We had been at it some time, when Joe stopped sawing, and straightening up, said:

"It's queer about those bits of ground ice, Phil. Do you notice how they all float clean side up? Wait a bit and I'll show you."

Taking the ice-hook, he turned over one of the bits with its point, showing its soiled side, but the moment he released it, the bit of ice "turned turtle" again.

"Do you see?" said he. "The sand acts like ballast. It must be heavy stuff."

"Yes," said I. "Hook a bit of it out and let's look at it."

This was soon done, when, on examining it, we found the under side to be crusted with very black sand, which, whatever might be its nature, was evidently heavy enough to upset the balance of a small fragment of ice.

"What is it made of, I wonder?" said Joe.

"I don't know," I replied, "but perhaps it is that black sand which the prospectors are always complaining of as getting in their way when they are panning for gold."

"That's what it is, Phil, I expect," cried Joe. "And what's more, that's what Yetmore thought, too, or else why should he throw that bit of ice back into the water so quickly when you held out your hand for it? He didn't want you to see it."

"It does look like it," I assented. "Poke up a few more, Joe, and we will take them home and show them to my father: perhaps he'll know what the stuff is."

Joe took the ice-hook and prodded about on the bottom, every prod bringing up one or two bits of ice, each one as it bobbed to the surface showing its sandy side for a moment and then turning over, clean side up. Drawing these to the edge of the ice, we picked them out, laying them on a gunny-sack we had with us, and when, towards sunset, we had carried home and housed our last load, and had stabled and fed the mules, we took our scraps over to the blacksmith-shop, where the tinkle of a hammer proclaimed that my father was at work doing some mending of something.

He was much interested in hearing of the ground ice and of the way it brought up the black sand with it, and still more so in our description of Yetmore's action.

"Let me look at it," said he; and taking one of our specimens, he stepped to the door to examine it, the light in the shop being too dim. He came back smiling.

"Queer fellow, Yetmore!" said he. "One would think that the lesson of the lead-boulder might have taught him that a man may sometimes be too crafty. I think this is likely to prove another case of the same kind. I believe he has made a genuine discovery here—though what it may lead to there is no telling—and if he had had the sense to let you look at that piece of dirty ice, instead of throwing it back into the water, thus arousing your curiosity, he would probably have kept his discovery to himself. As it is, he is likely to have Tom Connor interfering with him again—that is to say, if this sand is what I think it is. I don't think it is the 'black sand' of the prospectors—it is too shiny, and it has a bluish tinge besides—I think it is something of far more value. We'll soon find out. Give me that piece of an iron pot, Phil; it will do to melt the ice in."

Having broken up some of our ice into small pieces, we placed it in a large fragment of a broken iron pot, and this being set upon the forge, Joe took the bellows-handle and soon had the fire roaring under it. It did not take long to melt the ice, when, pouring off the water, we added some more, repeating the process until there was no ice left. The last of the water being then poured away, there remained nothing but about a spoonful of very fine, black, shiny sand.

The receptacle was once more placed upon the fire, and while my father kept the contents stirred up with a stick, Joe seized the bellows-handle again and pumped away. Presently he began to cough.

"What's the matter, Joe?" asked my father, laughing.

"Sulphur!" gasped Joe.

"Sulphur!" cried I. "I don't smell any sulphur."

"Come over here, then, and blow the bellows," replied Joe.

I took his place, but no sooner had I done so than I, too, began to cough. The smell of sulphur evidently came from our spoonful of sand, and as I was standing between the door and the window the draft blew the fumes straight into my face. On discovering this, I pulled the bellows-handle over to one side, when I was no more troubled.

The iron pot, being set right down on the "duck's nest" and heaped all around with glowing coals, had become red-hot, when my father, peering into it, held up his hand.

"That'll do, Phil. That's enough," he cried. "Give me the tongs, Joe."

My father removed the melting-pot, and making a hole with his heel in the sandy floor of the shop, he poured the contents into it.

"Lead!" we both cried, with one voice.

"Yes, lead," my father replied. "Galena ore, ground fine by the action of water."

"Do you mean," I asked, "that there is a lead-mine in the bottom of the pool?"

"No, no. But there is a vein of galena, size and value unknown, somewhere up on Lincoln Mountain. The fine black sand sticking to the ground ice was brought down by our stream, being reduced to powder on the way, and deposited in the pool, where its weight has kept it from being washed out again."

"I see. And do you suppose Yetmore recognized the sand as galena ore? Would he be likely to know it in the form of sand?"

"I expect so. He's a sharp fellow enough. He must have seen pulverized samples of galena many a time in the assayers' offices. I've seen them myself: that was what gave me my clue."

"And what do you suppose he'll do?"

"He is pretty certain, I think, to try to get hold of some of the stuff, so that he may test it and make sure; though how he will go about it there's no telling. It will be interesting to see how he manages it."

"And what shall you do, father? Go prospecting?"

My father laughed, knowing that this was a joke on my part; for I was well aware that he would not think of such a thing.

"Not for us, Phil," he answered. "We have our mine right here. Raising oats and potatoes may be a slow way of getting rich, but it is a good bit surer than prospecting. No, we'll tell Tom Connor about it and let him go prospecting if he likes. You shall go up to Sulphide the first Saturday after the ice-cutting is finished and give him our information. There's no hurry about it: he can't go prospecting while the mountains are all under snow. Come along in to supper now. You've fed the mules, I suppose."

It was a snapping cold night that night, and about half-past eight I went into the kitchen to look at the thermometer which hung outside the door. As I came back, I happened to glance out of the west window, when, to my surprise, I thought I saw a glimmer of light up by the pool. Stepping quickly into the house again, I went to the front door and looked out. Yes, there was a light up there!

"Father," I called out, "there's somebody up at the pool with a light."

My father sprang out of his chair. "Is there?" he cried. "Then it's Yetmore, up to some of his tricks. Get into your coats, boys, and let's go and see what he's about."

As we went out I took down the unlighted stable-lantern and carried it with me in case we might need it, and shutting the door softly behind me, ran after the others. We had not covered half the distance to the pool, however, when the light up there suddenly went out, and a minute later we heard the sound of galloping hoofs, muffled by the thin carpet of snow, going off in the direction of Sulphide. Our visitor, whoever he was, had departed.

"Well, come on, anyhow," said my father. "Let us see what he was doing."

As the thermometer was then standing at three degrees below zero, we knew that the sheet of clear water we had left in the afternoon should have been solidly frozen over again by this time. What was our surprise, therefore, to find that such was not the case: there was only a thin film of ice; it was but just beginning to form.

"That is easily explained," remarked my father. "The ice did form, but some one has chopped it out and thrown it to one side there. See?"

"Yes," replied Joe, "and then he took the ice-hook, which I know I left standing upright against the rocks, and poked up the ground ice. See, there are several bits floating about, and I remember quite well that we cleared out every one of them this afternoon. Didn't we, Phil?"

"Yes," said I, "I'm sure we did, because I remember that those two or three bits that had no sand in them we threw into that corner instead of pitching them into the water again. I suppose it's Yetmore, father."

"Oh, not a doubt of it. Did he leave any tracks?"

By the light of the lantern we searched about, and though there were no tracks to be seen on the smooth ice, there were plenty in the snow below the pool. They were the foot-prints of a smallish man, for his tracks, in spite of his wearing over-shoes, were not so big as the prints made by Joe's boots—though, as Joe himself remarked, that was not much to go by, he being a six-footer with feet to match, "and a trifle over," as his friends sometimes considerately assured him.

Following these foot-prints, we were led to the south gate, where, it was easy to see, a horse had been standing for some time tied to the gate-post.

"Well, he's got off with his samples all right," remarked my father. "He's a smart fellow, and enterprising, too. He would deserve to win, if only he were not so fond of taking the crooked way of doing things. Come along. Let's get back to the house. There's nothing more to be done about it at present."



CHAPTER VI

LONG JOHN BUTTERFIELD

"Boys," said my father next morning, "I've been thinking over this discovery of ours. It won't do to wait till you've finished the ice-cutting to notify Tom Connor. He has been a good friend to us, and I feel that we owe him some return for enabling me to get this piece of land from Yetmore, even though it was, in a manner, accidental; and as Tom is sure to go off prospecting in the spring, whether or no, we may as well give him the chance—if he wants it—to go hunting for this supposed vein of galena."

"He's pretty sure to want to," said I.

"Yes, I think he is. And as Yetmore will certainly find out the nature of the black sand, and will be sending out a prospector or two himself as soon as the snow clears off, we must at least give Tom an equal chance. So, instead of waiting for you to finish cutting the ice, I'll write him a letter at once, telling him all about it, and send it up by this morning's coach."

One of the advantages to us of the frosty weather was that the mail coach between San Remo and Sulphide came our way instead of taking the hill-road, so that during the winter months we received our mail daily, whereas, through the greater part of the year, while the "forty rods" were "bottomless," we had to go ourselves to San Remo to get it. The coach, going up, passed our place about ten in the morning, and by it my father sent the promised letter.

We quite expected that Tom would come flying down at once, but instead we received from him next morning a reply, stating that he could not leave his work, and asking my father to allow us boys to do a little prospecting for him—which, I may say, we boys were ready enough to do if my father did not object.

He did not object; being, indeed, very willing that we should put in a day's work for the benefit of our friend. For, as he said, to undertake one day's prospecting for a friend was a very different matter from taking to prospecting as a business.

It is a fascinating pursuit; men who contract the prospecting disease seldom get the fever entirely out of their systems again, and it was for this reason my father was so set against it, considering that no greater misfortune could befall two farmer-boys like ourselves than to be drawn into such a way of life. Now that we were seventeen years old, however, and might be supposed to have some discretion, he had little fear for Joe and me, knowing, as he did, that we shared his sentiments. We had seen enough of the life of the prospector to understand that a more precarious way of making a living could hardly be invented.

How many men get rich at it? I have heard it estimated at one man in five thousand; and whether this estimate—or, rather, this guess—is right or wrong, it shows the trend of opinion.

Suppose a prospector does strike a vein of ore: what is the common result? By the time he has sunk a shaft ten feet deep he must have a windlass and a man to work it, and being in most cases too poor to hire a miner, his only way of getting help is to take in a partner. The two go on sinking, until presently the hole is too deep to use a windlass any more—a horse-whim is needed and then a hoisting engine. But it is seldom that the ore dug out of a shaft will pay the expense of sinking it—for powder and drills, ropes, buckets and timbers, are expensive things—much less enable the owner to lay by anything, and the probability is that to buy a hoisting engine he must sell another portion of his claim. And so it goes, until, by the time his claim has been turned into a mine—for, as the common and very true saying is, "Mines are made, not found"—his share of it will probably have been reduced to one-quarter or less; while it is quite within the limits of probability that, becoming wearied by long waiting for the slow development of his prospect, he will have sold out for what he can get and gone back to his old life.

But though I do not advocate the business of prospecting as a way of making a living—I had rather pitch hay or dig potatoes myself—I am far from wishing to disparage the prospector himself or to belittle the results of his work. He is the pioneer of civilization; and personally he is generally a fine fellow. At the same time, as in every other profession, the ranks of the prospectors include their share of the riff-raff. It was so in our district, and we were destined shortly to come in contact with one of them.

Tom Connor in his letter instructed us as to what he wished us to do: it was very simple. He asked us to walk up the little canyon along which our stream flowed, when it did flow, and to examine the bed of each of its feeders as we came to them, to determine, if possible, which of the branch streams it was that brought down the powdered lead-ore. He also suggested that we get out some more of the black sand from the bottom of the pool for him to see, and at the same time ascertain, if we could, how much of a deposit there was there.

The last request we performed first. Taking down to the pool a long, pointed iron rod, we lowered it into the water, marking the depth by tying a bit of string round the rod at high-water-mark, and then bored a hole down through the frozen sand until we struck bed-rock. By this means we discovered that the deposit was five inches thick at the upper end of the pool. A few feet further from the waterfall, however, the deposit was thicker, but we noticed at the same time that the ground ice which came up carried with it more or less yellow sand. The further we retreated from the waterfall, too, the larger became the proportion of yellow sand, until towards the edge of the pool it had taken the place of the black sand altogether.

Having done this, we poked up a lot of the ground ice, which we collected and put into a tin bucket, and taking this home we melted the ice, poured off the water, and made a little parcel of the sand that remained.

A few days later we had finished our ice-cutting and had stowed away the crop in the ice-house, when we were at length free to go off and make the little prospecting expedition that Tom had asked us to undertake.

First walking up the bed of the canyon, where the water was now represented by sheets of crackling white ice, we arrived presently at the first branch creek which came in on the right. This we ascended in turn, going some distance up it before we found a likely patch of sand, into which we chopped a hole with the old hatchet we had brought for the purpose, disclosing a little of the black material at the bottom; though the amount was so scanty that we could not be sure it was really the black sand we were seeking.

Going on up this branch creek, much impeded by the snow which became deeper and deeper the higher we ascended, we were nearing one of the bends when Joe, who was in advance, suddenly stopped, exclaiming:

"Look there, Phil! Tracks coming down the bank. Somebody is ahead of us."

"So there is," said I. "What can he be doing, I wonder?"

Following these tracks a short distance, we very soon discovered the reason for their being there. The man was on the same quest as ourselves!

In a bend of the stream where the snow lay two feet thick, he had dug a hole down to the sand, and then through the sand itself to bed-rock. At the bottom of the hole was a little black sand, showing the marks of a hatchet or knife-blade where it had been gouged out, but all around the hole, between the bed-rock and the yellow sand above, was a black line an inch thick, composed of the shiny, powdered galena ore. There could be no doubt that the man ahead of us was hunting the same game as we were.

"Do you suppose it's Yetmore, Joe?" said I.

"No," Joe answered, emphatically, "I'm sure it isn't. Look at his tracks: they are bigger than mine."

"It can't be Tom, himself, can it?"

"No, I'm pretty sure it isn't Tom either. Tom is a big, powerful fellow, all right, but he's not more than five feet ten, while this man, I think, is extra-tall—see the length of his stride where he came down the bank. Whoever he is, though, Phil, he's an experienced prospector. He hasn't wasted his time, as we have, trying unlikely places, but has chosen this spot and gone slap down through snow and everything, just as if he knew that the black sand would be found at the bottom."

"That's true," said I. "I wonder who it is. We must find out if we can, Joe, so that we may be able to tell Tom who his competitor is. Let's follow his tracks."

Getting out of the creek-bed again, we walked along the bank for nearly a mile, until Joe, stopping short, held up his finger.

"Hark!" he whispered. "Somebody chopping."

There was a sound as of metal being struck against stone somewhere ahead of us, so on we went again, making as little noise as possible, until presently Joe stopped again, and pointing forward, said softly, "There he is, look!"

The man was down in the creek-bed again, and all we could see of him above the bank was his hat. We therefore went forward once more, timing our steps by the blows of the hatchet, until we could see the man's head and shoulders; but we did not gain much by that, as he had his back to us and was too intent upon his work to turn round. At length, however, he ceased chopping, and gathering the chips of frozen sand in his hands, he cast them to one side. In doing so, he showed his face for a moment, and in that brief glimpse I recognized who it was.

Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows, as much as to say, "Do you know him?" to which I replied with a nod, and laying my hand on my companion's arm, I drew him back until only the top of the man's hat was visible again, when I whispered, "It's Long John Butterfield."

"What! The man they call 'The Yellow Pup'? How do you suppose he came to hear of the black sand?"

"From Yetmore. He is a prospector whom Yetmore grub-stakes every summer."

"'Grub-stakes,'" repeated Joe, inquiringly.

"Yes. Some prospectors go out on their own account, you know, but some of them are 'grub-staked.' This man is employed by Yetmore. He sends him out prospecting every spring, providing him with tools and 'grub' and paying him some small wages. Whether it is part of the bargain that Long John is to get any share of what he may find, I don't know, but probably it is—that is the general rule. There is very little doubt that Yetmore has sent him out now, just as Tom has sent us out, to see which stream the lead-ore in the pool came from."

"Not a doubt of it. Well, shall we go ahead and speak to him?"

Before I could reply, the man himself rose up, looked about him, and at once espied us. At seeing us standing there silently watching him, he gave a not-unnatural start of alarm, but perceiving that he had only two boys to deal with, even if we were pretty big, he climbed up the bank and advanced towards us with a threatening air.

Standing six feet five inches in his over-shoes, he was a rather formidable-looking object as he came striding down upon us, a shovel in one hand and a hatchet in the other; but as we knew him by reputation for a blusterer and a coward, we awaited his coming without any alarm for our safety.

Long John Butterfield was a well-known character in Sulphide. Though a prospector all summer, he was a bar-room loafer all winter, spending his time hanging around the saloons, and doing only work enough in the way of odd jobs to keep himself from starving until spring came round again, when Yetmore would provide for him once more.

It had formerly been his ambition to pass for a "bad man," though he found it difficult to maintain that reputation among the unbelieving citizens of Sulphide, who knew that he valued his own skin far too highly to risk it seriously. He had been wont to call himself "The Wolf," desiring to be known by that title as sounding sufficiently fierce and "bad," and being of a most unprepossessing appearance, with his matted hair, retreating forehead, long, sharp nose and projecting ears, he did represent a wolf pretty well—though, still better, a coyote.

As the people of Sulphide, however, declined to take him at his own valuation, greeting his frequent outbreaks of simulated ferocity with derisive jeers—even the small boys used to scoff at him—he was reduced to practising his arts upon strangers, which he always hastened to do when he thought it was not likely to be dangerous. Unluckily for him, though, he once tried one of his tricks upon an inoffensive newcomer, with a result so unexpected and unwelcome that his only desire thereafter was that people should forget that he had ever called himself "The Wolf"—a desire in which his many acquaintances, whether working-men or loafers, readily accommodated him. But as they playfully substituted the less desirable title of "The Yellow Pup," Long John gained little by the move.

It happened in this way: There came out from New York at one time a young fellow named Bertie Van Ness, a nephew of Marsden, the cattle man, some of whose stock we were feeding that winter. He arrived at Sulphide by coach one morning, and before going on to Marsden's he stepped into Yetmore's store to buy himself a pair of riding gauntlets. Long John was in there, and seeing the well-dressed, dapper little man, with his white collar and eastern complexion—not burned red by the Colorado sun, as all of ours are—he winked to the assembled company as much as to say, "See me take a rise out of the tenderfoot," sidled up to Bertie, who was a foot shorter than himself, leaned over him, and putting on his worst expression, said, in a harsh, growling voice, "I'm 'The Wolf.'"

It was a trick that had often been successful before: peace-loving strangers, not knowing whom they had to deal with, would usually back away and sometimes even take to their heels, which was all that Long John desired. In the present instance, however, the "bad man" miscalculated. The little stranger, seeing the ugly face within a foot of his own, withdrew a step, and without waiting for the formality of an introduction, struck "The Wolf" a very sharp blow upon the end of his nose, at the same time remarking, "Howl, then, you beast."

Long John did howl. Clapping his hands over his face, he retreated, roaring, from the store, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of those present.

Thus it was that the name of "The Wolf" fell into disuse and the title, "Yellow Pup," was substituted; and if at any time thereafter Long John became obstreperous or in any way made himself objectionable, it was only necessary for some one in company to say "Bow-wow," when the offender would forthwith efface himself, with promptness and dispatch.

This was the man who came striding down upon Joe and me, looking as though he were going to eat us up at a mouthful and think nothing of it. Doubtless he supposed that, being country boys, we had not heard the story of Bertie Van Ness, for, advancing close to us he said fiercely:

"What you doing here? Be off home! Do you know who I am? I'm 'The Wolf'!"

"So I've heard," said I, calmly; a remark which took all the wind out of the gentleman's sails at once. He collapsed with ridiculous suddenness, and with a sheepish grin, said, "I was only just a-trying you, boys, to see if you was easy scart."

"Well, you see we're not," remarked Joe. "What are you doing up here? Pretty early for prospecting, isn't it?"

"Not any earlier for me than it is for you," replied Long John, with a glance at the hatchet in Joe's hand. He was sharp enough.

Joe laughed. "That's true," said he. "I suppose we're both hunting the same thing. Did you find any of it in that hole up there?"

Long John hesitated. He would have preferred to lie about it, probably, but knowing that we could go and see for ourselves in a couple of minutes, he made a virtue of necessity and replied:

"Yes, there's some of it there; but it don't amount to much. I guess the vein ain't worth looking for. Come and see."

We walked forward and looked into the hole Long John had chopped, when we saw that his prospector's instinct had hit upon the right place again. Here also was a black streak an inch thick below the yellow sand.

It was evident that the vein of galena was somewhere up-stream, though we ourselves were unable to judge from the amount of the deposit whether it was likely to be big or little. Long John might be telling the truth when he "guessed" that it was not worth looking for, though, from what we knew of him, we, in turn, "guessed" that what he said was most likely to be the opposite of what he thought.

We could not tell, either, whether our new acquaintance was speaking the truth when he declared that he was satisfied with his day's work and had already decided to go home again; I think it rather likely that, being unable to devise any scheme for shaking us off, and not caring to act as prospector for us as well as for Yetmore, he preferred to go back at once and report progress. He was right, at any rate, in saying that the drifts ahead were too deep to admit of further prospecting; for the mountains began to close in just here, and the snow was becoming pretty heavy.

Nevertheless, Joe and I thought we would try a little further, if only for the reason that Long John would not, and we were about to part company, when we were startled to hear a voice above our heads say, "Good-morning," and, looking quickly up, we saw, seated on a dead branch, a raven, to all appearance asleep, with his feathers fluffed out and his head sunk between his shoulders.

That it was our friend, Socrates, we could not doubt, and we looked all around for the hermit, but as there was no one to be seen, Joe, addressing the raven, said:

"Hallo, Sox! Where's your master?"

"Chew o' tobacco," replied the raven.

At this Long John burst out laughing. "Well, you're a cute one," said he; and thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out a piece of tobacco which he invited Socrates to come and get. Sox flew down to a convenient rock and reached for the morsel, but the moment he perceived that it was not anything he could eat, he drew back in disdain, and eying Long John with severity, remarked, "Bow-wow."

Now, as I have intimated, nothing was so exasperating to Long John as to have any one say "bow-wow" to him, and not considering that the offender was only a bird, he raised his hatchet and would have ended Sox's career then and there had not Joe stayed his arm.

At being thus thwarted, Long John turned upon my companion, and for a moment I felt a little uneasy lest his temper should for once get the better of his discretion; but I need not have alarmed myself, for Long John's outbreaks of rage were always carefully calculated when directed against any one or anything capable of retaliation in kind, and very probably he had already concluded that two well-grown boys like ourselves, used to all kinds of hard work, might prove an awkward handful for one whose muscles had been rendered flabby by lack of exercise.

At any rate, he quickly calmed down again, pretending to laugh at the incident; but though he made some remark about "a real smart bird," I guessed from the gleam in his little ferrety eyes that if he could lay hands on Socrates, that aged scholar's chances of ever celebrating his one hundredth anniversary would be slim indeed.

"Who's the thing belong to, anyhow?" asked John. "There's no one living around here that I know of."

"He belongs to a man who lives somewhere up on this mountain," I replied. "You've probably heard of him: Peter the Hermit."

"Him!" exclaimed Long John, looking quickly all around, as though he feared the owner might make his appearance. "Well, I'm off. I've got to get back to Sulphide to-night, so I'll dig out at once."

So saying, he picked up his long-handled shovel, and using it upside-down as a walking-staff, away he went, striding over the snow at a great pace; while Socrates, seeing him depart, very appropriately called after him, "Good-bye, John."



CHAPTER VII

THE HERMIT'S WARNING

As it was now after midday, we concluded to eat our lunch before going any further, so, sitting down on the rocks, we produced the bread and cold bacon we had brought with us and prepared to refresh ourselves. Observing this, Socrates, who had flown up into a tree when Long John threatened him with the hatchet, now flipped down again and took up his station beside us, having plainly no apprehension that we would do him any harm, and doubtless thinking that if there was any food going he might come in for a share.

I was just about to offer him a scrap of bacon, when the bird suddenly gave a croak and flew off up the mountain. Naturally, we both looked up to ascertain the reason for this sudden departure, when we were startled to see a tall, bearded man with a long staff in his hands, skimming down the snow-covered slope of the mountain towards us. One glance showed us that it was our friend, the hermit, though how he could skim over the snow like that without moving his feet was a puzzle to us, until, on approaching to within twenty yards of where we sat, he stuck his staff into the snow and checked his speed, when we perceived that he was traveling on skis.

"How are you, boys?" he cried, shaking hands with us very heartily. "I'm glad to see you again. Much obliged to you, Joe, for interfering on behalf of old Sox. I would not have the bird hurt for a good deal. I saw the whole transaction from where I was standing up there in that grove of aspens. Why did your companion go off so suddenly?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I only just mentioned to him that Sox belonged to you, when he picked up his shovel and skipped."

Peter laughed. "I understand," said he. "The gentleman and I have met before, and have no wish to meet again. Our first and only interview was not conducive to a desire for further acquaintance. He is not a friend of yours, I hope."

"Not at all," I replied. "We never met him before."

"Well, I'm glad of that, because he is not one to be intimate with: he is a thief."

"Why do you say that?" asked Joe, rather startled.

"Because I happen to know it's so. I'll tell you how. I had set a bear-trap once up on the mountain back of my house, and going up next day to see if I had caught anything, I found this fellow busy skinning my bear. He had come upon it by accident, I suppose, and the bear being caught by both front feet, and being therefore perfectly helpless, he had bravely shot it, and was preparing to walk off with the skin when I appeared."

"And what did you say to him?" I asked.

"Nothing," replied Peter. "I just sat down on a rock near by, with my rifle across my knees, and watched him; and he grew so embarrassed and nervous and fidgety that he couldn't stand it any longer, and at last he sneaked off without completing his job and without either of us having said a word."

"That certainly was a queer interview," remarked Joe, laughing, "and a most effective way, I should think, of dealing with a blustering rogue like Long John."

"Long John?" repeated the hermit, inquiringly.

"Yes, Long John Butterfield; known also as 'The Yellow Pup.'"

"Oh, that's who it is, is it? I've heard of him from my friend, Tom Connor."

"Tom Connor!" we both exclaimed. "Do you know Tom Connor, then?"

"Yes, we have met two or three times in the mountains, and he once spent the night with me in my cabin—he is the 'one exception' I told you about, you remember. He seems like a good, honest fellow, and he has certainly been most obliging to me."

As we looked inquiringly at him, wondering how Tom could have found an opportunity to be of service to one living such a secluded life as the hermit did, our friend went on:

"I happened to mention to him that I had great need of an iron pot, and three days afterwards, on returning home one evening, what should I find standing outside my door but a big iron pot, and in it a chip, upon which was written in pencil, 'Compliments of T. Connor.'"

"Just like Tom," said I, laughing. "He has more friends than any other man in the district, and he deserves it, for when he makes a friend he can't rest easy until he has found some way of doing him a service."

"And he's as honest as they make 'em," Joe continued. "If he's a friend, he's a friend, and if he's an enemy, he's an enemy—he doesn't leave you in doubt."

"Just what I should think," said the hermit. "Very different from Long John, if I'm not mistaken. That gentleman, I suspect, is of the kind that would shake hands with you in the morning and then come in the night and burn your house down. What were you and he doing, by the way? I've been watching you for an hour. First one and then the other would kneel down in the snow and chop a hole in the bed of the creek, then get up, walk a mile, and do it again. If I may be allowed to say so," he went on, laughing, "it appeared to an outsider like a crazy sort of amusement."

"I should think it might," said I, laughing too; and I then proceeded to tell our friend the object of these seemingly senseless actions.

"And do you expect to go prospecting for this vein of galena in the spring?" he inquired, when I had concluded.

"Not we!" I exclaimed. "My father wouldn't let us if we wanted to. We are doing this work for Tom Connor, whom my father is anxious to serve, he having done us, among others, a very good turn."

"I see," said the hermit. "And this man, Yetmore, or, rather, his henchman, Long John, will be coming as soon as the snow is off to hunt for the vein in competition with our friend, Connor."

"That is what we expect."

"Well, then, I can help you a little. We will, at least, secure for Connor a start over the enemy."

"How?" I asked.

"You remember, of course," said the hermit, "that sulphurous stuff that was cooking on the flat stone outside my door the day you came down to my house through the clouds? That was galena ore."

"Why, of course!" I exclaimed, slapping my leg. "What pudding-heads we must have been, Joe, not to have thought of it before. I had forgotten all about it. Have you found the vein, then?"

"No, I have not; nor have I ever taken the trouble to look for it, having found a place where I can get a sufficient supply for my purposes to last for years."

"And what do you use it for?" I asked.

"To make bullets from. I get the powdered ore, roast out the sulphur on that flat stone, and then melt down the residue."

"And where do you get it?"

"That is what I am going to tell you. You know that deep, rocky gorge where Big Reuben had his den? Well, near the head of that gorge is a basin in the rock in which is a large quantity of this powdered galena, all in very fine grains, showing that they have traveled a considerable distance. That stream is one of the four little rills which make up this creek, and if you tell Connor of this deposit it will save him the trouble of prospecting the other three creeks, as he would otherwise naturally do; and as Long John will pretty certainly do, for the creek coming out of Big Reuben's gorge is the last of the four he would come to if he took up his search where he left off to-day—which would be the plan he would surely follow. It should save Connor a day's work at least—perhaps two or three."

"That's true," I responded. "It is an important piece of information. I wonder, though, that nobody else has ever found the deposit you speak of."

"Do you? I don't. Considering that Big Reuben was standing guard over it, I think it would have been rather remarkable if any one had discovered it."

"That's true enough," remarked Joe. "But that being the case, how did you come to discover it yourself? Big Reuben was no respecter of persons, that I'm aware of."

"Ah, but that's just it. He was. He was afraid of me; or, to speak more correctly, he was afraid of Sox—the one single thing on earth of which he was afraid. Before I knew of his existence, I was going up the gorge one day when Big Reuben bounced out on me, and almost before I knew what had happened I found myself hanging by my finger-tips to a ledge of rock fifteen feet up the cliff, with the bear standing erect below me trying his best to claw me down. My hold was so precarious that I could not have retained it long, and my case would have been pretty serious had it not been for Socrates. That sagacious bird, seeming to recognize that I was in desperate straits, flew up, perched upon the face of the cliff just out of reach of the bear's claws, and in a tone of authority ordered him to lie down. The astonishment of the bear at being thus addressed by a bird was ludicrous, and at any other time would have made me laugh heartily. He at once dropped upon all fours, and when Socrates flipped down to the ground and walked towards him, using language fit to make your hair stand on end, the bear backed away. And he kept on backing away as Sox advanced upon him, pouring out as he came every word and every fragment of a quotation he had learned in the course of a long and studious career. One of the reasons I have for thinking that he is getting on for a hundred years old is that Sox on that occasion raked up old slang phrases in use in the first years of the century—phrases I had never heard him use before, and which I am sure he cannot have heard since he has been in my possession.

"This stream of vituperation was too much for Big Reuben. He feared no man living, as you know, but a common black raven with a man's voice in his stomach was 'one too many for him,' as the saying is. He turned and bolted; while Socrates, flying just above his head, pursued him with jeers and laughter, until at last he found inglorious safety in the inmost recesses of his den, whither Sox was much too wise to follow him."

"I don't wonder you set a high value on old Sox, then," said I. "He probably saved your life that time."

"He certainly did: I could not have held on five minutes longer."

"And did you ever run across Big Reuben again?" asked Joe.

"Yes. Or, rather, I suppose I should say 'no.' I saw him a good many times, but he never would allow me to come near him. Whether he thought I was in league with the Evil One, I can't say, but, at any rate, one glimpse of me was enough to send him flying; and as I was sure I need have no fear of him, I had no hesitation in walking up the gorge if it happened to be convenient; and thus it was that I discovered the deposit of lead-ore up near its head."

As this piece of information precluded the necessity of our prospecting any further, and as we had by this time finished our meal—which was shared by Peter and his attendant sprite—we informed our friend that it was time for us to be starting back; upon which he remarked that he would go part of the way with us, as, by taking one of the gulches farther on he would find an easier ascent to his house than by returning the way he had come. Hanging his skis over his shoulder, therefore, he trudged along beside us at a pace which made us hustle to keep up with him.

"Do you think you would be able to find my house again?" asked the hermit as we walked along.

"No," I replied, "I'm sure we couldn't. When we came down the mountain in the clouds that day we were so mixed up that we did not even know whether we were on Lincoln or Elkhorn, though we had kept away so much to the left coming down that we rather thought we must have got on to one of the spurs of Lincoln."

"Well, you had. I'll show you directly what line you took."

Half a mile farther on, at the point where the stream we were following joined our own creek, our friend stopped, and pointing up the mountain, said:

"If you ever have occasion to come and look me up, all you have to do is to follow your own creek up to its head, when you will come to a high, unscalable cliff, and right at the foot of that cliff you will see the great pile of fallen rocks in which my house is hidden. You can see the cliff from here. When you came down that day you missed the head of the creek you had followed in going up, and by unconsciously bearing to your left all the time you passed the heads of several others as well, and so at length you got into the valley which would have brought you out here if you had continued to follow it."

"I see. How far up is it to your house?"

"About five miles from where we stand."

"It must be all under snow up there," remarked Joe. "I wonder you are not afraid of being buried alive."

The hermit smiled. "I'm not afraid of that," said he. "It is true the gulch below me gets drifted pretty full—there is probably forty feet of snow in it at this moment—but the point where my house stands always seems to escape; a fact which is due, I think, to the shape of the cliff behind it. It is in the form of a horseshoe, and whichever way the wind blows, the cliff seems to give it a twist which sends the snow off in one direction or another, so that, while the drifts are piled up all around me, the head of the gulch is always fairly free."

"That's convenient," said Joe. "But for all that, I think I should be afraid to live there myself, especially in the spring."

"Why?" asked the hermit. "Why in the spring particularly?"

"I should be afraid of snowslides. The mountain above the cliff is very steep—at least it looks so from here."

"It is very steep, extremely steep, and the snow up there is very heavy this winter—I went up to examine it two days ago. But at the same time I saw no traces of there ever having been a slide. There are a good many trees growing on the slope, some of them of large size, which is pretty fair evidence that there has been no slide for a long time—not for a hundred years probably. For as you see, there and there"—pointing to two long, bare tracks on the mountain-side—"when the slides do come down they clean off every tree in their course. No, I have no fear of snowslides.

"By the way," he continued, "there is one thing you might tell Tom Connor when you see him, and that is that Big Reuben's creek heads in a shallow draw on the mountain above my house. If you follow with your eye from the summit of the cliff upward, you will notice a stretch of bare rock, and above it a strip of trees extending downward from left to right. It is among those trees that the creek heads.

"You might mention that to Connor," he went on, "in case he should prefer to begin his prospecting downward from the head of the creek instead of upward from Big Reuben's gorge. And tell him, too, that if he will come to me, I shall be glad to take him up there at any time."

"Very well," said I, "we'll do so."

"Yes, we'll certainly tell him," said Joe. "It might very well happen that Tom would prefer to begin at the top, especially if he should find that Long John had got ahead of him and was already working up from below."

"Exactly. That is what I was thinking of. Well, I must be off. I have a longish tramp before me, and the sunset comes pretty early under my cliff."

"Won't you come home with us to-night?" I asked. "We have only two miles to go. My father told me to ask you the next time we met, and this is such a fine opportunity. I wish you would."

"Yes; do," Joe chimed in.

But the hermit shook his head. "You are very kind to suggest it," said he, "and I am really greatly obliged to you, and to Mr. Crawford also, but I think not. Thank you, all the same; but I'll go back home. So, good-bye."

"Some other time, perhaps," suggested Joe.

"Perhaps—we'll see. By the way, there was one other thing I intended to say, and that is:—look out for Long John! He is a dangerous man if he is a coward; in fact, all the more dangerous because he is a coward. So now, good-bye; and remember"—holding up a warning finger—"look out for Long John!"

With that, he slipped his feet into his skis and away he went; while Joe and I turned our own faces homeward.



CHAPTER VIII

THE WILD CAT'S TRAIL

"He is quite right," said my father, when, on reaching home again, we related to him the results of our day's work and told him how the hermit had warned us against Long John. "He is quite right. Your hermit is a man of sense in spite of his reputation to the contrary. Yetmore, of course, will do anything he can to forestall Tom Connor, but, if I am not mistaken, he will not venture beyond the law; whereas Long John, I feel sure, would not be restrained by any such consideration. He would be quite ready to resort to violence, provided always that he could do it without risk to his own precious person. The hermit is right, too, in saying that Long John is all the more dangerous for being the cowardly creature that he is: whatever he may do to head off Tom will be done in the dark—you may be sure of that. We must warn Tom, so that he may be on his guard."

"I'm afraid it won't be much use warning Tom," said I. "He is such a heedless fellow and so chuck full of courage that he won't trouble to take any precautions."

"I don't suppose he will, but we will warn him, all the same, so that he may at least go about with his eyes open. I'll write to him again to-morrow. And now to our own business. Come into the back room. I want your opinion."

It had been my father's custom for some time back—and a very good custom, too, I think—whenever there arose a question of management about the affairs of the ranch, to take Joe and me into consultation with him. It is probable enough that our opinion, when he got it, was not worth much, but the mere fact that we were asked for it gave us a feeling of responsibility and grown-up-ness which had a good effect. Whenever, therefore, any question of importance turned up, the whole male population of Crawford's Basin voted upon it, and though it is true that nine times out of ten any proposition advanced by my father would receive a unanimous vote, it did happen every now and then that one of us would make a suggestion which would be adopted, much to our satisfaction, thus adding a zest to the work, whatever it might be. For whether the plan originated with my father or with one of us, as we all voted on it we thereby made it our own, and having made it our own; we took infinitely more interest in its accomplishment than does the ordinary hired man, who is told to do this or do that without reason or explanation.

It will be readily understood, too, how flattering it was to a couple of young fellows like ourselves to be asked for our opinion by a man like my father, for whose good sense and practical knowledge we had the greatest respect, and of course we were all attention at once, when, seating himself in his desk chair, he began:

"You remember that when Marsden's cattle first came they broke a couple of the posts around the hay-corral, and that when we re-set them we found that the butt-ends of the posts were beginning to get pretty rotten?"

He happened to catch Joe's eye, who replied:

"I remember; and you said at the time that we should have to renew the fence entirely in two years or less."

"Exactly. Well, now, this is what I've been thinking: instead of renewing with posts and poles, why not build a rough stone wall all round the present fence, which, when once done, would last forever? Within a half-mile of the corral there is material in plenty fallen from the face of the Second Mesa; and everything on the ranch being in good working order, you two boys would be free to put in several weeks hauling stones and dumping them outside the fence—the actual building I would leave till next fall. It will mean a long spell of pretty hard work, for you will hardly gather material enough if you keep at it all the rest of the winter. Now, what do you think?"

"It seems to me like a good plan," Joe answered. "We can take two teams and wagons, help each other to load, drive down together, and help each other to unload; for I suppose you would use stones as big as we can handle by preference."

"Yes, the bigger the better; especially for the lower courses and for the corners. What's your opinion, Phil?"

"I agree with Joe," I replied. "And with such a short haul—for it will average nearer a quarter than half a mile—I should think we might even collect stones enough for the purpose this winter, provided there doesn't come a big fall of snow and stop us."

"Then you shall begin to-morrow," said my father.

"But here's another question," he continued. "Should we build the wall close around the present fence, or should we increase the size of the corral while we are about it?"

"I should keep to the present dimensions," said I. "There is no chance that I see of our ever increasing the size of our hay-crop to any great extent, and the corral we have now has always held it all, even that very big crop we had the summer Joe came. If——"

"Yes, 'if,'" my father interrupted, knowing very well what I had in mind. "If we could drain 'the bottomless forty rods' we should need a corral half as big again; but I'm afraid that is beyond us, so we may as well confine ourselves to providing for present needs."

"My wig!" exclaimed Joe—his favorite exclamation—at the same time rumpling his hair, as though that were the wig he referred to. "What a great thing it would be if we could but drain those forty rods!"

"It undoubtedly would," replied my father. "It would about double the value of the ranch, I think; for, besides diverting the present county road between San Remo and Sulphide—for everybody would then leave the old hill-road and come past our door instead—it would give us a large piece of new land for growing oats and hay. And, do you know, I begin to think it is very possible that within a couple of years we shall have a market for more oats and hay than we can grow, even including the 'forty rods.'"

"Why?" I asked, in surprise; for, at present, though we disposed of our produce readily enough, it could not be said that there was a booming market.

"It is just guess-work," my father replied, "pure guess-work on my part, with a number of good big 'ifs' about it; but if Tom Connor or Long John, or, indeed, any one else, should discover a big vein of lead-ore up on Mount Lincoln—and the chances, I think, begin to look favorable—what would be the result?"

"I don't know," said I. "What?"

"Why, this whole district would take a big leap forward—that is what would happen. You see, as things stand now, the smelters, not being able to procure in the district lead-ores enough for fluxing purposes, are obliged to bring them in by railroad from other camps. This is very expensive, and the consequence is that they are obliged to make such high charges for smelting that any ore of less value than thirty dollars to the ton is at present worthless to the miner: the cost of hauling it to the smelter and the smelter-charges when it gets there eat up all the proceeds."

"I see," said Joe. "And the discovery of a mine which would provide the smelters with all the lead-ore they wanted would bring down the charges of smelting and enable the producers of thirty dollar ore to work their claims at a profit."

"Precisely. And as nine-tenths of the claims in the district produce mainly low-grade ore, which is now left lying on the dumps as worthless, and as even the big mines take out, and throw aside, probably ten tons of low-grade in getting out one ton of high-grade, you can see what a 'boost' the district would receive if all this unavailable material were suddenly to become a valuable and marketable commodity."

"I should think it would!" exclaimed Joe, enthusiastically. "The prospectors would be getting out by hundreds; the population of Sulphide would double; San Remo would take a great jump forward; while we—why, we shouldn't begin to be able to grow oats and hay enough to meet the demand."

My father nodded. "That's what I think," said he.

"And there's another thing," cried I, taking up Joe's line of prophecy. "If a big vein of lead-ore should be discovered anywhere about the head of our creek, the natural way for the freighters to get down to San Remo would be through here, if——"

"That's it," interrupted my father. "That's the whole thing. I-F, IF."

Dear me! What a big, big little word that was. To represent it of the size it looked to us, it would be necessary to paint it on the sky with the tail of a comet dipped in an ocean of ink!

After a pause of a minute or two, during which we all sat silent, considering over again what we had considered many and many a time before: whether there were not some possible way of draining off the "forty rods," Joe suddenly straightened himself in his seat, rumpled his hair once more—by which sign I knew he had some idea in his head—and said:

"I suppose you have thought of it before, Mr. Crawford, but would it be possible to run a tunnel up from the lower edge of the First Mesa, and so draw off the water?"

"I have thought of it before, Joe," replied my father, "and while I think it might work, I have concluded that it is out of the question. How long a tunnel would it take, do you calculate?"

"Well, a little more than a quarter of a mile, I suppose."

"Yes. Say twelve hundred feet, at least. Well, to run a tunnel of that length would be cheap at ten dollars a foot."

"Phew!" Joe whistled, opening his eyes widely. "That is a staggerer, sure enough. It does look as if there was no way out of it."

"No, I'm afraid not," said my father. "And as to making a permanent road across the marsh, I have tried everything I can think of including corduroying with long poles covered with brush and earth. But it was no use. We had a very wet season that summer, and the road, poles and all, was covered with water. That settled it to my mind; we could not expect the freighters and others to come our way when, at any time, they might find the road under water."

"No; that did seem to be a clincher. Well, as there appears to be no more to be said, let's get to bed, Phil. If we are going to haul rocks to-morrow, we shall need a good night's sleep as a starter."

The cliff which bounded the eastern edge of the Second Mesa—at the same time bounding the ranch on its western side—was made up of layers of rock of an average thickness of about a foot, having been evidently built up by successive small flows of lava. The stones piled at the foot of the bluff being flat on both sides were therefore very convenient for wall-building, and so plentiful that we made rapid progress at first in hauling them down to the corral. At the end of three weeks, however, we had picked up all those fragments that were most accessible, and were now obliged to loosen up the great heaps of larger slabs and crack the stones with a sledgehammer. Some of these heaps were so large, and the stones composing them of such great size, that when we came to dislodge them we found that an ordinary crowbar made no impression; but we overcame that difficulty, at Joe's suggestion, by using a big pine pole as a lever. Inserting the butt-end of the pole between two big rocks, we would tie a rope to the other end and hitch the mules to it. The leverage thus obtained was tremendous, and unless the pole broke, something had to come. In this way we could sometimes bring down at one pull rock enough to keep us busy for a week.

Day after day, without a break, we continued this work, and though it was certainly hard labor we enjoyed it, especially when, by constant practice we found ourselves handling all the time bigger and bigger stones with less and less exertion.

It would seem that there could not be much art in so simple a matter as putting a stone into a wagon, and as far as stones of moderate size are concerned there is not. But when you come to deal with slabs of rock weighing a thousand pounds or more, you will find that the "know how" counts for very much more than mere strength.

Of course, to handle pieces of this size it was necessary to use skids and crowbars, with which, aided by little rollers made of bits of gas-pipe, we did not hesitate to tackle stones which, when we first began, we should have cracked into two or three pieces.

We had been at it, as I have said, for more than three weeks, when it happened one day that while driving down with our last load, we were met face to face by a wildcat, with one of our chickens in its mouth. There were a good many of these animals having their lairs among the fallen rocks at the foot of the mesa, and they caused us some trouble, but this was the first time I had known one to make a raid on the chicken-yard in broad daylight. I suppose rabbits were scarce, and the poor beast was driven to this unusual course by hunger.

I was driving the mules at the moment, but Joe, who was walking beside the wagon, picked up a stone and hurled it at the cat. The animal, of course, bolted—taking his chicken with him, though—and disappeared among the rocks close to where we had just been at work.

"Joe," said I, "we'll bring up the shotgun to-morrow. We may stir that fellow out and get a shot at him."

Accordingly, next day, we took the gun with us, and leaning it against a tree near the wagon, set about our usual work. The first stone we loaded that morning was an extra-large one, and Joe on one side of the wagon and I on the other were prying it into position with our pinch-bars, when my companion, who was facing the bluff, gently laid down his bar and whispered:

"Keep quiet, Phil! Don't move! I see that wildcat! Get hold of the lines in case the mules should scare, while I see if I can reach the gun."

Stooping behind the wagon, he slipped away to where the gun stood, came stooping back, and then, straightening up, he raised the gun to his shoulder. Up to that moment the cat had stood so still that I had been unable to distinguish it, but just as Joe raised the gun it bolted. My partner fired a snap-shot, and down came the cat, tumbling over and over.

"Good shot!" I cried. But hardly had I done so when the animal jumped up again and popped into a hole between two rocks before Joe could get a second shot.

"Let's dig him out, Joe," I cried. And seizing a crowbar, I led the way to the foot of the cliff.

Working away with the bar, while Joe stood ready with the gun, I soon enlarged the hole enough to let me look in, but it was so dark inside, and I got into my own light so much that I could see nothing.

I happened to have a letter in my pocket, and taking the envelope I dropped a little stone into it, screwed up the corner, and lighting the other end, threw the bit of paper into the hole. My little fire-brand flickered for a moment, and then burned up brightly, when I saw the wildcat lying flat upon its side, evidently quite dead.

Thereupon we both set to work and enlarged the hole so that Joe could crawl in, which he immediately did. I expected him to come out again in a moment, but it was a full minute before he reappeared, and when he did so he only poked out his head and said, in an excited tone:

"Come in here, Phil! Here's the queerest thing—just come in here for a minute!"

Of course I at once crept through the hole, to find myself in a little chamber about ten feet long, six feet wide and four feet high, built up of great flat slabs of stone, which, falling from above, had accidentally so arranged themselves as to form this little room.

At first I thought it was the little room itself to which Joe had referred as "queer," but Joe, scouting such an idea, exclaimed:

"No, no, bless you! I didn't mean that. That's nothing. Look here!"

So saying, he struck a match and showed me, along one side of the chamber, a great crack in the ground, three feet wide, extending to the left an unknown distance—for in that direction it was covered by loose rocks of large size—while to the right it pinched out entirely.

It was evident to me that this crevice had existed ever since the great break had occurred which had separated the First from the Second Mesa, but that, being covered by the fragments which had fallen from the cliff—itself formed by the subsidence of the First Mesa from what had once been the general level—it had hitherto remained concealed.

"Well, that certainly is 'queer,'" said I. "How deep is it, I wonder?"

"Don't know. Pitch a stone into it."

I did so; judging from the sound that the crevice was probably thirty or forty feet deep.

"That's what I should guess," said Joe. "But there's another thing, Phil, a good deal queerer than a mere crack in the ground. Lie down and put your ear over the hole and listen."

I did as directed, and then at length I understood where the "queerness" came in. I could distinctly hear the rush of water down below!

Rising to my knees, I stared at Joe, who, kneeling also, stared back at me, both keeping silence for a few seconds. At length:

"Where does it come from, Joe?" I asked.

"I don't know," Joe replied. "Mount Lincoln, perhaps. But I do know where it goes to."

"You do? Where?"

"Down to 'the forty rods,' of course."

"That's it!" I cried, thumping my fist into the palm of the other hand. "That's certainly it! Look here, Joe. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll quit hauling rock for this morning, go and get a long rope, climb down into this crack, see how much water there is, and find out if we can where it goes to."

"All right," said Joe. "Your father won't object, I'm sure."

"No, he won't object. Though he relies on our doing a good day's work without supervision, he relies, too, on our using our common sense, and I'm sure he'll agree that this is a matter that ought to be investigated without delay. It may be of the greatest importance."

"All right!" cried Joe. "Then let us get about it at once!"



CHAPTER IX

THE UNDERGROUND STREAM

It was on a Saturday morning that we made this discovery, and as my father and mother had both driven down to San Remo and would not be back till sunset, we could not ask permission to abandon our regular work and go exploring. But, as I had said to Joe, though he trusted us to work faithfully at any task we might undertake, my father also expected us to use our own discretion in any matter which might turn up when he was not at hand to advise with us.

I had, therefore, no hesitation in driving back to the ranch, when, having unloaded our one stone and stabled the mules, Joe and I, taking with us a long, stout rope and the stable-lantern, retraced our steps to the wildcat's house.

The first thing to be done was to enlarge the entrance so that we might have daylight to work by, and this being accomplished, we lighted the lantern and lowered it by a cord into the hole. We found, however, that a bulge in the rock prevented our seeing to the bottom, and all we gained by this move was to ascertain that the crevice was about forty feet deep, as we had guessed. The next thing, therefore, was for one of us to go down, and the only way to do this was to slide down a rope.

This, doubtless, would be easy enough, but the climbing up again might be another matter. We were not afraid to venture on this score, however, for, as it happened, we had both often amused ourselves by climbing a rope hung from one of the rafters in the hay-barn, and though that was a climb of only twenty feet, we had done it so often and so easily that we did not question our ability to ascend a rope of double the length.

"Who's to go down, Joe, you or I?" I asked.

"Whichever you like, Phil," replied my companion. "I suppose you'd like to be the first, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes, that's a matter of course," I answered, "but as you are the discoverer you ought to have first chance, so down you go, old chap!"

"Very well, then," said Joe, "if you say so, I'll go."

"Well, I do—so that settles it."

I knew Joe well enough to be sure he would be eager to be the first, and though I should have liked very much to take the lead myself, it seemed to me only just that Joe, as the original discoverer, should, as I had said, be given the choice.

This question being decided, we tied one end of the rope around a big stone, heavy enough to hold an elephant, and dropped the other end into the hole. The descent at first was very easy, for the walls being only three feet apart, and there being many rough projections on either side, it was not much more difficult than going down a ladder, especially as I, standing a little to one side, lowered the lantern bit by bit, that Joe might have a light all the time to see where to set his feet.

Arrived at the bulge, Joe stopped, and standing with one foot on either wall, looked up and said:

"It opens out below here, Phil; I shall have to slide the rest of the way. You might lower the lantern down to the bottom now, if you please."

I did so at once, and then asked:

"Can you see the bottom, Joe?"

"Yes," he replied. "The crevice is much wider down there, and the floor seems to be smooth and dry. I can't see any sign of water anywhere, but I can hear it plainly enough. Good-bye for the present; I'm going down now."

With that he disappeared under the bulge in the wall, while I, placing my hand upon the rope, presently felt the strain slacken, whereupon I called out:

"All right, Joe?"

"All right," came the answer.

"How's the air down there?"

"Seems to be perfectly fresh."

"Can you see the water?"

"No, I can't; but I can hear it. There's a heap of big rocks in the passage to the south and the splashing comes from the other side of it. I'm going to untie the lantern, Phil, and go and explore a bit. Just wait a minute."

Very soon I heard his voice again calling up to me.

"It's all right, Phil. I've found the water. You may as well come down."

"Look here, Joe," I replied. "Before I come down, it might be as well to make sure that you can come up."

"There's something in that," said Joe, with a laugh. "Well, then, I'll come up first."

I felt the rope tauten again, and pretty soon my companion's head appeared, when, scrambling over the bulge, he once more stood astride of the crevice, and looking up said:

"It's perfectly safe, Phil. The only troublesome bit is in getting over the bulge, and that doesn't amount to anything. It's safe enough for you to come down."

"Very well, then, I'll come; so go on down again."

Taking a candle we had brought with us, I set it on a projection where it would cast a light into the fissure, and seizing the rope, down I went. The descent was perfectly easy, and in a few seconds I found myself standing beside Joe at the bottom.

The crevice down here was much wider than above—ten or twelve feet—the floor, composed of sandstone, having a decided downward tilt towards the south. In this direction Joe, lantern in hand, led the way.

Piled up in the passage was a large heap of lava-blocks which had fallen, presumably, through the opening above, and climbing over these, we saw before us a very curious sight.



On the right hand side of the crevice—that is to say, on the western or Second Mesa side—between the sandstone floor and the lowest ledge of lava, there issued a thin sheet of water, coming out with such force that it swept right across, and striking the opposite wall, turned and ran off southward—away from us, that is. Only for a short distance, however, it ran in that direction, for we could see that the stream presently took another turn, this time to the eastward, presumably finding its way through a crack in the lava of the First Mesa.

"I'm going to see where it goes to," cried Joe; and pulling off his boots and rolling up his trousers, he waded in. He expected to find the water as cold as the iced water of any other mountain stream, but to his surprise it was quite pleasantly warm.

"I'll tell you what it is, Phil," said he, stepping back again for a moment. "This water must run under ground for a long distance to be as warm as it is. And what's more, there must be a good-sized reservoir somewhere between the lava and the sandstone to furnish pressure enough to make the water squirt out so viciously as it does."

Entering the stream again, which, though hardly an inch deep, came out of the rock with such "vim" that when it struck his feet it flew up nearly to his knees, Joe waded through, and then turning, shouted to me:

"It goes down this way, Phil, through a big crack in the lava. It just goes flying. Don't trouble to come"—observing that I was about to pull off my own boots—"you can't see any distance down the crack."

But whatever there was to be seen, I wanted to see too, and disregarding his admonition, I pretty soon found myself standing beside my companion.

The great cleft into which we were peering was about six feet wide at the bottom, coming together some twenty feet above our heads, having been apparently widened at the base by the action of the water, which, being here ankle-deep, rushed foaming over and around the many blocks of lava with which the channel was encumbered. As far as we could see, the fissure led straight away without a bend; and Joe was for trying to walk down it at once. I suggested, however, that we leave that for the present and try another plan.

"Look here, Joe," said I. "If we try to do that we shall probably get pretty wet, and stand a good chance besides of hurting our feet among the rocks. Now, I propose that we go down to the ranch again, get our rubber boots, and at the same time bring back with us my father's compass and the tape-measure and try to survey this water-course. By doing that, and then by following the same line on the surface, we may be able to decide whether it is really this stream which keeps 'the forty rods' so wet."

"I don't think there can be any doubt about that," Joe replied; "but I think your plan is a good one, all the same, so let us do it."

We did not waste much time in getting down to the ranch and back again, when, pulling on our rubber boots, we proceeded to make our survey. It was not an easy task.

With the ring at the end of the tape-measure hooked over my little finger, I took a candle in that hand and the compass in the other, and having ascertained that the course of the stream was due southeast, I told Joe to go ahead. My partner, therefore, with his arm slipped through the handle of the lantern and with a pole in his hand with which to test the depth of the stream, thereupon started down the passage, stepping from rock to rock when possible, and taking to the water when the rocks were too far apart, until, having reached the limit of the tape-measure, he made a mark upon the wall with a piece of white chalk.

This being done, I noted on a bit of paper the direction and the distance, when Joe advanced once more, I following as far as to the chalk-mark, when the operation was repeated.

In this manner we worked our way, slowly and carefully, down the passage, the direction of which varied only two or three degrees to one side or the other of southeast, until, having advanced a little more than a thousand feet, we found our further progress barred.

For some time it had appeared to us that the sound of splashing water was increasing in distinctness, though the stream itself made so much noise in that hollow passage that we could not be sure whether we were right or not. At length, however, having made his twentieth chalk-mark, indicating one thousand feet, Joe, waving his lantern for me to come on, advanced once more; but before I had come to his last mark, he stopped and shouted back to me that he could go no farther.

Wondering why not, I slowly waded forward, Joe himself winding up the tape-measure as I approached, until I found myself standing beside my companion, when I saw at once "why not."

The stream here took a sudden dive down hill, falling about three feet into a large pool, the limits of which we could not discern—for we could see neither sides nor end—its surface unbroken, except in a few places where we could detect the ragged points of big lava-blocks projecting above the water, while here and there a rounded boulder showed its smooth and shining head.

Joe, very carefully descending to the edge of the pool, measured the depth with his rod, when, finding it to be about four feet deep, we concluded that we would let well enough alone and end our survey at this point.

"Come on up, Joe," I called out. "No use trying to go any farther: it's too dangerous; we might get in over our heads."

"Just a minute," Joe replied. "Let's see if we can't find out which way the current sets in the pool."

With that he took from his pocket a newspaper he had brought with him in case for any purpose we should need to make a "flare," and crumpling this into a loose ball he set it afloat in the pool. Away it sailed, quickly at first, and then more slowly; and taking a sight on it as far as it was distinguishable, I found that the set of the current continued as before—due southeast.

"All right, Joe," I cried. "Come on, now." And Joe, giving me the end of his stick to take hold of, quickly rejoined me, when together we made our way carefully up the stream again, and climbing the rope, once more found ourselves out in the daylight.

"Now, Joe," said I, "let us run our line and find out where it takes us."

Having previously measured the distance from the point where the underground stream turned southeast to where the rope hung down, we now measured the same distance back again along the foot of the bluff, and thence, ourselves turning southeastward, we measured off a thousand feet. This brought us down to the lowest of the old lake-benches, about a hundred yards back of the house, when, sighting along the same line with the compass, we found that that faithful little servant pointed us straight to the entrance of the lower canyon.

"Then that does settle it!" cried Joe. "We've found the stream that keeps 'the forty rods' wet; there can be no doubt of it."

It did, indeed seem certain that we had at last discovered the stream which supplied "the forty rods" with water; but allowing that we had discovered it:—what then? How much better off were we?

Beneath our feet, as we had now every reason to believe, ran the long-sought water-course, but between us and it was a solid bed of lava about forty feet thick; and how to get the water to the surface, and thus prevent it from continuing to render useless the meadow below, was a problem beyond our powers.

"It beats me," said Joe, taking off his hat and tousling his hair according to custom. "I can see no possible way of doing it. We shall have to leave it to your father. Perhaps he may be able to think of a plan. Do you suppose he'll venture to go down the rope, Phil?"

"No, I don't," I replied. "It is all very well for you and me, with our one hundred and seventy pounds, or thereabouts, but as my father weighs forty pounds more than either of us, and has not been in the habit of climbing ropes for amusement as long as I can remember, I think the chances are that he won't try it."

"I suppose not. It's a pity, though, for I'm sure he would be tremendously interested to see the stream down there in the crevice. Couldn't we——Look here, Phil: couldn't we set up a ladder to reach from the bottom up to the bulge?"

I shook my head.

"I don't think so," I answered. "It would take a ladder twenty feet long, and the bulge in the wall would prevent its going down."

"That's true. Well, then, I'll tell you what we can do. We'll make two ladders of ten feet each—a ten-foot pole will go down easily enough—set one on the floor of the crevice and the other on that wide ledge about half way up to the bulge. What do you think of that?"

"Yes, I think we could do that," I replied. "We'll try it anyhow. But we must go in and get some dinner now: it's close to noon."

We did not take long over our dinner—we were too anxious to get to work again—and as soon as we had finished we selected from our supply of fire-wood four straight poles, each about ten feet long, and with these, a number of short pieces of six-inch plank, a hammer, a saw and a bag of nails, we drove back to the scene of action.

Even a ten-foot pole, we found, was an awkward thing to get down to the bottom of the fissure, but after a good deal of coaxing we succeeded in lowering them all, when we at once set to work building our ladders.

The first one, standing on the floor of the crevice, reached as high as the ledge Joe had mentioned, while the second, planted upon the ledge itself, leaned across the chasm, its upper end resting against the rock just below the bulge, so that, with the rope to hold on by, it ought to be easy enough to get up and down. It is true that the second ladder being almost perpendicular, looked a little precarious, but we had taken great care to set it up solidly and were certain it could not slip. As to the strength of the ladders, there was nothing to fear on that score, for the smallest of the poles was five inches in diameter at the little end.

This work took us so long, for we were very careful to make things strong and firm, that it was within half an hour of sunset ere we had finished, and as it was then too late to begin hauling rocks, we drove down to the ranch again at once.

As we came within sight of the house, we had the pleasure of seeing the buggy with my father and mother in it draw up at the door. Observing us coming, they waited for us, when, the moment we jumped out of the wagon, before we could say a word ourselves, my father exclaimed:

"Hallo, boys! What are you wearing your rubber boots for?"

My mother, however, looking at our faces instead of at our feet, with that quickness of vision most mothers of boys seem to possess, saw at once that something unusual had occurred.

"What's happened, Phil?" she asked.

"We've made a discovery," I replied, "and we want father to come and see it."

"Can't I come, too?" she inquired, smiling at my eagerness.

"I'm afraid not," I answered. "I wish you could, but I'm afraid your petticoats would get in the way."

To this, perceiving easily enough that we had some surprise in store for my father, and not wishing to spoil the fun, my mother merely replied:

"Oh, would they? Well, I'm afraid I couldn't come anyhow: I must go in and prepare supper. So, be off with you at once, and don't be late. You can tell me all about it this evening."

"One minute, father!" I cried; and thereupon I ran to the house, reappearing in a few seconds with his rubber boots, which I thrust into the back of the buggy, and then, climbing in on one side while Joe scrambled in on the other, I called out:

"Now, father, go ahead!"

"Where to?" he asked, laughing.

"Oh, I forgot," said I. "Up to our stone-quarry."

If we had expected my father to be surprised, we were not disappointed. At first he rather demurred at going down our carefully prepared ladders, not seeing sufficient reason, as he declared, to risk his neck; but the moment we called his attention to the sound of water down below, and he began to understand what the presence of the rubber boots meant, he became as eager as either Joe or I had been.

In short, he went with us over the whole ground, even down to the pool; and so interested was he in the matter that he quite forgot the flight of time, until, having reascended the ladders and followed with us our line on the surface down to the heap of stones with which we had marked the thousand-foot point, he—and we, too—were recalled to our duties by my mother, who, seeing us standing there talking, came to the back-door of the kitchen and called to us to come in at once if we wanted any supper.

Long was the discussion that ensued that evening as we sat around the fire in the big stone fireplace; but long as it was, it ended as it had begun with a remark made by my father.

"Well," said he, as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his slippered feet before the fire, "it appears to come to this: instead of discovering a way to drain 'the forty rods,' you have only provided us with another insoluble problem to puzzle our heads over. There seems to be no way that we can figure out—at present, anyhow—by which the water can be brought to the surface, and consequently our only resource is, apparently, to discover, if possible, where it first runs in under the lava-bed, to come squirting out again down in that fissure—an almost hopeless task, I fear."

"It does look pretty hopeless," Joe assented; "though we have found out one thing, at least, which may be of service in our search, and that is that the water runs between the lava and the sandstone. That fact should be of some help to us, for it removes from the list of streams to be examined all those whose beds lie below the sandstone."

"That's true enough," I agreed. "But, then again, the source may not be some mountain stream running off under the lava, as we have been supposing. It is quite possible that it is a spring which comes up through the sandstone, and not being able to get up to daylight because of the lava-cap, goes worming its way through innumerable crevices to the underground reservoir we suppose to exist somewhere beneath the surface of the Second Mesa."

"That is certainly a possibility," replied my father. "Nevertheless, it is my opinion that it will be well worth while making an examination of the creeks on Mount Lincoln. The streams to search would be those running on a sandstone bed and coming against the upper face of the lava-flow. It is worth the attempt, at least, and when the snow clears off you boys shall employ any off-days you may have in that way."

"It would be well, wouldn't it, to tell Tom Connor about it?" suggested Joe. "He would keep his eyes open for us. I suppose prospectors as a rule don't take much note of such things, but Tom would do so, I'm sure, if we asked him."

"Yes," replied my father. "That is a good idea; and if either of you should come across your friend, the hermit, again, be sure to ask him. He knows Mount Lincoln as nobody else does, and if he had ever noticed anything of the sort he would tell us. Don't forget that. And now to bed."



CHAPTER X

HOW TOM CONNOR WENT BORING FOR OIL

One thing was plain at any rate: we could do nothing towards finding the source of the underground stream until the snow cleared off the mountain, and that was likely to be later than usual this year, for the fall had been exceedingly heavy in the higher parts. We could see from the ranch that many of the familiar hollows were obliterated—leveled off by the great masses of snow which had drifted into them and filled them up.

We therefore went about our work of hauling stone, and so continued while the cold weather lasted, interrupted only once by a heavy storm about the end of January, which, while it added another two feet to the thick blanket of snow already covering the mountains, quickly melted off down in the snug hollow where the ranch lay, so that our work was not delayed more than two or three days.

One advantage to us of this storm was that it enabled us to learn something—not much, certainly, but still something—regarding the source of the stream in the fissure. It did not show us where that source was, but it proved to us pretty clearly where it was not.

On the morning of the storm, Joe, at breakfast-time, turning to my father, said:

"Wouldn't it be a good plan to go and measure the flow of the water down in the crevice, Mr. Crawford? We might be able to find out, by watching its rise and fall, whether the melting of the snow on the Second Mesa, or on the foot-hills beyond, or on the mountain itself affects it most."

"That's a very good idea, Joe," my father replied. "Yes; as soon as we have fed the stock you can make a measuring-stick and go up there; and what's more, you had better make a practice of measuring it every day. The increase or decrease of the flow might be an important guide as to where it comes from."

This we did, and thereby ascertained pretty conclusively that the source was nowhere on the Second Mesa, for in the course of a couple of weeks the heavy fall of new snow covering that wide stretch of country melted off without making any perceptible difference in the volume of the stream.

Though there were several other falls of snow up in the mountains later in the season, this was the last one of any consequence down on the mesas. The winter was about over as far as we were concerned, and by the middle of the next month, the surface of "the bottomless forty rods" beginning to soften again, the freighters, who had been coming our way ever since the early part of November, deserted us and once more went back to the hill road—to our mutual regret. For a few days longer the stage-coach kept to our road, but very soon it, too, abandoned us, after which, except for an occasional horseback-rider, we had scarcely a passer-by.

As was natural, we greatly missed this constant coming and going, though we should have missed it a good deal more but for the fact that with the softening of the ground our spring work began, when, Marsden's cattle having been removed by their owner, Joe and I started plowing for oats. With the prospect of a steady season's work before us, we entered upon our labors with enthusiasm. We had never felt so "fit" before, for our long spell of stone-hauling had put us into such good trim that we were in condition to tackle anything.