked up in the bunk after dinner and went to sleep. You know how we nearly locked him in. He's hurting our crowd.

"We took him in, you know, because Mr. Allen thought there was so much in him worth saving. Someway, it hasn't come out yet, and we've got to operate, do you understand? We've got to scare Sleepy Smith out of his boots once or twice to see what's in him. Let's do it to-night. If we don't, next time we bring a crowd up here on a night like this there will be three or four sitting around the fire doing nothing, and the next time six or seven, until at last a few of us will be waiting on the whole bunch, do you see?"

"Yes, I see," replied Willis between chattering teeth; "but how on earth are you going to do it a night like this, with all this crowd?"

"Now, I'll tell you just what I want you to do. I'll pull off the game and you be my accomplice. We'll take Sleepy out for a snow-bird hunt. I never heard of one myself, but I'll fix that all right. We'll scare the life out of that boy this night or bust. All you have to do—there comes some one."

"Ham, Ham!" called Fat from the cabin; "come on to supper while it's hot." Then the door closed again. The two started toward the cabin, leaving old Peanuts braying hoarsely in the night.

"All you have to do," continued Ham, "is to just swear to all I say. You'll catch on after I get started. Be sure to watch for the chance. I'll tell Fat the scheme, and if I can get Sleepy out of the house for a minute, I'll fix it up with the crowd." They were just about to enter the cabin when somewhere in the night came the weird hoot of an owl, and a pale, sickly moon peeped between the clouds.

"Well, fellows, how do you like that old stone fire-box, anyhow?" Ham questioned. "I haven't heard a fellow say a word about it yet. That big black pot hanging on that crane makes me happy all over. Why, we have Robinson Crusoe and that last polar expedition beaten a city block. I never do see a pot hanging over the fire like that but I think of some of the delicious stews that Jim Parker made for us the Christmas vacation we spent with him out on his ranch in Middle Park. Snowbird stew good? O my! It has turkey beaten a thousand directions."

"Snowbird stew?" questioned Chuck. "What in the world is it, Ham? Bacon creamed, or some such stuff?"

"Bacon creamed, nothing," replied Ham disgustedly. "Snowbirds, just plain snowbirds. When I was out feeding the mules just now, I heard a whole flock of snowbirds fly down the canyon. That's what made me think of the stew, I suppose."

"Well, if they're no bigger than the snowbirds I've seen," remarked one boy, "you'd have to have a bushel of them for a meal."

"Do you mean those saucy little fellows with the white breasts that come with the first snows?"

"Those are the fellows," replied Ham, "and of course you need a lot of them. But, then, they are so easy to catch if you just get into a flock of them."

"How do you get them?" inquired Fat, who was always interested in anything new, so long as it had possibilities of something to eat in it.

"Well, it's a good deal of hard work and some inconvenience until you get started. But, O my! the eats the next day! Little fat fellows all stewed down until they're tender."

"Let's get a bunch," suggested Willis weakly, watching Ham for a cue.

"There isn't a gun in the crowd," laughed one.

"You could use clubs, couldn't you?" asked another.

"Well, it's just like this," continued Ham: "you pick out a couple of fellows for the trappers who are strong and husky, and who aren't afraid to do their share of the work." Ham smiled at Willis. "Then you place them one at each side of the canyon. You take a shovel, dig a deep hole in the snow for the trapper to stand in so he can work easily without stooping over. Of course, each trapper has a bag, a gunny-sack, or a common flour sack will do, and a lantern. You can use a candle all right, if you have no lantern. I've seen very successful hunts conducted by using candles. The trapper stands with his bag held open between his legs. It's a good scheme to tie the bag, a side to each knee, so you can keep the mouth open without using your hands. You'll need them for numerous other things, probably. The rest of the hunters divide into two parties, and each party climbs the opposite ridge of the gulch, working up the canyon without really going through it. In that way the birds are not disturbed. Then, at a given signal, both parties descend into the canyon and the hunt begins. Every man must be absolutely silent, for I've seen one mouthy fellow spoil a whole evening's fun. Now, if any of you fellows are sure you can't keep still for a little, even in a good deal of excitement, you better stay here. If we fail, it will be some one's fault." Ham noticed the sly glances that were going back and forth between Mr. Allen and Mr. Dean, but he was sure he could count on both of them, for they liked real fun as well as any of the boys.

"The hunters then move down the canyon in a skirmish line, thrashing the bushes with their pine boughs. As they advance the birds will awaken with a shrill little peep and scuttle off through the bushes down the canyon and directly toward the trappers. The birds take just little flights at a time, so you must keep them moving or they will swarm and fly away in a panic. If a flock panic on you, you might as well quit, for every bird in the canyon will follow. You see this is the game: snowbirds live on little bugs that are found in great numbers around the great Northern Lights. When they see those candles flickering there in the great white quiet, the snow reflecting the long rays out between the dark tree trunks, they think it's the northern lights, and fly straight toward the candle. All the trapper has to do, then, is to take them in his hand and bag them. Sometimes they come in such great numbers that they fairly swarm into the bag. When each trapper has enough, he puts his mouth close to the snow and halloos to the drivers. At the signal they stop hunting and come into camp. Fun, why it's the most fun I ever had in my life! The foolish little birds are so easily caught. You see, instead of getting out and hustling for their food, they think it will all be provided for them by kind Providence or others," and Ham smiled.

"Did you ever eat quail on toast in some of these stylish restaurants?" queried Fat, who had caught onto the game. "Well, all in the world they are is snowbirds. I suppose there are any number of fellows who make a living by just that trick."

A general discussion followed. Every one was ready and anxious for the hunt to commence. Candles were gotten ready and a shovel found. Ham took Phil, Fat, and Mr. Dean to help him find some sacks that were supposedly down in the gulch, but in reality to explain to them just what he wanted them to do. My, what a laugh they did have when they reached the open. Fat was instructed to offer his services as the holder of one bag and to suggest that Sleepy hold the other. They would plant Sleepy first, then Fat would go on with the bunch. Mr. Dean and Ham would hide themselves in the brush on either side of Sleepy. Fat would instruct his crowd what was to be done, and Phil would take charge of the other group. They would go down the canyon, over the ridge, then swing round and come back high on the hill, so as to completely lose Sleepy, who would be placed where both parties could see him by his light, but, of course, he could not see any of them out in the shadows and the night.

"If any fellow makes a stir," continued Ham, "the game is up. Remember, Phil, you are boss of that crowd."

A difference of opinion had broken out among the rest while Ham and the others were getting the sacks, for Willis, in a sly way, had suggested that the game was a fake, but Sleepy scoffed at the idea.

"You do just as Ham says, and you'll see it's all true," cried Sleepy hotly. "He knows more about camping than all the rest of us put together. If you don't want to go, stay here. I'll hold a sack myself, and if I don't get it full of birds before I come home I'll treat every one of you." Fat entered just in time to hear the foregoing conversation.

"I'm with you, Sleepy," he cried. "We'll have snowbirds for breakfast in the morning."

"O shucks," scoffed some one, "there aren't enough snowbirds in Colorado to fill a sack like that!"

"Well, of all the quitters," snorted Sleepy. "Just because you haven't seen the birds is no sign they aren't there. If you don't see and hear a lot of things to-night that you never saw before, I'm badly mistaken. All that's the matter with you fellows is you're afraid of a little work." Ham sneezed several times in quick succession, and Fat suddenly hurried out, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Dean turned his face from the crowd and energetically poked the fire. From the smiles, it was evident that some had caught on and wanted to go along to see the fun, while others declared it was a trick, and wouldn't move a step.

"Too bad we haven't a dozen bags so we could give them all a chance," laughed Ham, as he and Fat entered the cabin.

Four remained, the rest trailed off to a little grove of young firs and cut themselves branches to drive snowbirds with. Then up the slope they went, winding in and out among the tall, silent trees, over snowy logs and around great, jutting boulders, until the top was reached. Then they hurried along the narrow ridge until it ended in a stone cliff. Here they descended again through the trees until the trail on the south side was reached. Ham picked out an open place entirely surrounded with a heavy growth of young firs. Just at the edge of the little opening, its bulk back in the trees, stood a great stone, twelve or fifteen feet in height. Here Ham began to dig the pit for Sleepy's feet, explaining, as he worked, that the rock would reflect the light and keep the wind from blowing it out. Every hunter spoke in subdued whispers. When the hole was finished, Sleepy stepped into it, and Ham shoveled in the dirt and snow and tramped it tight about him in order to make room for the bag. It was fastened to each leg by a stout cord. Ham gave the parting instructions.

"Light your candle when we get out of hearing, then move it gently back and forth in front of your bag. The first few birds that come will probably scare you, but remember they are only snowbirds and harmless."

The party then separated, filing off in either direction, and were soon swallowed up in the long black shadows. All that Sleepy could hear was the crunching of feet on the partly-crusted snow. He waited nearly breathlessly for all sound to cease, and when the last faint echo had died away it was a very shaky hand that lighted the first match. Of course Sleepy was not frightened—he was only cold! The greasy tip of the new candle sputtered and flared a moment, then went out. He tried again, but this time the match broke off. He felt himself getting excited. He had just two matches left. He must be extremely careful. He struck the third match on the stone behind him and shaded the candle tip with his hand; but his whole body was so nervous and his hands shook so that he could hardly hold candle and match together long enough to get the light. At last he succeeded. He stuck the end of the candle in the snow in front of him while he turned up his collar and pulled his cap down tighter. What was that? His body became rigid, his head went up, his eyes flashed. Was it the snowbirds? He listened intently for an instant, then he quietly relaxed. "Just the kids whacking the brush, I guess," he said, half-aloud. Then he leaned his back against his rock and waited. Every few moments he would gaze cautiously about him, then listen. Here and there back in the shadows he could see a huddled group of pale, straight forms. He knew they were only aspen trees, still he kept a watchful eye on them. The night was absolutely quiet and dark except for long, dimly-lighted alleys between the trees, where the candle rays were frolicking. Here and there he could see the dim outline of a black stump, its little snowcap perched upon its rim. He lifted the candle from its place in the snow and waved it gently before the bag, then he paused cautiously. His imagination had rallied from the cold and was now his closest companion. He saw strange shapes flitting here and there among the shadows. He heard every now and then a new, strange voice of the woods. The trees, it seemed to him, were murmuring their disapproval of such things as snowbird hunts. A myriad of unseen folk were peeping at him from limb and stump and shadow. He knew they were there, even if he couldn't see them, yet a strong feeling of loneliness crept over him. It seemed ages since the boys had left him there, still it had been only a few moments.

His spirit was gradually becoming restless, and he began to wonder if there really were any such things as snowbirds, after all. He wished he was back again in the cabin by the fire. If he thought they were playing a joke on him, he would slip back to the cabin and fool them. He had half a notion to do it anyway. What was the use of his standing there? Which way was the cabin? He sighed and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was just over there, wasn't it? No, that couldn't be. It must be over yonder. The trail ran through the grove to his right. That couldn't be, the stream was over there, for he heard it every now and then. He began talking half-aloud.

"If the stream is over there, the cabin is over here." He paused and drew his hand across his eyes. "No, no, if that were true, the stream would flow uphill, and, of course, it doesn't."

Far away he heard a series of little chirps, faint but unmistakable. He was alert in an instant. Yes, that was the snowbirds, and they were coming. He wondered if Fat heard them and was ready. Where was Fat, anyway? How strange he felt, now he was almost afraid, for he was sure something was watching him. He shaded his eyes and peered into the gloom, but could see nothing. Far away in the timber it seemed to him he heard brush snapping—still he knew there was nothing bigger than a skunk or a rabbit in the whole valley. Still—and his breath came shorter; had not a mountain lion been killed on Black Mountain just day before yesterday? His imagination suggested hungry kittens searching for a lost mother, and a tremor ran over his body, making his muscles quiver. Was that a snarl? A whine far off, yet near to him? The candle slipped from his shaking fingers and fell in the snow beside him. He made a grab for it, and caught it just before it went out. The sound was now clearer. Was that the crunch of feet upon the snow? Yes, he heard it plainly. A twig snapped somewhere back of the big rock, then another, then another. There was an answering of the whine. He felt for his pocket ax; but, alas! it was at the cabin—he had no weapon, not even a jack knife. Why had Ham taken the shovel with him? Pshaw! was it really a sound at all, or was he still in his baby days? No, he was no baby, but—there it was, a low growl, coming nearer and nearer. It flashed upon him in a second—the hunters had scared up the animal, and it was coming toward him—toward the light! He felt faint, then sick; but it was no time to be sick! He swallowed at the big lump in his throat and wondered if the animal really would attack him. He could plainly hear the crunching in the snow now, and he fancied he saw two green eyes staring at him from the shadows. Yes, and there were voices! He could hear them laughing. Suddenly a twig near him broke, and another and another. He cried out in terror, shrill agonized, cries for help. He dropped the candle in the snow. Just how he got out of the hole where his feet were buried he could not tell. He started to run, but his legs were still tied to the bag, and at the first step he fell headlong. He was crying now—great sobs shook his frame. He tore the bag free with a jerk and started off as fast as the soft snow would let him, shouting "Help!" at the top of his voice. He stumbled on through the snow, following the line of least resistance. Finally he emerged from a dark thicket just in time to see three men and a great dog come out of an opposite thicket. They laughed heartily as they turned upward on the trail. The dog's eyes were gleaming green in the half-light, and the one man carried a heavy rifle on his shoulder. The dog turned, sniffed, then whined, but made no attempt to leave his masters.

The men had evidently not seen him. He stood for a second irresolute, his teeth chattering, his heart pounding, then, turning, he saw the sparks from the cabin chimney and in another moment he was safe inside.

Back in the woods where Sleepy had been planted the rest of the fellows were shouting and laughing.

"Yes, I'll take it back," cried Ham. "Sleepy can go when he gets started, but O my! what a lot it takes to start him! I don't believe he ever moved so fast before, do you? Mr. Dean, you're a wonder on the growling stunt—I felt kind of queer myself once or twice." Fat was too far gone to express himself, but stood leaning against the rock, half-choked with laughter. He had been behind the rock all the time, and had heard all that Sleepy said.

"I was dead sure I heard him laughing," said Phil, "and I thought he had caught on to the game." "So did I," said Mr. Dean. "I certainly did hear some one laugh."

"It must have been Fat trying to choke down his amusement," dryly added Chuck. "He couldn't keep from laughing at a funny thing on a bet."

"I am sure of one thing," said Mr. Allen, "and that is that hereafter Sleepy will do his part. I believe he has learned a lesson. You will have a hard time, though, to ever persuade him that he didn't see an animal."

"Just let him think he did see it," suggested Phil, "and we'll tell him it serves him right. If he hadn't been so dead anxious to get the easy job, like he is with everything, he would never have gotten into the mess to-night."

"Yes, that's it," added Ham; "we must be as solemn as we can and say to him that we didn't see or hear a bear, lion, or any other animal; then add, that if he had just been with us on the job, climbing up canyons, hunting birds, and doing his share, instead of just loafing, he wouldn't have gotten scared. But, rats! he must know that we have played a joke on him."

They finally agreed on a plan, then started back to camp. Ham was to do the talking. As they entered the cabin they found Sleepy sitting on a block of wood, looking meditatively into the fire.

"Well, you're a dandy," commenced Ham. "We heard you hollering 'Help' and 'Murder.' We came tearing through the trees to where we left you, and you were gone. Please explain. Who did you think was going to catch those birds? You got tired working so hard, I suppose? Come, now, was there too much real work in it?"

Then Fat began in his most disgusted tone: "You might make sure if there was any real work to be done, Sleepy would get out of it someway. He always does. Work isn't in his vocabulary."

"Go easy," said Mr. Allen in a quiet tone. "Sleepy has made lots of mistakes, and he hasn't begun to do his share of the work here yet, but he's going to do different from now on, I'm sure. Why did you leave your post, Sleepy?" He came forward and laid his hand on Sleepy's shoulder. Sleepy shaded his face with his hand, for the tears were trickling down his cheeks, and he spoke with real effort.

"They frightened me terribly," he said. "I'm sorry." Then he rose from his seat, took his cap from the table, and went into the night. The fellows crowded up to the fire to warm their cold feet and talk it over. Mr. Allen was firm in his belief that Sleepy had good stuff in him, and he believed they were going to get it out at last.

"He knows he hasn't played fair, fellows, and he's out there now, squaring up with himself. To-night our friend, Sleepy, wins or loses a great fight in his life. If he loses, let's not be too hard on him. If he wins, let's help him. Remember, it's the 'Other Fellow First' in this bunch." They sat quietly looking into the fire for some minutes, then Ham broke the silence.

"Fellows, I believe I understand for the first time in my life an expression that always used to bother me. When my father invited me into the woodshed when I was a kid, he always prefaced each performance with this remark, 'Son, it hurts me a great deal more than it's going to hurt you.' After the performance I used to ponder that statement over and over and wonder how it could possibly be true. In fact, I didn't believe it then, but now I do. Sleepy needed a good punishment; but, O my, I feel mean, now that it's over!"

"We are often called on to do unpleasant things for the welfare of others," remarked Mr. Dean; "but if Sleepy finds himself to-night, and I believe he will, we will all be glad we did it, himself included." After a little time Sleepy came in. His step was steady and his manner easy. Ham shot a curious glance at him from the corner of his eye. He saw that Sleepy was smiling, and he felt a strange thrill, for he knew Sleepy had won. Sleepy came to the fire, and in a clear voice addressed the crowd:

"Fellows, I have something I would like to say before we go to bed." It was very difficult for him to go on. "I am ashamed of myself to-night. I know I have never played fair with you fellows here, for I'm lazy—I always have been. You know I am the only child, and I have been spoiled, for I've been taught to always let some one else do the work. I'm sorry." He stopped, and in the pause he became confused.

"But—but—I'm going to do better, if you'll give me another chance. I've just had a little argument with Sleepy Smith outside, and I whipped him in a fair fight. There is no more Sleepy; after this it's George Smith, if you please. Sleepy and this crowd have had a falling out. Will you give me another chance?" he asked anxiously.

Ham was the first to cry out:

"Bet your life we will, old boy, put it there!" He rose and they shook hands.

"Sure thing!" cried Fat.

"Of course we will!" echoed Phil.

"Three cheers for Smith!" came from the others.

"Thanks," was all Smith said, then he sat down and Mr. Allen took the floor. He had caught his cue from what Smith had said:

"Fellows, I think we, too, have made a mistake, and as long as Smith has been man enough to square himself with us, let us be men enough to square ourselves with him. We have always called him Sleepy, and he has been true to the name; but I never knew a boy yet who didn't live up to what his best friends expected of him. Smith always knew we didn't expect much, didn't you, boy? Now, let's expect more, and we'll get more. Smith, we, too, are sorry. Let's expect the best from every fellow and every fellow will give his best, although it will take real manhood to do it sometimes."

Ham and Willis went out to take a last look at the donkeys before going to bed. As they stood on the step, talking things over, they were startled to hear, somewhere in the night air, the long-drawn bark of a dog. It came again and again. "Over in the next canyon," was Ham's remark. "Up by the old mine," was Willis's thought, as he turned and went into the cabin.

After breakfast Willis took the trail that led to his father's mine. He went alone, for he had told no one of its discovery, not even Ham. He was not at all surprised to find the footprints of three men and a dog on the upper trail, and found no difficulty in following them to the mine. Once there, the first thing that attracted his attention was a new sign, nailed up in the place of the old tin one; on it, in bold, black letters, was written, "Private property, keep off!" The snow had been shoveled from one end of the dump, and it looked very much as if some of the rocks had been carried away. Willis wondered, but his reflections gave him no light. He noticed, however, that the tracks did not return down the trail, but ran off over the hill and into the next canyon. He made some careful observations, then returned to the cabin.

Upon Mr. Dean's suggestion, the morning was spent in tobogganing in wood while the snow was good. It was great fun to see the great logs slide down with a long swish and pile up in front of the cabin. The fellows worked with a will, and by noon a large supply had been pulled in. The next thing was to cut it and pile it away in the house. Smith undertook to build a sawbuck, and, with Mr. Allen's help, the job was soon accomplished. Every fellow then took his turn sawing off blocks until dinner time.

As they sat around the table enjoying a camp meal of fried ham, boiled rice, potatoes, rye bread, and coffee, a general discussion arose as to what the cabin should be named. They hoped to get the big bed filled with balsam boughs that afternoon before they started home, then the place would be ready for real use on a big scale; and, of course, it must have a name.

"Let's call it Snowbird Retreat," suggested Fat naively.

"Not on your life!" called Smith good-naturedly. "No snowbirds about this house; you want a good, warm, comfortable name. I'd freeze to death, or maybe get scared, if you called it that."

"St. Mary's Inn," suggested Ham.

"O fiddle, sounds like an old Spanish mission," objected another.

"The House that Ham Built," suggested Mr. Dean.

"Buffalo Roost," suggested Willis. "We certainly do love to roost around in here, and it's in Buffalo Canyon." After a very heated discussion, Buffalo Roost was chosen for the name, and Willis set about gathering twigs to make a rustic sign for over the door.

The wood all in, the dinner dishes washed, and the cabin put in order, the next thing to do was to thatch the big bed. O, what mountains of sweet-scented green boughs it took! One party, under Mr. Dean, pulled in pile after pile of boughs from up on the snow-covered hillside, while the other party cut and trimmed and laid them in. Choice large fans were laid in the bottom, the butts toward the foot, the bow of the branch uppermost. Then a thick layer of fine sprigs to fill in every hollow. Smith worked with a will, and enjoyed the day like he had no other since the work on the cabin had begun.

Never before had they so hated to leave the Roost, for every fellow was coming to love it and its companionship. It gave plenty of healthful action, good things to think about, and warm friends. It was building character and they did not know it. It was fitting a choice group of older fellows to work together in the community life about them, working for the welfare and comfort of others, forgetting themselves in their unselfish service.

In the late afternoon it began to snow again, and by the time they were well on their way home it was falling fast.

"Getting in that wood was a wise stunt," observed Smith, "for the next time we see the old Roost it will probably be snowbound."

Old Ben had been watching for their return most of the afternoon. As they came across the stream and up to the road below the inn, he called Mr. Allen to the door.

"I jist want t' ask ye if that tarnal varmit, Williams, has been botherin' yew fellers any sence he started work on that new claim o' hisn. If they ever was a sneakin' whelp, he's it. He couldn't get possession o' Tad's tunnel; he darsent touch it, so he's gone an' started a tunnel on the other side o' that dyke. He's been workin' it, now, off an' on all this fall, but I didn't know it till they brought a wounded man from there yesterday. Seem a stone mashed his foot bad. They stopped here to rest a bit, an' I seed the feller. I've knowed him these ten years, an' he's a devil. Does dirty work fer any tarnal critter at'll pay him well fer it. Served him right. I s'pose you saw something of them last night, as they went back up to the mine. There was three of 'em and a mean lookin' dog." Mr. Allen listened in silence. He was wondering just what Old Ben knew of this Williams, and why he should be so interested in the boys at the cabin.

"Ben," he said, and he looked the old man straight in the eye, "do you know a man named Tad Kieser?" Ben dropped his eyes and shuffled his foot aimlessly on the floor.

"Yep, I know him, boy, an' a finer man never walked these here hills. Too fine a man to get along with varmits!"

"Is he still living, Ben?"

"Yep, still livin'. He'll be a poppin' up in these parts one o' these days, an' then you'll see who's boss at that tunnel up yonder. I've always said they was gold there, but Tad never would go into the mine again after the accident. That varmit, Williams, believes same as I do, or he wouldn't be a diggin' that hole on t' other side o' the dyke. If he er any o' the rest o' them fellers bothers ye any at the cabin, jist let me know; I'll take ker o' them fer ye. Good-night." He went inside and closed the door. Mr. Allen hurried along, and, catching up with the crowd, he called Willis aside to tell him what Ben had said—all except that Tad was living and Ben knew where he was. That much he kept secret. Willis listened intently, then he told of how he heard the dog bark in the night.

When Willis reached the Association that evening he was handed a telephone call. He noted that it was the home number, and he realized in an instant what had happened. His aunt had grown very much worse Friday night, and had died early Saturday morning. He hastened home to do what he could and to comfort his mother.



CHAPTER XIV

The Opened Door

It was nearly Thanksgiving time, and it seemed months to Willis since he had been to Buffalo Roost. Mrs. Thornton had almost decided to return to her father's since the death of her sister, but Willis had objected seriously. He was determined to unravel the mine mystery before they left. They were still living at the Williams's home, but they saw very little of the uncle. The death of his wife had been a severe blow to him, and he had been spending long periods of time in the mountains—no one seemed to know just where.

During Thanksgiving vacation Mr. Allen was going to have a three days' camp at the Roost, so Ham and Willis were planning on making a preliminary trip, to find out how deep the snow was and just what condition the canyon was in.

The circus was over, and had been a big success; enough money had been raised to pay all the debts and leave a nice amount for future improvements. Meanwhile Ham and Willis had become inseparable companions, so much so, that Willis had taken him into the mystery of his father's mine. Very often they had talked it over together, but neither had yet arrived at any satisfactory conclusions. The day chosen for their trip turned out to be bitter cold; but the other fellows were depending on them, and they must not fail. They found it very difficult to climb the hogsback because of the snow, so when they reached the railroad they decided to follow it to Fairview rather than attempt the canyon trail. As they plodded on they grew very cold.

"There is a dandy little pile of pitch-pine shavings on the hearth," said Ham; "it won't take long to get a fire. We'll play a joke on this cold snap yet, when we get inside the cabin." The walking was not bad until they reached the crest, but here the trail lay on the south side and was completely filled with snow. Many of the drifts were shoulder-deep, so it took them nearly an hour to force their way from the ridge to the cabin. Ham, to his surprise, had great difficulty in opening the lock; it was evident that it had been tampered with. As they entered, he noticed that his little pile of shavings were gone from the hearth. Some one had been inside!

How much heat it seemed to take that night to warm that frigid air! They piled in the great logs until the fireplace was full, and still they had to sit close to keep warm. Slowly the cold was driven out, and the cabin became more comfortable. Willis took the water bucket and an ax and went out to the stream for water, but the ice was a foot thick and the water so cold that it froze in the bucket before he got it back to the cabin. As he set the bucket on the shelf, he noticed that the mirror which hung above the bucket was broken into a thousand pieces. No doubt a bullet had come in through the chinking. Was this a declaration of war? Or had some rowdy just been showing off? They examined things carefully, but found nothing missing but the chips, not even food. Ham could not imagine why the kindling had been removed from the hearth, for he was positive that no fire had been built in either the stove or the fireplace since they had last been there.

After they had warmed sufficiently, they began to think of supper. Ham selected a can of clam soup from the shelf and opened it, but it was frozen solid. He set it by the fire to thaw out and made a second selection. This time he chose a can of beans, but found them in the same condition. He looked in the bread box—the rye-bread was as hard as a bullet. They pulled the table close up before the fire and made out a supper, the best thing on the menu being a pot of boiling-hot tea.

After supper they pulled down the blankets and carefully warmed them before the fire. Then the two boys sat and planned concerning the coming camp until they grew sleepy. After a great pine knot had been placed for the night log, the boys slipped into bed between at least a dozen blankets.

Just before going to bed, Willis prepared a few choice slivers so that a fire could be quickly started in the morning, and he left them in a little pile on the hearth. In the night he heard strange noises down on the floor, but, because it was so cold, he did not venture out to investigate, and in the morning every chip was gone. The mystery of the chips grew deeper.

They lay in bed late next morning, for the cabin was cold and dark and they were so comfortable. Time was nothing to them that day. As they lay, chatting, Ham suddenly squeezed Willis's arm, then raised on his elbow to listen. He heard voices, and they were coming up the canyon. He crawled to where he could peep out of the window, but all he could see were the feet of two men and a dog. The cabin was very cold, so he slipped back between the blankets to warm and talk it over with Willis. About nine o'clock they got up, still wondering what could have brought men into that canyon on such a morning.

Surely there was no hunting, and why should men from the claim in the other gulch be coming up through Buffalo Park? The boys were bothered. They were just sitting down to a breakfast of steaming-hot cakes when from somewhere up in the timber came the clear sound of some one hammering on metal, heavy blow after blow. Ham paused, listened attentively, a forkful of hot cake raised half-way to his mouth. The sound came very clearly and at regular intervals.

"Sounds like some one pounding a stone drill; perhaps they are going to do some blasting!"

Willis rose from his seat, threw open the door, and looked up the snowy hillside. He was right—the sound came from the direction of his father's mine.

"What on earth would any one be blasting up there for?" he said, half to himself. He was thinking of what Ben had told him the last time he was at the Roost. Ham had also risen from the table and stood looking out over Willis's shoulder. The bark of a dog came floating down the canyon.

Suddenly there was a sharp rattle in the corner of the cabin, followed by a heavy thud. Ham turned quickly, just in time to see the ax fall to the floor from its place in the corner. Willis felt a long, cold shiver creep up his back. The ax had been laid on top of the little stove in the corner, and something had caused it to fall.

"Spooks," laughed Ham dryly.

"What made that ax fall?" questioned Willis in a voice which betrayed his feeling. They advanced cautiously toward the corner. There was a scamper of tiny feet, and a large gray rat bounded across the floor and dropped out of sight through a long opening between the floor and the wall. In a moment Willis was down on his hands and knees, investigating.

"Well, of all things," he said, as he looked up laughingly at Ham; "we have located our mysterious robber. Here are all of our precious fire starters." Ham stooped to see for himself, and there, under the stove in the corner, was a neat little pile of pine slivers.

"If that rat lived in the city," observed Ham, "he'd be a shoplifter, sure. It's strange he hasn't stolen our food?"

"Ham, I'm going to the mine. Do you want to stay here or go along?" Ham thought a moment, then began to pull on his coat. As he passed the fireplace, he threw on another log, then the two boys stepped out into the morning air. Ham carefully locked the door behind them—he always took that precaution.

"I'd like to know who tried to get into this house, Willis?" he said as they struck the trail following the footprints of the earlier party up the canyon. The sound of hammering still came occasionally from the hill.

"Perhaps it was the same men that passed this morning," replied Willis. "I wonder why they didn't stop and try the door; they must have seen that it was unlocked."

"Perhaps they wanted to pass unnoticed."

"No, that couldn't be, for they were talking loudly as they passed."

"Perhaps they didn't notice the cabin door at all."

"Perhaps not, but they must have noticed our trail over the bridge and your footprints to the stream."

"O, I don't know; it snowed in the night, and besides, you see they were on the upper trail. They evidently came for some special purpose, and were anxious to get at it. You know, I've been thinking they must have come from Bruin Inn this morning, because they couldn't have gotten here so early if they had come all the way from the city."

"By Jove, boy! I hadn't thought of that, but since you speak of it, there certainly was something familiar in one of those voices, and that laugh! Why, of course, it was Old Ben, his dog, and some stranger."

Progress was slow, for the snow was deep in places. At the old tumbled-down cabin the trail turned and ran up the mountain side. Willis felt a strange pounding at his heart. The noise on the mountain had stopped, but every now and then he heard the sound of voices from somewhere up in the timber. As they reached the last turn in the trail, the two figures came into view. Ham had been correct in his supposition—one of the men was Old Ben, but the other was a stranger. Ben had, no doubt, seen the boys coming, for he stood looking down the trail toward them. When they were a little nearer he saluted them: "Howdy, young'uns. This is a tarnal cold morning for a pair o' city fellers, ain't it?"

"Not on your life," cheerily answered Ham; "there's nothing citified about us. Any one who could sleep in these hills a night like last night and not freeze is no tenderfoot. What brings you up here so early this morning?"

"Early, boys? You're so tarnal lazy, you think dinner time is early. See anything o' my dog round the cabin?"

"No, we haven't seen him, except when you went by a while ago."

Willis was interested in what the stranger was doing. He was bent over a big rock, filing a metal instrument. His back was turned. Willis was looking about to see what they could have been hammering, but could see no sign of their work.

"Prospecting a little?" queried Ham, as he picked up the light sledge that lay on the snow.

"Well, not jist exactly," drawled Old Ben; "it's too tarnal cold to do much prospectin'. We're jist on an observin' trip this time."

"Observing the scenery, or what?" persisted Ham. "We heard you doing some mighty loud observing up here a few minutes ago. Come, now, no secrets. What are you up to? Do you know you are trespassing this very moment?"

"Trespassin', eh? Well, I expect Old Ben knows when he's trespassin' an' when he ain't. This time he ain't." He turned to the stranger and continued: "I jist come along to give my friend here a little moral support. He's so tarnal foolish about this old hole."

"Not foolish, Ben," answered the stranger, as he turned from his work, "not foolish, but—why, good morning, lad!" He advanced with extended hand toward Willis.

Willis could hardly believe his own eyes. What was this man doing here?

"It seems like our paths cross often, doesn't it?"

"Why, I—" exclaimed Willis.

"I know you are surprised," continued the stranger, "but no more so than I, for I didn't expect to find you here on such a morning as this."

"But what are you doing here?" stammered Willis. "What is there about this mine that is of interest to you? This mine is my father's property, and it's locked—the tunnel, I mean—"

"Yes, I know, lad," he interrupted. "I know it does seem strange, but it isn't half as strange to you as it is to me, and besides—"

"But, sir, how dare you tamper with locked property?"

"Lad," and the stranger spoke in that same quiet, kindly voice that had attracted Willis the first time he had seen him, "do you remember that fall day when we last talked together? Up back of Daddy Wright's on the Cheyenne trail?"

"Yes, sir, I do," replied Willis, "and I remember every word you said, but—"

The stranger lifted his hand for silence, and then continued: "And do you remember you asked me if I had ever known a young engineer that used to be in these parts, and I said, 'Yes;' then you asked me if I knew a Tad Kieser that used to be a partner of his, and I told you I did?"

"Yes, yes, I remember all that," interrupted Willis; "but what has that to do with this mine?"

"A very great deal, my boy. Listen! I know Tad Kieser better than any man alive, and of all the men I ever knew, Tad is the strangest. I believe he owns a half interest in this property, does he not? But he hasn't been near it for half a dozen years, and to my knowledge he has never been inside of it since the day of the accident. What's more, my boy, there's just one thing in all the world that could ever induce him to enter it again—"

"What is the one thing?" questioned Ham.

"If it wasn't for the advice of old Ben here, I would not be here to-day, either; but Ben and I have been friends these twenty years, and in that time I have learned to know that Ben's opinions are expressed only after a very careful consideration of all the facts. I'm here because Old Ben insisted that I come."

Willis turned and looked at Ben. He stood by, smiling and puffing away at his pipe. "But what has all that to do with Tad Kieser?" questioned Willis a little disappointedly. "Of all the men in the world I would like most to see, it's Tad. Tell me where he is, if you know."

"But why do you want to see him so badly, may I ask?" questioned the stranger.

"Because he is the only man in the world that can straighten out a tangle of things that I don't understand. And I'm sure that if he knew I was here, he'd come to help me."

Old Ben came to the rescue.

"Boy, Tad would do anything in the great, wide world fer ye. He's talked about ye every tarnal day since he first seen ye, an' they ain't been nothin' in his mind since, except yer welfare. Ye are a tarnal lucky feller to have such a friend."

"Saw me?" questioned Willis. "Tad Kieser saw me?"

"Yes, boy, an' is a lookin' at ye now, an' is out in this cold here fer ye this mornin', a breakin' of vows he made long ago. Tad, tell the boy all about it. This young feller an' me is goin' to look up that tarnal dog." He took Ham by the arm and drew him away down the trail out of hearing. Tad and Willis were busy at the lock of the old tunnel. Old Ben explained the situation to Ham as they leisurely hunted the dog. At last Ham understood, and was happy for Willis.

"My, but you look pert, Tad. I ain't seed ye look so pert in ten year. What's up? Come, tell a feller. Has that young'un been stuffin' ye while we was gone?" and Ben laughed a merry laugh.

"Why didn't you tell me you were Tad the first day?" questioned Willis, his eyes shining with pleasure.

"I'll tell you why some time," replied the old miner, "but not now. I would never have consented to come up here this morning with Ben if I had not suspected that Mr. Williams intended to enter this tunnel very soon. Perhaps you know how he hates me. I caught him in a mighty crooked deal here once, and scared him badly. He and I have fought each other ever since the death of your father. He holds the keys to this lock, that's why I'm cutting it off. We're going to replace it with another. When your uncle comes he will find I have been ahead of him."

"And you aren't going into the tunnel?" questioned Willis in astonishment.

"No, lad, not to-day. I don't know as I ever will."

"Tell me all about the trouble between you and my uncle. How does it happen that he holds the key to this lock instead of you? Mother told me you had the key?" questioned Willis.

"I did once, but when I refused to let him enter, he came with a hacksaw and removed the lock, placing this great brass one in its stead. Your uncle was the only person with your father when he died, except the nurse, and he has always claimed that Bill turned all his mining property over to him. He offered to buy me out, but I refused to sell.

"Nearly a year after your father's death, I learned from a nurse in the hospital that in his last moments your father called for me, but Williams told him that I was badly hurt. He told your uncle that the real gold vein had been uncovered by the fatal blast, and that I was to be sure to work it for your sake and your mother's. Williams promised to tell me. I tried to get the nurse to go into court and swear to her statement, but she refused, and I found out afterward that Williams had bought her off. I went and looked at the tunnel; then he broke in, took samples, and, I believe, found them good. He locked the door with this lock, and since the day of the accident I have never seen inside. I have never wanted to. I don't know, but I have always been determined that he should not plunder your father's possessions. At the time of the accident he came into possession of all your father's papers. He let the assessments run out on the Cheyenne claim, and then jumped it for his own. Only last month he sold that claim to Beverly H. Pembroke for a consideration of eight thousand dollars.

"He hates me, because he knows that one more move on his part and I'll place the matter in the hands of the law. I believe that he once hired an outlaw to kill me, but was unsuccessful. I can't prove it, but the facts look so. I have been afraid ever since I knew you were here that your mother, as the rightful heir to the property, would play into his hands. I feared he would offer to sell her share of this mine for her and, in reality, buy it himself. He could then, according to law, force me to sell my share or to buy his. If I refused to sell, he would ask a very large sum for his, and in that way force me to his bargain. His working the tunnel on the other side of the dyke this fall and winter is more to scare me into believing he will get the gold anyway, and that I may as well sell, than anything else. I have learned that they are having a great deal of trouble in their tunnel. It's very shaly and keeps caving from above. If he spent as much time and money caring for his sick wife as he has on this mine, she might have gotten well."

Willis had been listening with breathless interest.

"Go on," he begged. "Tell me all about everything, from the very beginning."

"Lad, it's a long, long story. I'll do that later. Let's not talk any more about it now."

"O, I must know about it. Don't stop. Tad, you can't possibly know what all this means to me." Tad rose and snapped the new lock in place on the door, while Old Ben cursed under his breath.

"Of all the tarnal idiots," he was saying; "I never seed a man so sot in his ways. Tad, ain't ye even goin' to peek inside?"

"No, Ben, not to-day. Perhaps some day," returned the old prospector, "and perhaps never."

Willis jumped to his feet. "Not to-day, Tad? Not to-day? Do you mean you aren't going into the mine. Well, I am, even if you aren't. I don't leave this spot until I see the inside for myself. Give me the key. Ham and I will go in alone."

"O, I wish you wouldn't. It's dangerous, and I am sure the story of the gold is only a notion. Your father was out of his mind when he died, and the gold he told about was just one of his dreams. I worked with him that day, and I saw no special signs of gold."

"Yes, but that varmit, Williams, has seed signs," muttered Ben. "He went in an' brought out samples; he knows, an' you only think you do."

Willis held out his hand for the key, and Ben urged him on. Tad looked far away over the snowy hills, then up the quiet valley, so peaceful in its white robes, and at last down to the little cabin below. There his gaze rested.

"My, but it hardly seems fourteen years since I built that shanty," he said. "How happy I was then! Fourteen years brings strange things into a man's life. My boy, I hope you will never get the gold fever. Steer clear of it."

"But Tad, I have it already," replied Willis, "and I am following where it leads me."

Tad looked at him, and a strange, sad expression came to his face.

"How much you talk like your father, and you're so like him, too! I'm sorry."

He reached deep into his trousers' pocket, pulled out the key, then got slowly to his feet. Twice he changed his mind; but Willis persisted, and at last he yielded. The new lock opened easily, but not so the great log door. Its hinges were rusted from the storms of many seasons. As Willis pulled hard, the old hinges groaned, as if regretting that they were to be disturbed after so long a rest. As the door swung back, and the mouth of the tunnel was disclosed, Tad caught Willis by the arm and held him. "Wait, my boy," he said, "you must let the old place air out. Remember, it has been bottled up a long time. I'll wager a light won't even burn in there just now."

"Have you a candle?" asked Willis, his tone betraying his excitement.

"I'll get some," volunteered Ham, and off he started down the trail for the cabin.

The tunnel was a round, irregular hole a little higher than a man's head, and in width it varied with the width of the dyke. The floor had been covered with rough-hewn planks to make the pushing of the loaded wheelbarrows easier. These old planks were black and wet, but still quite sound. As they stood, waiting for Ham to return, Tad told Willis something more of the early history of the mine:

"You see, the dyke seems to follow an ancient crevice in the granite, which runs straight in for a hundred and fifty feet, then turns abruptly to the west. Here it widens out, and just at that point the strata shifts and is folded. We found a small quantity of quartz just there. The day of the accident I was replacing some of the floor planks near the entrance and your father was preparing to make a series of blasts on the new strata. I was to help him shoot them when he was ready. He was very pleased at the new outcropping of quartz, and was very anxious to open up the vein before we quit work for the day. The farther in you go, the more shaly the black rock seems to get, and in some places we were forced to roof the drift with mine props in order to keep the ceiling up. I was bending over, chopping the end of a plank, when I was violently knocked down. In falling I struck my head against the rough wall, cutting myself badly over the left eye. I struggled to my feet dazedly, the blood streaming down over my face. I had mined long enough to know just what had happened. In some way your father had prematurely set off his blast. I started toward him, but the heavy powder smoke drove me back. I dropped to my knees to get the air—it's always best near the floor—and in a moment a second explosion came. I snatched the jug of water and began crawling toward Bill on all fours. I called again and again, but no answer came. When I finally reached him I felt faint and sick. I found him nearly completely buried in a heap of stone. He was unconscious, and never spoke to me again. After two hours of tremendous effort, I was able to lift his poor, broken body in my arms and carry it out. I was thankful then that he was unconscious and could not feel the pain. By night I got him to the cabin, and at once set off for Ben's. We came back by lantern light that night, and led the old horse. We spent the rest of the night building a crude litter of poles and blankets, and as soon as it was light we fastened one end of the stretcher to the horse, a pole on either side of him, and each one of us carried a pole at the other end. It took an hour for us to get down to the canyon road. In twelve hours your father died. He regained consciousness just long enough to talk with Williams briefly. What he said at that time I have never been able to find out.

"Then followed the awful years of lonesomeness for me, made worse by the always-present knowledge that I should have been the one to shoot those blasts and not your father. I wrote your mother fully concerning the accident, but never received a reply, so have had no word of you since that time. I've told you how your uncle tried to get possession of the mine. When I would not sell, he hounded my every step until at last I left the city and went to work for the D. & P.W. as fireman. I went through the city often, but very rarely stopped off. But it seems I came just often enough to keep your uncle too frightened to carry out his plan concerning the tunnel."

Ham was returning up the trail now, and soon the candles were lighted. Tad took the lead, followed by Willis, Ham and Old Ben bringing up the rear. A little inside the entrance, and to one side, a small room had been cut in the solid granite for a store-room. Here were the tools of the mine—two wheelbarrows, several shovels and picks, a large lantern, and several boxes of powder. What had once been a heavy coil of hemp rope was now a very comfortable rat's nest. Several old stone drills had been driven into the crevices for hooks, and on them hung old burlap sacks, a coil of heavy wire, two old slouch hats, and a man's coat.

Tad had bared his head as he entered. He slowly led the way down the narrow lane without a word. A little farther in they came to a very rusty ax, leaning against the wall, and Willis guessed that it had never been moved from where Tad had last used it. The large, blackened chips were scattered over the floor, and the great plank lay where he had last worked on it. Tad was very cautious now, trying the props overhead every few feet, to see if they were safe. Willis was walking as if in a dream; he was stepping very softly and his head was bowed. This was the very path his father had trod. He fancied he heard his cheery voice now, as he came and went with load after load of rock. He fancied how he must have felt as he worked day by day, ever surer of the fortune that was to be his. He found himself wondering how his life's course might have been changed if that golden dream had come true. The tunnel turned abruptly to the west, and Tad moved more cautiously still. Presently Tad halted and pointed to a heap of rock on the floor, "It was there, lad," he said very quietly, and that was all. Willis stooped and placed his hand on the place for a second. Tad noticed that his face was white and drawn and his eyes were very big. He let him stay for an instant, then took him gently by the arm and led him out.

Old Ben made a hasty examination of the rocks on the floor, then of the exposed vein. He handed the candle to Ham, and, drawing from his pocket a heavy cold chisel, he carefully knocked off some choice pieces of the ore and placed them in his pocket, muttering to himself all the while. When he had satisfied himself, he turned, took the candle, and started out, motioning Ham to precede him.

"Best gold quartz I've seed in many a year," he said softly, "only Tad will never believe it." Ham understood. Ahead of them, down the narrow black passage, they saw Tad's light disappear.

"They have stepped into the tool-room, boy," said Ben, "an' every tarnal one o' them implements is nearly sacred to Tad. Let's not disturb 'em." He blew out his light and leaned against the wall of the tunnel, pulling Ham back with him.

In a few minutes they were surprised to hear loud exclamations and the moving of the old iron wheelbarrows. Ahead they could see the light of the opening, so Old Ben started again toward the entrance.

"Guess that memorial service must be all over, from the racket they're makin' with them tarnal carts," he said.

When they reached Willis, they found him carefully going through the pockets of the musty old coat hanging upon the wall. The cloth had fairly rotted in the moisture. Tad was holding the treasures as Willis removed them from the pockets. To Tad's surprise, there was inside the coat an old vest. They were no doubt the clothes Mr. Thornton had worn the day of the accident. In one vest pocket was Bill's gold watch, in another a musty pocketbook and a badly worn note-book that had mildewed in the moisture. There were three letters in the outside coat pocket. Willis took one, moist and rotten as it was, from the envelope and noticed they were from his mother, and were probably the last ones she had written. Willis's hand shook violently and two great tears glistened in his eyes. In the other outside pocket was a strange tin tube, perhaps a foot in length, with a removable lid at either end. The tube was rusted red and the ends sealed tight with rust. Willis handed the tube to Tad, a question on his lips.

"Thank God," Tad was saying to himself, "thank God, he didn't do it. I've often thought I'd kill him if he had."

"If who had what?" questioned Willis.

"Don't ask me, lad, not now—I'll tell you some time, perhaps. Come, let's go. This air is very bad, and I'm just a little sick." He linked his arm through Willis's, and together they walked out into the cold morning air. Ben and Ham followed. When they were outside, Tad swung the door shut and locked it. Then, with a note of triumph in his voice, he said:

"There, Williams can have the place for all I care," and he held the queer tin tube in his hand before them.

"Open it," urged Willis. Tad turned to him.

"My boy, there has never been a day in the past half-dozen years that I have not wondered what became of that tin tube. Many times, after hours of reasoning, I have decided that your uncle stole that tube from your father's belongings. I have done the man an injustice. From my firm belief that he had taken the tube came my great dislike for him. You have never seen the contents of that can, lad, but your mother has. At one time they were very valuable, and I have no doubt that even now that can contains a small fortune for you—"

"But—" interrupted Willis. Tad paid no attention to him, and went on:

"The contents of that tube will place your father among the greatest of mining engineers and give his name the honor it has always been entitled to—"

"But Tad—"

"When your father conceived that idea it was impractical. He was too far ahead of the times. But to-day, lad, it means that every mine dump in the Cripple Creek region will be worked over again and the gold removed at a trifling expense, for in that tube are the blueprints of the greatest electrical ore-roasting machine in the world." He took his knife from his pocket and slowly and carefully pried off the rusty lid. The blue roll slid out into his hand. The moisture had not penetrated the can, and the sketches were as good as the day they were made. Willis took them in his hand and proudly turned them over and over, then he placed them again in the can with the remark, "Tad, these things all belong to mother. I wonder what she'll say?"

Tad broke into a pleased little laugh, and the old smile that had made him so many friends in the years gone by came back to his grizzled face.

"Lad, you're rich to-day, and I am better satisfied. Those plans will bring you and your mother a goodly sum. It lifts a great burden from a poor, worthless prospector's mind." Willis did not know the true meaning of the words, but Old Ben did, and it was now his turn to talk.

"Tad, I've knowed ye for a tarnal lot o' years, hain't I? An', Tad, they ain't a soul on earth as would do fer ye as me. I've lived a life myself, Tad, an' I ain't so big a fool as ye are about some things." Ben pulled a piece of the ore from his pocket and held it up for inspection. "Tad, there's a twenty-inch vein of that rock in yonder, an' finer gold quartz ye never seed in all yer days." He turned to Willis: "Boy, ye'r tarnal lucky. Them plans may be valuable, but I have my doubts about it; but it's certain that that mine is valuable. Jist how much gold they is there, I don't know, but they is lots of it. Two or three more weeks an' Williams would have struck it from the other side. Now listen, lad: sell out, do you hear me, sell out. It'll bring a handsome price on assay; but sell now, or Williams—" and his voice dropped to a mysterious whisper and he looked suspiciously about him, "or Williams will get the best of ye yet."

After more talk and discussion, the whole party went down to the cabin, and Ham prepared a special supper. After the meal was over, all sat and talked before the fireplace, and the entire story was gone over again in detail. Towards late afternoon they began the down trip through the canyon.

At the inn Tad promised to come the next day to the city to meet Mrs. Thornton. Together they would confer about the newly-discovered facts.

"Don't wait too tarnal long to sell, boy, or something will happen. Tad's unlucky. Sell if ye can, an' I'd make that tarnal critter, Williams, buy the whole business, if I was you."

Tad and Willis stood some time talking, Willis then took the plans and the other things that had been in his father's coat, and started home. They walked in silence for some time, then Willis spoke:

"O, Ham, I'm so happy to-day, and still—" He paused and the smile faded from his face. "Still, why should I be happy? Do these plans and that gold mine up there give me back my dear old dad?"

"Not really," replied Ham, "but perhaps those things he left you will make it possible for you to accomplish in this world the things he had hoped to do, and perhaps better things." The little smile came back again to Willis's face.

"Ham, you're really a philosopher. I'll do my very best, I'll tell you that. Now, let's hurry."



CHAPTER XV

In Which Fate Takes a Hand

Four days later Tad and Ben sat before the log-fire at the inn talking over plans for the future development of the mine in Buffalo Park. Tad was telling Ben of his visit with Mrs. Thornton and what her wishes were in regard to the matter. It seemed that Mr. Williams was out of the city and had been gone for several days. Just where he was no one seemed to know, but as he had taken several such trips since the death of his wife, Mrs. Thornton did not think much of it. It had been decided that they would wait until Mr. Williams returned, at which time he would be given the opportunity to buy the entire mine at a fair price. But if he did not care to buy, the property was to be turned over to Tad for disposal or development, as he saw fit.

The cold weather had continued, and there had been no visitors at the inn for nearly a week. Tad and Ben were making some crude tests before the fire with the pieces of gold quartz Ben had brought from the tunnel. They were just in the middle of their crude assay when suddenly there was a loud knock on the outside door, accompanied by a series of low growls from Ben's dog. The door was unceremoniously thrown open and a very much excited man stepped in. He made no apologies, but went directly to the point. He spoke between great breaths, and had evidently come from some distance at a good speed. He was completely exhausted, and as he spoke his eyes wandered aimlessly about the room.

"We've a devil of a mess," he panted. "I don't know how many hurt, but some of 'em are broken all to pieces. Come right away and bring what bandages you have. O, it's a devil of a mess."

Old Ben looked at the stranger bewilderedly. Tad jumped to his feet, alert in a second. "Devil of a mess where, man? What's wrong? Who's hurt?" The stranger's voice failed him, and all he could do was to point his finger in the direction of the canyon and make signs for them to hurry. Ben pushed him into a chair by the fire, and in a little while they had his story:

The new tunnel on the old Iron Dyke had caved in without a moment's notice. There were seven men locked in by a wall of fallen rock. Whether they had been crushed or not was hard to tell. The stranger had not been in the tunnel at the time of the accident, but had gone to the stream for water. Upon returning, he discovered the cave-in. He had come at once for help, realizing that a single man would be useless at the mine.

In a short time the three had the old horse packed and were on the trail. The snow was deep and progress slow. As they walked up the trail the stranger described the appearance of the fallen rock as best he could. He told them that they had been working the tunnel as fast as possible and that they had not been as careful as they should have been about propping the ceiling. He said they had struck considerable water, and that the black rock seemed to have been previously loosened by some great force, for it was cracked in every direction. They had been spending the day putting in temporary props, and the boss had been there superintending the job. He had been urging the men on harder every day, as he seemed so anxious to get the tunnel in to a certain point with the least possible delay. The boss had in mind something very definite, however, for he often referred to a certain sketch which he always carried in his pocket book. The miner declared he had seen the boss make calculations many times, after he had measured the depth of the tunnel.

"Yes, the boss was in the mine, too—had been there all day. It might be that he is dead this moment, for all I know," said the stranger. From his description of the boss, Tad guessed that it was no other than Mr. Williams himself.

When the mine was reached, operations were at once commenced to remove the fallen stones. Tad took command, and several times he thought he heard the sound of hammering from the other side—but, perhaps, after all it was only an echo. After a careful examination, it was decided that all the loose rock had fallen, and that to remove it was not dangerous. They began work at the top in order to make a hole big enough to reach the men. They had not worked long when they heard sounds from the other side. They were not all dead at least, and if they could but get to them before they suffocated all would be well. The imprisoned miners evidently understood the plan of action, for the sounds from the other side indicated that they, too, were working at the top of the wall. By night a small opening was made and messages exchanged. There were seven men inside—one dead, two very badly hurt, and the others bruised and cut, but able to help themselves. Water and hot food were passed to them, then the work of rescue was taken up in earnest. Mr. Williams had a fractured leg and was unconscious, but was still living. Instead of rushing to the solid wall end of the tunnel, where he would have been comparatively safe, at the first sign of danger he had rushed toward the entrance with one other man, and had been struck down by the falling stone. If he had started out thirty seconds sooner, he would have been crushed to death, as his companion was.

Late that night a large enough hole had been made to move the wounded men out. Tad was the first to enter, and the first man to be brought out was Williams. Tad picked him up in his great strong arms and tenderly carried him to the cabin. By midnight the broken leg was dressed and the cuts and bruises bandaged. Tad proved as good a nurse as he was a miner. As he worked over Williams a great pity filled his heart, for Tad knew only too well that he had been anything but a happy man.

The tunnel had been driven very rapidly without proper trussing, and it seemed to Tad that the entire dyke must have been shaken by the blasts that had caused Mr. Thornton's death years before. Without a second's notice the shaly rock had given a little, then caved in. It seemed a strange turn of fate to Tad that the same blast that had taken away his partner many years ago had now probably taken away his only enemy. With these thoughts came an intense hatred for the mine and a tender pity for the man that had so wronged him. Tad had put his body to a tremendous test, and every nerve and every muscle was fairly tingling, so he drew up a chair to the bedside and rested. In a little while Mr. Williams became conscious, but on recognizing Tad at his bedside he slipped back again into unconsciousness, muttering strange, broken apologies and begging for mercy. Tad thanked God as he sat there that night that he had never harmed a brother man willfully and that his life had always been, at least to the best of his ability, on the square.

Then he began to think rapidly. Perhaps Williams was near the end. He feared the bad cut on his head might prove fatal. What if he should die and have no chance to talk, no chance to square himself with those that he had wronged? Accordingly he made him as comfortable as he could, and after telling Ben his plan, he hurriedly ate a little food, went out into the night and down the trail.

Willis was awakened early in the morning by a furious pounding on the door. He rose and hurried down. Tad fairly tumbled into the room. He informed Willis just what had happened, and told him to get ready to go with him at once. A doctor was called, a cab ordered, and in a little while the three were hastening back toward Bruin Inn. With all their speed, however, the morning was well-spent before they reached the little shanty again. The doctor made a careful examination and declared Williams in a very critical condition. The broken leg was reset, the cuts dressed and sewed up. Then began the preparations to remove him out of the mountains to a hospital. It seemed very strange to Tad to be again building a crude stretcher from aspen poles and blankets, but by night they had placed him in the hospital and he was sleeping.

It was a long night of strange thoughts and fancies for Willis as he sat by his uncle's bedside. He was too bewildered by all the strange events of the last fortnight to be able to think logically. His admiration for Tad had grown until it knew no bounds, and his pity for his uncle had increased until all the hardness had disappeared from his heart and he was sorry for him. He hoped with all his might that he would yet live.

In the early morning Willis was awakened by his uncle's hand being placed on his. The injured man was looking up into his face. He closed his eyes again and was silent a long while. When he opened them again he spoke falteringly:

"I'm very sorry, son," he began. "I've been wrong, so wrong all along the way. I've never been square. I have fought the Fates every day of my life, and now I'm whipped." He smiled a little, weak smile. "What a fool a man is," he continued. "Willis, I'm going to slip off very soon, now, and I have so much I want to say to you." He half arose. "Are we alone?" Willis told him that they were, but urged him not to talk. He was determined.

"I have played a desperate game, and I have lost. I'm sorry for my mistakes. I have wronged Tad and you the most, for I have wanted your father's mine. I was jealous of your father's favor. Now I know I did not deserve it. I got your mother's reply to Tad's letter long ago. It was sent in my care, and I read it. It decided me, for it all looked so easy. There's money in the mine, son, and Tad is here somewhere. He will tell you all. Tell him for me that I am sorry." He closed his eyes, and in a moment was gone.

Willis hurried home to his mother, and together they held a long conference, and many things were accounted for.

* * * * *

It was at the little cabin that Willis found his greatest pleasure, and already Ham and himself were planning a new and more pretentious Lodge to take the place of Buffalo Roost, for the next Buffalo Roost was to be a memorial camp built in honor of Tad Kieser, gentleman, and Mr. William Thornton.

Willis had found the cabin, and the cabin with its stanch, good friendships, the healthful work together, and the unselfish leadership of the right sort of men, had helped him find his best self in thoughtful service for others. Surely no better thing ever comes to the life of a boy.

THE END