At the same time, we did not forget our underground stream, keeping strict watch upon it as the snow-line retreated up the foot-hills of Mount Lincoln. But though one of us visited the stream every day, taking careful measurement of the flow, we could not see that it had increased at all. The intake must be either high on the mountain, or, as I had suggested, the spring must come up through the sandstone underlying the Second Mesa and was therefore not affected by the running off of the snow-water on the surface.

As the town of Sulphide was so situated that its inhabitants could not see Mount Lincoln on account of a big spur of Elkhorn Mountain which cut off their view, any one in that town wishing to find out how the snow was going off on the former mountain was obliged to ride down in our direction about three miles in order to get a sight of it.

Tom Connor, having neither the time to spare nor the money to spend on horse-hire, could not do this for himself, but, knowing that the mountain was visible to us any day and all day, he had requested us to notify him when the foot-hills began to get bare. This time had now arrived—it was then towards the end of March—and my father consequently wrote to Tom, telling him so; at the same time inviting him to come down to us and make his start from the ranch whenever he was ready.

To our great surprise, we received a reply from him next afternoon, brought down by young Seth Appleby, the widow Appleby's ten-year-old boy, in which he stated that he could not start just yet as he was out of funds, but that he was hoping to raise one hundred and fifty dollars by a mortgage on his little house, which would be all he would need, and more, to keep him going for the summer.

"Why, what's the meaning of this!" exclaimed my father, when he had read the letter. "How does Tom come to be out of funds at this time of year? He's been at work all winter at high wages and he ought to have saved up quite a tidy sum—in fact, he was counting on doing so. What's the matter, I wonder? Did he tell you anything about it, Seth?"

"No," replied the youngster, "he didn't tell me, but he did tell mother, and then mother, she asked all the miners who come to our store, and they told her all about it. It was mother that sent me down with the letter, and she told me I was to be sure and 'splain all about it to you."

"That was kind of Mrs. Appleby," said my father. "But come in, Seth, and have something to eat, and then you can give us your mother's message."

Seated at the table, with a big loaf, a plate of honey and a pitcher of milk before him, young Seth, after he had taken off the fine edge of a remarkably healthy appetite, related to us between bites the story he had been sent down to tell. It was a long and complicated story as he told it, and even when it was finished we could not be quite sure that we had it right; but supposing that we had, it came to this:

Tom had worked faithfully on the Pelican, never having missed a day, and had earned a very considerable sum of money, of which he had, with commendable—and, for him, unusual—discretion, invested the greater part in a little house, putting by one hundred and fifty dollars for his own use during the coming summer. The fund reserved would have been sufficient to see him through the prospecting season had he stuck to it; but this was just what he had not done.

Two years before, a friend of his had been killed in one of the mines by that most frequent of accidents: picking out a missed shot; since which time the widow, a bustling, hearty Irishwoman, had supported herself and her five children. But during the changeable weather of early spring, Mrs. Murphy had been taken down with a severe attack of pneumonia—a disease particularly dangerous at high altitudes—and distress reigned in the family. As a matter of course, Tom, ever on the lookout to do somebody a good turn, at once hopped in and took charge of everything; providing a doctor and a nurse for his old friend's widow, and seeing that the children wanted for nothing; and all with such success that he brought his patient triumphantly out of her sickness; while as for himself, when he modestly retired from the fray, he found that he was just as poor as he had been at the beginning of winter.

It is not to be supposed, however, that this worried Tom. Not a bit of it. It was unlucky, of course, but as it could not be helped there was no more to be said; and so long as he owned that house of his he could always raise one hundred and fifty dollars on it—it was worth three or four times as much, at least.

As the prospecting season was now approaching, he therefore let it be known that he desired to raise this money, and then quietly went on with his work again, feeling confident that some one would presently make his appearance, cash in hand, anxious to secure so good a loan. Up to that morning, Seth believed, the expected capitalist had not turned up.

As the boy finished his story, and—with a sigh at having reached his capacity—his meal as well, my father rose from his chair, exclaiming:

"What a good fellow that is! When it comes to practical charity, Tom Connor leads us all. In fact, he is in a class by himself:—There is no Tom but Tom, and"—smiling at the little messenger—"Seth Appleby is his prophet—on this occasion."

At which Seth opened his eyes, wondering what on earth my father was talking about.

"Now, I'll tell you what we'll do," the latter continued. "Seth says his mother wants another thousand pounds of potatoes; so you shall take them up this afternoon, Phil; have a good talk with her; find out the rights of this matter; and then, if there is anything we can do to help, we can do it understandingly."

I was very glad to do this, and with Seth on the seat beside me and his pony tied behind the wagon, away I went.

As I had permission to stay in town over night if I liked, and as Mrs. Appleby urged me to do so, saying that I could share Seth's room, I decided to accept her offer, and after supper we were seated in the store talking over Tom Connor's affairs—which I found to be just about as Seth had described them—when who should burst in upon us but Tom himself. Evidently my presence was a surprise to him, for on seeing me he exclaimed:

"Hallo, Phil! You here! Got my message, did you?"

"Yes," I replied, "we got it all right; and very much astonished we were."

Forthwith I tackled him on the subject, and though at first Tom was disposed to be evasive in his answers, finding that I had all the facts, he at length admitted the truth of the story.

"But, bless you!" cried he. "That's nothing. I can raise a hundred and fifty easy enough on my house and pay it off again next winter, so there's nothing to fuss about. And now, ma'am," turning to Mrs. Appleby, and abruptly cutting off any further discussion of the topic, "now, ma'am, I'll give you a little order for groceries, if you please—which was what I came in for."

So saying, he took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and proceeded to read out item after item: flour and bacon, molasses and dried apples, a little tea and a great deal of coffee, and so on, and so on, until at last he crumpled up his list between his two big hands, saying:

"There! And we'll top off with a gallon of coal oil, if you please."

"Ah," said the widow, laying down her pencil—she was a slight, nervous little woman—"I was afraid you'd come to coal oil presently. I haven't a pint of it in the house."

"Well, that's a pity," said her customer. "Then I suppose I'll have to go down to Yetmore's for coal oil after all."

"Yes, Yetmore can let you have it, I know," replied the widow, in a tone of voice which caused us both to look at her inquiringly.

"He's got a barrel of it," she continued. "A whole barrel of it—belonging to me."

"Eh! What's that?" cried Tom. "Belonging to you?"

"Yes. And he won't give it up. You see, it was this way. I ordered a barrel from the wholesale people in San Remo, and they sent it up two days ago. Here's the bill of lading. 'One barrel coal oil, No. 668, by Slaughter's freight line.' The freighters made a mistake and delivered it at Yetmore's, and now he won't give it up."

"Won't, eh!" cried Tom, with sudden heat. "We'll just look into that."

"It's no use," interposed Mrs. Appleby, holding up her hand deprecatingly. "You can't take it by force; and I've tried persuasion. He's got my barrel; there's no mistake about that, because Seth went down and identified the number; but he says he ordered a barrel himself from the same firm and it isn't his fault if they didn't put the right number on."

"Well, that's coming it pretty strong," said Tom, indignantly.

"Yes, and it's hard on me," replied the widow, "because people come in here for coal oil, and when they find I haven't any they go off to Yetmore's, and of course he gets the rest of their order. I might go to law," she added, "but I can't afford that; and by the time my case was settled Yetmore's barrel will have arrived and he'll send it over here and pretend to be sorry for the mistake."

"I see. Well, ma'am, you put me down for a gallon of coal oil just the same, and get my order together as soon as you like. I'm going out now to take a bit of a stroll around town."

Though he spoke calmly, the big miner was, in fact, swelling with wrath at the widow's tale of petty tyranny. Without saying a word more to her, and forgetting my existence, apparently, he marched off down the street with the determination of going into Yetmore's and denouncing the storekeeper before his customers. But, no sooner had he come within sight of the store than he suddenly changed his mind.

"Ho, ho!" he laughed, stopping short and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Ho, ho! Here's a game! He keeps it in the back end of the store, I know. I'll just meander in and prospect a bit."

The store was a long, plainly-constructed building, such as may be seen in plenty in any Colorado mining camp, standing on the hillside with its back to the creek. In front its foundation was level with the street, but in the rear it was supported upon posts four feet high, leaving a large vacant space beneath—a favorite "roosting" place for pigs. It was the sight of these four-foot posts which caused the widow's champion so suddenly to change his mind.

To tell the truth, Tom Connor, in spite of his forty years, was no more than an overgrown boy, in whose simple character the love of justice and the love of fun jostled each other for first place. He believed he had discovered an opportunity to "take a rise" out of Yetmore and at the same time to compel the misappropriator of other people's goods to restore the widow's property. That the contemplated act might savor of illegality did not trouble him—did not occur to him, in fact. He was sure that he had justice on his side, and that was enough for him.

Full of his idea, Tom walked into the store, where he found Yetmore very busy serving customers, for it was near closing time, and to an inquiry as to what he wanted, he replied:

"Nothing just now, thank ye. I'll just mosey around and take a look at things."

To this Yetmore nodded assent; for though he and the miner had no affection for each other, they were outwardly on good terms, and it was no unusual thing for Tom to come into the store.

Connor "moseyed" accordingly, and kept on "moseying" until he reached the back of the building, and there, standing upright against the rear wall, was the barrel, and beside it, mounted on a chair, a putty-faced boy, a stranger to Tom, who was busy boring a hole in the top of it.

"Trade pretty brisk?" inquired Connor, sauntering up.

"You bet," replied the youth, laconically.

"What does '668' stand for?" asked the miner, tapping the top of the barrel with his finger.

"That's the number of the barrel," was the reply. "The wholesalers down in San Remo always cut a number in their barrels when they send 'em out."

"Your boss must be a right smart business man to run a 'stablishment like this," remarked Tom, after a pause, glancing about the store.

"That's what," replied the boy, admiringly. "You'll have to get up early to get around the boss. Why, this barrel here——" He stopped short, as though suddenly remembering the value of silence, and screwing up one eye as if to indicate that he could tell things if he liked, he added, "Well, when the boss gets his hands on a thing he don't let go easy, I tell you that."

"Ah! Smart fellow, the boss."

"You bet," remarked the youth once more.

All this time Tom had been taking notes. The thin, unplastered wall of the store was constructed of upright planks with battens over the joints. It was pierced with one window; and Tom noted that between the edge of the window and the centre of the barrel were four boards. He noted also that the barrel stood firm and square upon the floor and that the floor itself was water-tight.

While he was making these observations, the boy finished his boring operation and having inserted a vent-peg in the hole, walked off. As soon as he was out of sight, Tom stepped up to the barrel, pulled out the vent-peg, dropped it into his pocket, and having done so, sauntered leisurely up the store again and went out.

For a little while he hung around on the other side of the street and presently he had the satisfaction of seeing the lights in the store extinguished, soon after which Yetmore came out and locking the door behind him, walked away to his house.

"Ah! So the putty-faced boy sleeps in the store, does he?" remarked Tom to himself; a conclusion in which he was confirmed when he saw a candle lighted and the boy making up his bed under the counter. A few minutes later the candle was blown out, when Tom set off briskly up the street for the widow's store.

He found Mrs. Appleby and Seth tidying up preparatory to closing the store, and stepping in, he said, "You don't take in lodgers, I suppose, ma'am? I'm intending to stay down town to-night."

"No, we don't," replied the widow. "The house is not large enough. But if you've nowhere to sleep, you're welcome to make up a bed on the floor—I can let you have some blankets."

"Thank ye, ma'am, I'll be glad to do it, if you please."

Accordingly, after the widow had retired up-stairs to her room and Seth and I to ours, Tom spread his blankets on the floor and went to bed himself.

All was dark and silent when, at one o'clock in the morning, Tom sat up in bed, and after fumbling about for a minute, found a match and lighted a candle.

"Have to get up early to get around the boss, eh?" said he to himself, with a chuckle. "Wonder if this is early enough."

In his stocking-feet he walked to the back door and opened it wide. After pausing for an instant to listen, he came back, and lifting the empty oil barrel from its stand he carried it outside. Next he selected two buckets, and having reached down from a high shelf a large funnel, an auger and a faucet, he carried them and his boots into the back yard, and having locked the door behind him, walked off into the darkness.

In a short time he reappeared, leading a horse, to which was harnessed a low wood-sled. Upon this sled he firmly lashed the barrel, and gathering up the other implements he took the horse by the bridle and led him away down the silent street; for the town of Sulphide as yet boasted neither a lighting system nor a police force—or, rather, the police force was accustomed to betake himself to bed with the rest of the community—so Tom had the dark and empty street entirely to himself.

In a few minutes he drew up at the rear of Yetmore's store, where, leaving the horse standing, he proceeded to count four planks from the edge of the window. Having marked the right plank, he took the auger, and crawling beneath the store, set to work boring a hole up through the floor. Presently the auger broke through, coming with a thump against the bottom of the barrel above, when Tom withdrew the instrument, and taking out his knife enlarged the hole considerably.

So far, so good. Next he set a bucket beneath the hole, took the faucet between his teeth in order to have it handy, and inserting the auger, he set to, boring a hole in the bottom of the barrel. Soon the tool popped through, when Tom hastily substituted the faucet, which he drove firmly in with a blow of his horny palm.

The putty-faced boy inside the store stirred in his blankets, muttered something about "them pigs," and went to sleep again.

Tom waited a moment to listen, and then drew off a bucket of oil. As soon as this was full he replaced it with the other bucket and emptied the first one into the barrel on the sled. This process he repeated until the oil began to dribble, when he carefully knocked out the faucet, and having collected his tools and emptied the last bucket into the barrel, he again took the horse by the bridle and silently led him away.

Arrived once more in the widow's back yard, Tom unshipped the barrel and went off to restore the horse to its stable. He soon returned, and having unlocked the back door and re-lighted his candle, he proceeded to get the barrel into the house and back upon its stand; a work of immense labor, rendered all the harder by the necessity of keeping silence. Tom was a man of great strength, however, and at last he had the satisfaction of seeing the barrel once more in its place without having heard a sound from the sleepers overhead. Having washed the buckets and tools, he put them back where they came from, locked the door, and for the second time that night went to bed.

It was about half-past six in the morning that Tom, happening to look out of the front window, saw Yetmore coming hurriedly up the street, like a hound following the trail of the sled. Stepping to the little window at the rear, Tom peeped out and saw the storekeeper enter the back yard, walk to the spot where the sled had stopped, and stand for a minute examining the marks in the soil. Having apparently satisfied himself, he turned about and went off down the street again.

"What's he going to do about it, I wonder?" said Tom to himself. "Reckon I'll just mosey down to the store and see."

As he heard Seth coming down the stairs, he unlocked the front door and stepping outside, walked down to Yetmore's.

"Morning," said he, cheerfully. "It's a bit early for customers, I suppose, but I'm in a hurry this morning and I'd like to know whether you can let me have a gallon of coal oil."

"Sorry to say I can't," replied the storekeeper. "Our only barrel sprang a leak last night and every drop ran out."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Tom, with an air of concern. "Then I suppose I'll have to go up to the widow Appleby's. She's got plenty, I know."

As he said this he looked hard at Yetmore, who in turn looked hard at him.

"Maybe," said the storekeeper presently, "maybe you know something about that leak?"

Tom nodded. "I do," said he. "I know all about it; and I'm the only one that does. I know the whole story, too, from one end to the other. The widow has got her barrel of oil; and you and I can make a sort of a guess as to how she got it. As to your barrel, it unfortunately sprung a leak. Is that the story?"

Yetmore stood for a minute glowering at the big miner, and then said, shortly, "That's the story."

"All right," replied Tom; and turning on his heel, he went out.



CHAPTER XI

TOM'S SECOND WINDOW

Mrs. Appleby never did quite understand how her barrel of oil had been recovered for her. All she knew for certain was that her good friend, Mr. Connor, had somehow procured it from Yetmore, and that Yetmore was, as Mr. Connor said, "agreeable."

As for myself, when Tom that morning, taking me aside, related with many chuckles how he had occupied himself during the night, I must own that my only feeling was one of satisfaction at the thought that Yetmore had been made to restore the widow's property, and that the fear of ridicule would probably keep him silent on the subject. Sharing with most boys the love of fair play and the hatred of oppression, Tom's cleverness and promptness of action seemed to me altogether commendable.

Nevertheless, I foresaw one consequence of the transaction which, I thought, was pretty sure to follow, namely, that it would arouse in Yetmore an angry resolve to "get even" with Tom by hook or by crook. That he would resort to active reprisals if the opportunity presented itself I felt certain, and so I warned our friend. But Tom, careless as usual, refused to take any precautions, believing that Yetmore would not venture as long as he—Tom—had, as he expressed it, two such damaging shots in his magazine as the story of the lead boulder and the story of the oil barrel; on both of which subjects he had, with rare discretion, determined to keep silence unless circumstances should warrant their disclosure.

It was not till I had reached home again and had jubilantly retailed the story to my father, that I began to understand how there might be yet another aspect to the matter. Instead of receiving it with a hearty laugh and a "Good for Tom," as I had anticipated, he shook his head and said:

"I'm sorry to hear it. Tom made a mistake that time. That Yetmore should be made to give up the barrel of oil is proper enough; but what right has Tom to appropriate to himself the duties of judge, jury and executive officer? It is just such cases as this that earn for the American people the reputation of a nation without respect for law. No. Tom meant well, I know, but in my opinion he made a mistake all the same."

"I never thought of it in that light," said I; "so it is just as well, probably, that Tom didn't let me into the secret beforehand, because I'm afraid I should have been only too ready to help if he had asked me."

"Yes, it is just as well you were not given the choice, I expect," replied my father, smiling. "I'm glad Tom had the sense to take the whole responsibility on his own shoulders. Does he expect that Yetmore will be content to let the matter rest where it is?"

"He seems to think so; though he is such a heedless fellow that it wouldn't bother him much if he thought otherwise."

"Well, in my opinion he will do well to keep his eyes open. As I told you before, I think Yetmore's natural caution would prompt him to keep within the law, but it is not impossible now, Tom having set him the example—for one such transgression of the law is apt to breed another—that he will think himself justified in resorting to lawless measures in his turn; especially as he will have that fellow, Long John, jogging his elbow and whispering evil counsels in his ear all the time."

How correct my father was in his presumption; how Long John did devise a scheme of retaliation; and how Joe and I inadvertently got our fingers into the pie, I shall have to relate in due course.

But though my father disapproved of Tom's action, that fact did not lessen his desire to help his friend when I had related to him how Tom had indeed spent all his savings on Mrs. Murphy and her family.

"What a good-hearted, harum-scarum fellow he is!" exclaimed my father. "He knows—in fact, no one knows better—that there is a possible fortune waiting for him somewhere up here on Lincoln; he saves up all winter so that he may be free to go and hunt for it in the spring; yet at the first note of distress, away he runs and tumbles all his savings into Mrs. Murphy's lap, who, when all is said and done, has no real claim upon him, thus taking the risk of being stranded in town while Long John goes off and cuts him out. What are we going to do about it, boys? What can you suggest?"

"It would certainly be a shame," said Joe, "if Tom, by his act of charity, should put himself out of the running in the search for that vein of galena. Yet he will surely do so if he can't raise that money. And even if he should raise it, he might be late in getting it, in which case Long John would get the start of him."

"That's the case in a nutshell," my father assented; "and, as I said before: What are we going to do about it?"

"Why——" Joe began; and then he suddenly jumped up and coming across the room he whispered something in my ear. I replied with a nod; whereupon Joe returned to his chair, and addressing my father once more, said:

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Mr. Crawford. Phil and I made forty dollars last fall cutting timbers—it was Tom who got us our order, too—and we have it still. We'll put that in—eh, Phil?—if it will be any use."

"Yes," said I. "Gladly."

"Good!" exclaimed my father. "Then that settles it. Now, I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll add sixty dollars to it—that is all I can afford just now—and you two shall ride back to Sulphide this afternoon, give Tom the money, and tell him he shall have fifty more in a couple of months if he needs it. And tell him at the same time that he needn't go mortgaging his little house. We don't want security from Tom Connor: we know him too well. I'd rather have his word than some men's bond. You shall ride up to see him this afternoon, and you needn't hurry back to-day; for that rain of last night has made the ground too wet to continue plowing; and, if I'm not mistaken, we're in for another storm to-night, in which case the soil won't be in condition again for two or three days."

I need hardly say that Joe and I were delighted to undertake this mission, and about four o'clock we reached Mrs. Appleby's, where we put up our ponies in her stable. Then, as Tom would not be quitting work for another hour, instead of going direct to his house, we climbed up to the Pelican, intending to catch him there and walk home with him.

Presently arriving at the great white dump of bleached porphyry to which the citizens of Sulphide were accustomed to point with pride as an indication of the immense amount of work it had taken to make the Pelican the important mine it was, we scrambled up to the engine-house, where for some minutes we stood watching the busy engine as it whirled to the surface the buckets of waste. Then, stepping over to the mouth of the shaft, we paused again to watch the top-men as they emptied the big buckets into the car and trundled the car itself to the edge of the dump, upset it, and trundled it back again for more.

As we stood there, a miner came up, and stepping out of the cage, nodded to us in passing.

"Want anybody, boys?" he asked.

"We're waiting for Tom Connor," I replied. "He's down below, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's down in the fifth. I'll take you down there if you like. I'm going back in a minute."

"What do you think, Joe?" I asked.

"Yes, let's go," my companion replied. "I've never been inside a mine, and I should like to see one."

"All right," said the miner. "Come over here to the dressing-room and I'll give you a lamp and a couple of slickers. It's a bit wet down there."

Joe and I were soon provided with water-proof coats, and in company with our new friend we stepped into the cage, when the miner, shutting the door behind us, called out to the engineer, "Fifth level, McPherson," and instantly the floor of the cage seemed to drop from under us. After a fall of several miles, as it appeared to us, the cage stopped, when, peering through the wire lattice-work, we saw before us a dark passage, upon one side of which hung a white board with a big "5" painted upon it.

"Here you are," said the miner, stepping out of the cage and handing us a lighted lamp. "Just walk straight along this drift about three hundred feet—it's all plain sailing—and you'll find Tom Connor at work there. I'm going on down to the seventh myself."

With that he stepped back into the cage, rang the bell, and vanished, leaving us standing there eyeing each other a little dubiously at finding ourselves left to our own guidance, four hundred feet below the surface of the earth.

"I hadn't reckoned on that," said I. "I thought he was coming with us."

"So did I," replied Joe. "But it doesn't really matter. All we have to do is to walk along this passage; so let's go ahead."

That our obliging friend had been right when he stated that it was "a bit wet" down here was evident, for the drops of water from the roof of the drift kept pattering upon our slickers, and presently, when we had advanced something over half the distance, one of them fell plump upon the flame of our lamp and put it out!

We stopped short, not knowing what pitfalls there might be ahead of us, and each felt in all his pockets for a match. We had none! Never anticipating any such contingency as this, we had ventured into this black hole without a match in our possession.

I admit that we were scared—the darkness was so very dark and the silence so very silent—but fortunately it was only for a moment. Standing stock still, for, indeed, we dared not move, we shouted for Tom, when, to our infinite relief, we heard his familiar voice call out:

"Hallo, there! That you, Patsy? I'm coming. Does the boss want me?"

The next moment a light appeared moving towards us, and as soon as we could safely do so we advanced to meet it.

"How are you, Tom?" we both cried, simultaneously, assuming an off-hand manner, as though we had not been scared a bit.

Tom stopped, not recognizing us for a moment, and then exclaimed:

"Hallo, boys! What are you doing down here? Who brought you down?"

We told him how we came to be there, and how our lamp had gone out; at which Tom shook his head.

"Well, it was certainly a smart trick to send you down into this wet hole and not even see that you had a match in your pocket. What would you have done if I'd happened to have left the drift?"

The very idea gave me cold chills all down my back.

"We should have been badly scared, Tom, and that's a fact," I replied; "but I hope we should have kept our heads. I believe we should have sat down where we were and shouted till somebody came."

"Well, that would have been the best thing you could do, though you might have had to shout a pretty long time, for there is nobody working in this level just now but me, and, as a matter of fact, I should have left it myself in another five minutes. But it's all right as it happens; so now you can come along with me. I'm going out the other way through Yetmore's ground."

"Yetmore's ground?" exclaimed Joe, inquiringly.

"Yes, Yetmore is working the old stopes of the Pelican on a lease—it is one of his many ventures. In the early days of the camp mining was conducted much more carelessly than it is now; freight and smelter charges were a good bit higher, too, so that a considerable amount of ore of too low grade to ship then was left standing in the stopes. Yetmore is taking it out on shares. His ground lies this way. Come on."

So saying, Tom led the way to the end of the drift, where, going down upon his hands and knees, he crawled through a man-hole, coming out into a little shaft which he called a "winze." Ascending this by a short ladder, we found ourselves in the old, abandoned workings, and still following our guide, we presently walked out into the daylight—greatly to our surprise.

"Why, where have we got to, Tom?" cried Joe, as we stared about us, not recognizing our surroundings.

Tom laughed. "This is called Stony Gulch," he replied. "The mine used to be worked through this tunnel where we just came out, but the tunnel isn't used now except temporarily by Yetmore's men. He only runs a day shift and at night he closes the place with that big door and locks it up. The Pelican buildings are just over the hill here, and we may as well go up at once: it will be quitting-time by the time we get there."

We climbed over the hill, therefore, and having restored our slickers, went on with Tom down to his little cottage, which was only about a quarter of a mile from the mine.

It was not until we were inside his house that we explained to Tom the object of our visit, at the same time handing over to him my father's check for one hundred dollars. The good fellow was quite touched by this very simple token of good-will on our part; for, though he was ever ready to help others, it seemed never to have occurred to him that others might like sometimes to help him.

This little bit of business being settled, we all pitched in to assist in getting supper ready, and presently we were seated round Tom's table testing the result of our cookery. As we sat there, Joe, pointing to a window-sash and some planed and fitted lumber which stood leaning against the wall, asked:

"What are you going to do with that, Tom? Put in a second window?"

"Yes," replied our host. "And I was intending to do it this evening. You can help me now you're here. The stuff is all ready; all we have to do is to cut the hole in the wall and slap it in. It's just one sash, not intended to open and shut, so it's a simple job enough."

"Where does it go?" asked Joe.

"There, on the right-hand side of the door. Old man Snyder, in the next house west, put one in some time ago, and it's such an improvement that I decided to do the same. We'll step out presently and look at Snyder's, and then you'll see. Hallo! Come in!"

This shout was occasioned by a tapping at the door, and in response to Tom's call there stepped in a tall miner, whom I recognized as George Simpson, one of the Pelican men.

"Come in, George," cried our host. "Come in and have some supper. What's new?"

"No, I won't take any supper, thank ye," replied the miner. "I must get along home. I just dropped in to speak to you. You know Arty Burns?—works on the night shift? Well, Arty's sick. When he came up to the mine to-night he was too sick to stand, so I packed him off home again and told him to go to bed where he belonged and I'd see to it that somebody went on in his place, so that he shouldn't lose his job. I'm proposing to work half his shift for him myself, and I want to find somebody——"

"All right, George," Connor cut in. "I'll take the other half. Which do you want? First or second?"

"Second, if it's all the same to you, Tom. If I don't get home first my old woman will think there's something the matter. So, if you don't mind, you can go on first and I'll relieve you at half-time."

"All right, George, then I'll get out at once. You boys can wash up, if you will; and you'll find a mattress and plenty of blankets in the back room. I'll be back soon after eleven."

With that, carrying a lantern in his hand, for it was getting dark, away he went; while the miner hurried off across lots for town; neither of them, apparently, thinking it anything out of the way to do a full day's work and then, instead of taking his well-earned rest, to go off and do another half-day's work in order to "hold the job" for a third man, to whom neither of them was under any obligation.

Nor was it anything out of the way; for the silver-miners of Colorado, whatever their faults, did in those days, and probably do still, exercise towards their fellows a practical charity which might well be counted to cover a multitude of sins.

"Look here, Phil!" exclaimed my companion, after we had washed and put away the dishes. "I'll tell you what we'll do. Let's pitch in and put in Tom's second window for him!"

"Good idea!" I cried. "We'll do it! Let's go out first, though, Joe, and take a look at old Snyder's house, so that we may see what effect Tom expects to get."

"Come on, then!"

The row of six little houses, of which Tom's was the third, counting from the west, had been one of Yetmore's speculations. They were situated on the southern outskirts of town, and were mostly occupied by miners working on the Pelican. Each house was an exact counterpart of every other, they having been built by contract all on one pattern. Each had a room in front and a room behind; one little brick chimney; a front door with two steps; and a window on the right-hand side of the door as you faced the house. All were painted the same color.

Yetmore having secured the land, had laid it out as "Yetmore's Addition" to the town of Sulphide; had marked out streets and alleys, and had built the six houses as a starter, hoping thereby to draw people out there. But as yet his building-lots were a drug in the market: they were too far out; there being a vacant space of a quarter of a mile or thereabouts between them and the next nearest houses in town. The streets themselves were undistinguishable from the rest of the country, being merely marked out with stakes and having had no work whatever expended upon them.

The six houses, built about three hundred feet apart, all faced north—towards the town—and being so far apart and all so precisely alike, it was absolutely impossible for any one coming from town on a dark night to tell which house was which. Not even the tenants themselves, coming across the vacant lots after nightfall, could tell their own houses from those of their neighbors; and consequently it was a common event for one of the sleepy inmates, stirred out of bed by a knock at the door, to find a belated citizen outside inquiring whether this was his house or somebody else's. Not infrequently they neglected to knock first, and walking straight in, found themselves, to their great embarrassment, in the wrong house.

Old man Snyder, a somewhat irritable old gentleman, having been thus disturbed two nights in succession, determined that he would no longer subject himself to the nuisance. He bought a single sash and inserted a second window on the other side of his door; a device which not only saved him from intrusion, but served as a guide to his neighbors in finding their own houses. It was also a very obvious improvement, and we did not wonder that Tom Connor had determined to follow his neighbor's example.

Old Snyder's house was the second from the western end of the street, Tom Connor's, three hundred feet distant, came next, while next to Tom's, another three hundred feet away, was a house which still belonged to Yetmore and was at that moment standing empty.

You will wonder, very likely, why I should go into all these details, but you will cease to wonder, I think, when you see presently of what transcendent importance to Joe and me was the situation of these three houses.

Joe and I, laying hands on our host's kit of tools, at once went to work on the window. As Tom had said, it was a simple job, and though it was something of a handicap to work by lamplight, we went at it so vigorously that by nine o'clock we had completed our task—very much to our satisfaction.

Stepping outside to observe the effect, we saw that old Snyder's windows were lighted up also; but we had hardly noted that fact when his light went out.

"The old fellow goes to bed early, Joe," said I.

"Yes," Joe replied; and then, with a sudden laugh, added: "My wig, Phil! I hope there won't be anybody coming out from town to-night. If they do, there'll be complications. They will surely be taking our two windows for old Snyder's, for, now that his light is out, you can't see his house at all."

"That's a fact," said I. "If Snyder's right-hand neighbor should come out across the flats to-night he would see our two windows, and, supposing them to be Snyder's windows, he would be almost sure to go blundering into the old fellow's house. My! How mad he would be!"

"Wouldn't he! And any one coming out to visit Tom would pretty certainly go and pound on the door of the empty house to the left."

"Well, let us hope that nobody does come out," said I. "Come on, now, Joe. Let's get back. It's going to rain pretty soon."

"Yes; your father was right when he predicted more rain. It's going to be a biggish one, I should think. How dark it is! I don't wonder people find a difficulty in telling which house is which when all the lights are out. Here it comes now. Step out, Phil."

As he spoke, a blast of wind from the mountains struck us, and a few needles of cold rain beat against our right cheeks.

We were soon inside again, when, having shut our door, we sat down to a game of checkers, in which we became so absorbed that we failed to note the lapse of time until Tom's dollar clock, hanging on the wall, banged out the hour of ten.

"To bed, Joe!" I cried, springing out of my chair. "Why, we haven't been up so late for weeks."

Stepping into the back room, we soon had mattress and blankets spread upon the floor, when, quickly undressing, I crept into bed, while Joe, returning to the front room, blew out the light.

Five minutes later we were both asleep, with a comfortable consciousness that we had done a good evening's work; though we little suspected how good an evening's work it really was. For it is hardly too much to say that had we not put in Tom's second window that night we might both have been dead before morning.



CHAPTER XII

TOM CONNOR'S SCARE

When Long John Butterfield (it was Yetmore himself who told us all this long afterwards) when Long John, returning from his day's prospecting up among the foot-hills of Mount Lincoln, had related to his employer the result of his labors, two conclusions instantly presented themselves to the worthy mayor of Sulphide. A man less acute than Yetmore would have understood at once that we had discovered the nature of the black sand in the pool, and that just as he had sent out Long John, so my father had sent out us boys to determine, if possible, which stream it was that had brought down the powdered galena.

Moreover, knowing my father as he did—whose opinions on prospecting as a business were no secret in the community—Yetmore was sure that it was in the interest of Tom Connor we had been sent out; and it was equally plain to him that, such being the case, Tom's information on the subject would be just as good as his own. He was, of course, unaware that our information was in reality a good deal better than his own, thanks to the hint given us by our friend, Peter, as to the deposit at the head of Big Reuben's gorge.

Knowing all this, Yetmore had no doubt that Tom would be starting out the moment the foot-hills were bare, and as Long John could do no more—for it was obviously useless to start before the ground was clear—it would result in a race between the two as to who should get out first and keep ahead of the other; in which case Tom's chances would be at least equal to his competitor's.

But was there no way by which Tom Connor might be delayed in starting, if only for a day or two? That was the question; and very earnestly it was discussed between the pair.

Vain, however, were their discussions; they could think of no way of keeping Tom in town. For, though Long John threw out occasional hints as to how he would manage it, if his employer would only give him leave, his schemes always suggested the use of unlawful means of one sort or another, and Yetmore would have none of them; for he had at least sufficient respect for the law to be afraid of it.

A gleam of hope appeared when it was rumored about town that Tom Connor was trying to raise money on his house; a rumor which Yetmore very quickly took pains to verify. In this he had no trouble whatever, for everybody knew the circumstances, and everybody, Yetmore found, was loud in his praises of Tom's self-sacrifice in spending his hard-earned savings for the benefit of Mrs. Murphy and her distressed family.

The fact that his rival was out of funds caused Yetmore to rub his hands with glee. Here, indeed, was a possible chance to keep him tied up in town. It all depended upon his being able to prevent Tom from securing the loan he sought, and diligently did the storekeeper canvass one plan after another in his own mind—but still in vain. The sum desired was so moderate that some one would almost surely be found to advance it.

While his schemes were still fermenting in his head, there came late one night a knock at his door—it was the very night that Tom Connor went boring for oil—and Long John Butterfield slipped into the house. Long John, too, had heard of Tom's necessities; he, too, had perceived the value of the opportunity; and being untrammeled by any respect for law as long as there was little likelihood that the law would find him out, he had devised in his own mind a plan which would promptly and effectually prevent Tom from raising any money on his house.



This plan he had now come to suggest to his employer.

"Any one in the house with you, Mr. Yetmore?" he inquired.

"No, John, I'm all alone. Come in. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just wanted to talk to you, and I didn't want anybody listening, that's all. Can folks see in from outside?"

"No, not while the curtains are drawn. Come on in. What's all this mystery about?"

Long John entered, and sitting down close to his friend, he began, speaking in a low tone:

"You've heard about Tom Connor trying to raise money on his house, o' course? Well, I can stop him, if you say so. Any one can see what Tom wants the money for. He'll get that hundred and fifty, sure, and then off he'll go. He's a thorough good prospector, better'n me, and with equal chances the betting will be in his favor. If there's a big vein, there's a big fortune for the finder, and it's for you to say whether Tom Connor is to get a shot at it or not."

Long John paused a moment, and then, emphasizing each point with an extended finger, he continued: "Without money Tom can't move—that's sure; he's strapped just now—that's sure; and his only way of getting the cash is by raising it on that house of his—and that's sure. Now, Mr. Yetmore, you say the word and he shan't get it. No personal violence that you're always objecting to. Just the simplest little move; nobody hurt and nobody the wiser."

Yetmore gazed at him earnestly for a few moments, and then said: "It's against the law, I suppose."

"Oh, yes," replied Long John, with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "It's against the law all right; but what does that matter to you? I'm the one to do the job, and I'm the only one the law can touch, if it can touch any one; and I don't mean that it shall touch me. It's safe and it's sure."

"Well, John, what is it?"

Long John rose from his chair, leaned forward, and whispered in the other's ear a little sentence of five words.

For a moment Yetmore gazed open-eyed at his henchman, then suddenly turned pale, then shook his head.

"I daren't, John," said he. "It's a simple plan and it looks safe; and even if it were found out it would be about impossible for the law to prove anything against me, whatever it might do to you. But it isn't the law I'm afraid of—it's the people. Tom Connor has always been a favorite, and just now he is more of a favorite than ever, and if it should be found out, or even suspected, that I had any part in such a deed my business would be ruined: the whole population would turn their backs upon me. I daren't do it, John."

"Well, boss," said Long John, with an air of resignation, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and thrusting out his long legs to the fire, "if you won't, you won't, I suppose; but it seems to me you're a bit over-timorous. Who's to suspect, anyhow?"

"Who's to suspect!" exclaimed Yetmore, sharply. "Why, Tom Connor, himself, and old Crawford and those two meddling boys of his. They'd not only suspect—they'd know that you had done the job and that I'd paid you for it. And if they should go around telling their version of the story, everybody would believe them and nothing I could say would count against them; for they've all of them, worse luck, got the reputation of being as truthful as daylight, while, as for me——"

Long John laughed. "As for you, you haven't, eh? Well, Mr. Yetmore, it's for you to say, of course, but it seems to me you're missing the chance of a lifetime. Anyhow, my offer stands good, and if you change your mind you've only got to wink at me and I'll trump Tom Connor's ace for him so sudden he'll be dizzy for a week."

With that, Long John arose, slipped out of the house and sneaked off home by a back alley, leaving Yetmore pacing up and down his room with his hands behind him, thinking over and over again what would be the result if he should authorize Long John to go ahead.

"No," said he at last, as he took up the lamp to go to bed, "I daren't. It's a good idea, simple, sure and probably safe, but I daren't risk it. No. Law or no law, the public would be down on me for certain. I must think up some other scheme."

Though he thus dismissed the subject from his mind, as he believed, the idea still lurked in the corners of his brain in spite of himself, and when at six in the morning he awoke, there was the little black imp sitting on the pillow, as it were, waiting to go on with the discussion.

Yetmore, however, brushed aside the tempter, jumped into his clothes and walked off to the store, where he found the putty-faced boy anxiously awaiting his appearance in order that he himself might be off to his breakfast.

"Pht!" exclaimed the proprietor, the moment he set foot inside the store. "What's this smell of coal oil?"

"I don't smell it," replied the boy.

"You don't! Hm! I suppose you've got used to it. Well, get along to your breakfast."

As the boy ran off, Yetmore walked to the back of the building. Here the scent was so strong that he was convinced the barrel must be leaking, so, seizing hold of it, he gave a mighty heave, when the empty barrel came away in his hands, as the saying is. He almost fell over.

To ascertain the nature of the leak was the work of a moment; to trail the sled to Mrs. Appleby's back yard was the work of five minutes; but having done this, Yetmore was at fault, for, knowing well enough that neither the widow nor her son were capable of such an undertaking, he was at a loss to imagine who the culprit might be.

It was only when Tom Connor a minute later stepped into the store and arranged that story of the leaky oil-barrel which he had described as being "agreeable" to Yetmore, that the storekeeper arrived at a true understanding of the whole matter. To say that he was enraged would be to put it too mildly, and, as always seems to be the case, the fact that he, himself, had been in the wrong to begin with, only exasperated him the more.

The result was what any one might have expected.

Hardly had Connor turned the corner out of sight, than there appeared, "snooping" up the street, that sheep in wolfs clothing, Long John Butterfield. Instantly Yetmore's resolution was taken. Seizing a broom, he stepped outside and made pretense to sweep the sidewalk, and as Long John, with a casual nod, sauntered past, the angry storekeeper caught his eye and whispered:

"I've reconsidered. Go ahead."

"Bully for you," replied the other in a low tone; and passed on.

No one would have guessed that in that brief instant a criminal act had been arranged. Nor did Tom Connor, as he went chuckling up the street, guess that by his lawless recovery of the widow's property he had given Yetmore the excuse he longed for to defy the law himself. Least of all did any of them—not even Long John—guess that between them they were to come within an ace of snuffing out the lives of two innocent outsiders, namely, Joe Garnier and myself. Yet such was the case. It was only the accidental putting in of Tom's second window that saved us.

Long John, being authorized to proceed, at once made his preparations, which were simple enough, and all he wanted now was an opportunity. By an unlooked-for chance, which, with his perverted sense of right and wrong, seemed to him to be providential, his opportunity turned up that very night.

The miner, George Simpson, hastening homeward from Connor's house, happened to overtake Long John in the street, and as he passed gave him a friendly "Good-night."

"Good-night," said John. "You're late to-night, aren't you?"

"Yes, a bit late. One of our men's sick, and I've been fixing things so's he won't lose his job. Tom Connor and I are going to work his shift for him."

"So!" cried Long John, with sudden interest. "Which half do you take?"

"The second. Tom's gone off already, and I'm going to relieve him at eleven. So I must be getting along: I want my supper and two or three hours' sleep."

So Tom would be out of his house till eleven o'clock! Such a chance might never occur again. Long John hastened home at once and got everything ready.

As it would not do to start too early, because people might be about, John waited till nearly ten o'clock, and then sallied out. As he rounded the corner of his shack a furious blast of wind, driving the rain before it, almost knocked him over.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "There won't be a soul out o' doors to-night."

With his head bent to the storm and his hat pulled down over his ears, John made his way through alleys and bye-streets to the edge of town, and then set off across the intervening empty space towards the house where Joe and I were at that moment playing our last game of checkers. As he approached, he saw dimly through the blur of rain the light of two windows.

"Good!" he exclaimed a second time. "Old Snyder not gone to bed yet. Mighty kind of the old gent to leave his light burning for me to steer by. If it hadn't been for him I'd 'a' had a job to tell which was the right house. As it is, I've borne more to the right than I thought."

At this moment the town clock struck ten, and almost immediately afterwards the light in the windows went out.

"Never mind," remarked John to himself. "I know where I am now."

Advancing a little further, he caught sight of the dim outline of the house through the rain, and turning short to his left, he measured off one hundred steps along the empty street, a distance which brought him opposite the next house to the east.

All was dark and silent, as he had expected, but to make sure he approached the house and thumped upon the door. There was no reply. Again he thumped and struck the door sharply with the handle of his knife. Silence!

"He's out all right," muttered John. "Was there ever such a lucky chance? Howling wind, driving rain, dark as the ace of spades, and Tom Connor not coming back for an hour!"

Dark it surely was. The night was black. Not a glimmer of light in any direction. Even the town itself, only a quarter-mile away, seemed to have been blotted from the face of the earth.

As he had noticed in coming across the flats that there were lights still burning in two of the other houses, the patient plotter, in order to give the inmates a chance to get to bed and to sleep, sat waiting on the leeward side of the building for a full half hour. At the end of that time, however, he arose, moved along a few steps, and then, going down on his hands and knees, crept under the house. Ten minutes later he came crawling out again, feet foremost. Once outside, he struck a match, and sheltering it in his cupped hands he applied the flame to the end of something which looked like a long, stiff cord about as thick as a lead pencil. Presently there was a sharp "spit" from the ignited "cord," blowing out the match and causing John to shake his hand with a gesture of pain, as though it had been scorched.

Next moment Long John sprang to his feet and fled away into the darkness; not straight across lots as he had come, but by a roundabout way which would bring him into town from the eastern side.

Then, for two minutes, except for the roaring of the wind, all was silence.

Joe and I were sound asleep on the floor of Tom's back room, when by a single impulse we both sprang out of bed with an irrepressible cry of alarm, and stood for a moment trembling and clinging to each other in the darkness. The sound of a frightful explosion was ringing in our ears!

"What was it, Joe?" I cried. "Which direction?"

"I don't know," my companion replied. "I hope it isn't an accident up at the Pelican. Let's get into our clothes, Phil."

Lighting the lamp, we quickly dressed, and putting on our hats and overcoats we went out into the storm. All was dark, except that in the windows of each of the occupied houses in the row we could see a light shining. The whole street had been roused up.

"It must have been a powder-magazine," Joe shouted in my ear. "Or else the boiler in the engine-house of the Pelican. What do you say, Phil? Shall we go up there? We might be able to help."

"Yes, come on!" I cried. "Let's go and see first, though, if Tom hasn't a second lantern. We shall save time by it if he has."

Our hurried search for a lantern was vain, however, so we determined to set off without one. As we closed the door behind us, our clock struck eleven, and a moment later we heard faintly the eleven o'clock whistle up at the Pelican.

"Good!" cried Joe. "It isn't the boiler blown up, anyhow, so Tom's safe; for he is working underground and the explosion, whatever it was, was on the surface."

With bent heads we pushed our way against the wind, until, looking up presently, I saw the light of a lantern coming quickly towards us.

"Here's Tom, Joe," I shouted. "Pull up!"

We stopped, and as the light swiftly approached we detected the beating footsteps of a man running furiously.

"Then there is an accident!" cried Joe. "Ho, Tom! That you?" he shouted.

It was Tom, who, suddenly stopping, held the lantern high, looking first at one and then at the other of us. He was still in his miner's cap and slicker, his face was as white as a ghost's, and he was so out of breath that for a moment he could not speak.

"Hurt, Tom?" I cried, in alarm.

"No,"—with a gasp.

"Anybody hurt?"

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"Scared!" And then, still panting violently: "Come to the house," said he.

Once inside, I brought Tom a dipper of water, which quickly restored him, when, turning his still blanched face towards us, he said:

"Boys, I've had the worst scare of my life!"

"How, Tom?" I asked. "That explosion? Was it up at the Pelican?"

"No, it wasn't; and I didn't know anything about it until I came up at eleven, when George, who was waiting to go on, told me there had been a heavy explosion down in the direction of my house. When he told me that, there rushed into my head all of a sudden an idea which nearly knocked me over—it was like a blow from a hammer. I grabbed the lantern, which I had just lighted, and ran for it. Can you guess what I expected to find?"

We shook our heads.

"I expected to find my house blown to pieces, and you two boys lying dead out in the rain!"

We stared at him in amazement.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Look here, boys," Tom went on. "When George Simpson told me there had been an explosion down this way, it came into my head all at once that Yetmore or Long John—probably Long John—had heard that I was out at work to-night, and not knowing that you were staying the night with me, had come and wrecked my house."

"But why should they?" Joe asked.

"So as to prevent my raising money on it, and so keep me tied up in town while they skipped out to look for that vein of galena. I'm glad to find I was wrong. I did 'em an in——"

He stopped short, and following his gaze, we saw that he was staring at the second window.

"When did you put that in?" he cried.

"Just after you left. We finished by nine o'clock."

"How soon did you go to bed?"

"Just after ten."

"Come with me!" cried Tom, springing from his chair and seizing the lantern. "I know what's happened now!"

With us two close at his heels, he led the way to the spot where Yetmore's empty house had stood. Not a vestige of it remained, except the upper part of the chimney, which lay prone in the great hole dug out by the violence of the explosion.

"Boys," said Tom, in a tone of unusual gravity, "if you live a hundred years you'll never have a narrower squeak than you've had to-night. If Long John did this—and I'm pretty sure he did—he meant to blow up my house, but being misled by those two windows, he has blown up Yetmore's house instead. You never did, and I doubt if you ever will do, a better stroke of work in your lives than when you put in my second window!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE ORE-THEFT

At half past five next morning Joe and I slipped out of bed, leaving Tom Connor, who had to go to work again at seven, still fast asleep. While Joe quietly prepared breakfast, I went out to examine by daylight the scene of last night's explosion.

The first discovery I made was the imprint in the mud of footsteps, half obliterated by the rain. The tracks were very large and very far apart, proving that the owner of the boots that made them was a big man, and that he had gone off at a great pace; a discovery which tended to confirm in my mind Tom's guess that it was indeed Long John who had done the mischief.

At this moment the tenant of the house next to the east came out—Hughy Hughes was his name; a Welshman—and as he walked towards me I saw him stoop to pick up something.

"That was a rascally piece of work, wasn't it?" said he, as he joined me. "Scared us 'most to death, it did. See, here's the fuse he used. I just picked it up; fifteen feet of it. Wonder who the fellow was. Pretty state of things when folks take to blowing up each other's houses. Like enough Yetmore has his enemies, but it's a pretty mean enemy as 'd try to get even by any such scalawag trick as this."

This speech enlightened me as to what would be the general theory regarding the outrage. It would be set down as an act of revenge on the part of some enemy of Yetmore's; and so Tom and Joe thought, too, when I went back to the house and told them about it.

"That'll be the theory, all right," said Tom. "And as far as I see, we may as well let it go at that. We have no evidence to present, and it would look rather like malice on our part if we were to charge Long John with blowing his best friend's house to pieces just because we happen to suspect him of it. And so, I guess, boys, we may as well lay low for the present: we shan't do any good by putting forward our own theories.

"I dare say," he went on, after a moment's reflection, "I dare say, if we were to go around telling what we thought and why we thought it, we might influence public opinion; but, when you come to think of it, we have no real proof; so we'll just hold our tongues. Are you in a hurry to get home?"

"No," I replied. "We shan't be able to plow for two days at the very least, so there is nothing to hurry home for."

"Well, then," said Tom, "I'll tell you what I wish you'd do. I must go back to work in a few minutes, but I wish you two would go down town and hear what folks have to say about this business, and then come back here and have dinner with me at twelve. Will you?"

"All right," said I. "We'll do that."

We found the town in a great state of excitement. Everybody was talking about the explosion, which, as the newspaper said, "would cast a blight upon the fair fame of Sulphide." Yetmore's store was crowded with people, shaking hands with him and expressing their indignation at the outrage; the universal opinion being, as we had anticipated, that some miscreant had done it out of revenge.

Joe and I, squeezing in with the rest, presently found ourselves near the counter, when Yetmore, catching my eye, nodded to me and said:

"How are you, Phil? I didn't know you were in town."

"Yes," said I, "we came in last evening and spent the night in Tom Connor's house."

Yetmore started and turned pale.

"In Tom Connor's house?" he repeated, huskily.

"Yes," I replied. "We were asleep in his back room when that explosion woke us up."

At this Yetmore stared at me for a moment, and then, as he realized how narrowly he had missed being party to a murder, he turned a dreadful white color, staggered, and I believe might have fallen had he not sat himself down quickly upon a sack of potatoes.

A draft of water soon brought back his color, when, addressing the sympathizing crowd, Yetmore said:

"It made me feel a bit sick to think what chances these boys ran last night. Every one knows how hard it is to tell those houses apart; and that fellow might easily have made a mistake and blown up Tom Connor's house on one side or Hughy Hughes' on the other."

"Yes," said I; "and all the more so as Joe and I last evening put a second window into Tom's house, so that any one coming across lots after dark might just as well have taken Tom's house for old Snyder's."

"Phew!" whistled one of the men in the crowd. "Then it's Hughy Hughes that's to be congratulated. If that rascal had made such a mistake, and had chosen the second house from Tom's instead of the second house from Snyder's we'd have been making arrangements for six funerals about now. Hughy has four children, hasn't he?"

I could not help feeling sorry for Yetmore. Convinced as I was that he had at least connived in a plot to destroy Tom's house, I felt sure that he had been far from intending personal injury to any one; and I felt sure, too, that he was thoroughly sincere, when, rising from his seat and addressing the assemblage, he said:

"Men, I'm sorry to lose my house, of course—that goes without saying—but when I think of what might have happened it doesn't trouble me that much"—snapping his finger and thumb. "I tell you, men, I'm downright thankful it was my house that was blown up and nobody else's."

As he said this he looked at Joe and me, and I felt convinced that it was to us and not to the assembled throng that he addressed his remark. The people, however, not knowing what we did, loudly applauded the magnanimity of the sentiment, and many of them pressed forward to shake hands again.

Yetmore had never been so popular as he was at that moment. Everybody sympathized with him over his loss; everybody admired the dignified way in which he accepted it; and everybody would have been delighted to hear that some compensating piece of good fortune had befallen him.

Strange to say, at that very moment that very thing happened.

Suddenly we were all attracted by a distant shouting up the street. Looking through the front window, we saw that all the people outside had turned and were gazing in that direction. By one impulse everybody in the store surged out through the doorways, when we saw, still some distance away, a man running down the middle of the street, waving his cap and shouting some words we could not distinguish. We were all on tiptoe with expectation.

At length the man approached, broke through the group, ran up to Yetmore, who was standing on his door-step, shook hands with him, and then turning round, he shouted out:

"Great strike in the Pelican, boys! In the old workings above the fifth—Yetmore's lease. One of those pockets of tellurium that's never been known to run less than twenty thousand to the ton. Hooray for Yetmore!"

The shout that went up was genuinely hearty. Once more the mayor was mobbed by his enthusiastic fellow citizens and once more he shook hands till his arm ached—during which proceeding Joe and I slipped away.

We had not gone far when I heard my name called, and turning round I saw a man on horseback who handed me a letter.

"I've just come up through your place," said he, "and your father asked me to give you this if I should see you."

The note was to the effect that the rain had been heavy on the ranch, no plowing was possible, and so we were to stay in town that day and come down on the morrow after the mail from the south came in, as he was expecting an important letter, and it would thus save another trip up and down.

We were glad enough to do this, so, making our way up the street past the knots of people, all talking over and over again the two exciting topics of the day, we retraced our steps to Tom's house, where we got ready the dinner against Tom's return. Shortly after twelve he came in, when we related to him what we had learned in town; demanding in our turn particulars of the great strike.

"It's a rich strike, all right," said Tom, "but there isn't much of it—about five hundred pounds—just a pocket, and not a very large one. But it is very rich stuff, carrying over three thousand ounces of silver and a thousand of gold to the ton. The five hundred pounds should be worth ten or twelve dollars a pound. They've found the same stuff several times before in the Pelican, always unexpectedly and always in pockets."

"Then," remarked Joe, "Yetmore will have made, perhaps, six thousand dollars this morning."

"No, no," said Tom; "he won't have done anything of the sort; though I don't wonder you should think so after the way the people have been carrying on down town. They've just been led away by their enthusiasm. Most of 'em know the terms of Yetmore's lease well enough, but they have forgotten them for the moment. Yetmore pays the company a certain percentage of all the ore he gets out, and it is specially provided in the lease that should he come upon any of the well-known tellurium ore, the company is to have three-fifths of the proceeds and Yetmore only two-fifths. He'll make a good thing out of it though, anyway."

"You say there's about five hundred pounds of the ore: have they taken it all out already?" asked Joe.

"Yes, taken it out, sorted it, sacked it in little fifty-pound sacks, sewed up the sacks and piled them in one of the drifts, all ready to ship down to San Remo to-morrow by express."

"Why do they leave it in the mine?" I asked. "Is it safer than taking it down to the express office?"

"Yes: it would be pretty difficult to steal it out of the mine, with all the lights going and all the miners about, whereas, if it was just stacked in the express office, somebody might——"

"Somebody might cut a hole in the floor and drop it through," remarked Joe, laughing.

"That's so," said Tom, adding, "I tell you what it is, boys: I begin to think I wasn't quite so smart as I thought I was when I got back that coal oil for the widow. I wouldn't wonder a particle if it wasn't just that that decided Yetmore to come and blow my house to smithereens."

"I shouldn't either," said Joe.

Tom having departed to his work again, Joe and I once more went into town, where we spent the time going about, listening to the talk of the people, who were still standing in groups on the street corners, discussing the great events of the day.

But if the people were excited, as they certainly were, their excitement was a mere flutter in comparison with the storm which swept over the community next morning.

The ten sacks of high-grade ore had been stolen during the night!

The news came down about eight o'clock in the morning, when, at once, and with one accord, all the men in the place who could get away swarmed up to the Pelican—we among them.

The thief, whoever he was, was evidently familiar with the workings of the mine, for, going round into Stony Gulch, he had forced the door at the exit of the old tunnel, cutting out the staple with auger and saw, and then, clambering through the disused, waste-encumbered drifts, he had carried out the little sacks one by one and made away with them somehow.

Wrapping his feet in old rags in order to disguise his foot-prints, he had taken the sacks of ore across the gulch to the stony ground beyond, where his boots would leave no impression, and there all trace of him was lost. Whether he had buried the sacks somewhere near by, or, if not, how he had managed to spirit them away, were matters of general speculation; though to most minds the question was settled when one of Yetmore's clerks came hastily up to the mine and called out that the roan pony and the two-wheeled delivery cart, used to carry packages up to the mines, were missing. The thief, seemingly, had not only stolen Yetmore's ore, but had borrowed Yetmore's horse and cart to convey it away.

If this were true, it proved that the thief must have an intimate knowledge of the country, for, in spite of the heavy rain of the night before, not a sign of a wheel-mark was there to be found: the cart had been conducted over the rocks with such skill as to leave no trace whatever. Cart, pony, ore and thief had vanished as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed them.

At first everybody sympathized with Yetmore over his loss, but presently an ugly rumor began to get about when people bethought them of the terms of the lease. Those who did not like the storekeeper, and they were not a few, began to pull long faces, nudge each other with their elbows, and whisper together that perhaps Yetmore knew more of this matter than he pretended.

Joe and I were at a loss to understand what they were driving at, until one man, more malicious or less discreet than the others, spoke up.

"How are we to know," said he, "that Yetmore didn't steal this ore himself? Three-fifths of it belongs to the company—he'd make a mighty good thing by it. I'm not saying he did do it, but——"

He ended with a closing of one eye and a sideways jerk of his head more expressive than words.

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" Joe blurted out. "Yetmore isn't over-scrupulous, I dare say, but he's a long way from being a fool, and he'd never make such a blunder as to steal the ore and then use his own horse and cart to carry it off."

"Well, I don't know," said the man. "It might be just a trick of his to put folks off the scent."

And though Joe and I, for our part, felt sure that Yetmore had had nothing to do with it, we found that many people shared this man's suspicions; the consequence being that the mayor's popularity of the day before waned again as suddenly as it had arisen.

In the midst of this excitement the mail-coach from the south came in, when Joe and I, carrying with us the expected letter for my father, set off home again; little suspecting—as how should we suspect—that the ore-thief, whoever he might be, was about to render us a service of greater value by far than the ore and the cart and the pony combined.

We were jogging along on the homeward road, and were just rounding the spur of Elkhorn Mountain which divided our valley from Sulphide, when Joe suddenly laid his hand on my arm and cried: "Pull up, Phil. Stop a minute."

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Get down and come back a few steps," Joe answered; and on my joining him, he pointed out to me in a sandy patch at the mouth of a steep draw coming in from the left, some deeply-indented wheel-marks.

"Well, what of that, Joe?" said I, laughing. "Are you thinking you've found the trail of the ore-thief?"

"No," Joe replied, "I'm not jumping at any such conclusion; but, at the same time, it's possible. If the ore-thief started northward from the Pelican, and the chances are he did, for we know he carried the sacks across to the north side of Stony Gulch, this would be the natural place for him to come down into the road; for it is plain to any one that he could never get a loaded cart—or an empty one either, for that matter—over the rocky ridge which crowns this spur. If he was making his way north, he had to get into the road sooner or later, and this gully was his last chance to come down."

"That's true," I assented; "and this cart—it's a two-wheeler, you see—was heavily loaded. Look how it cuts into the sand."

"Yes," said Joe; "and it was drawn by one smallish horse, led by a man; a big man, too: look at his tracks."

"But the ore-thief, Joe, had his feet wrapped up in rags, and these are the marks of a number twelve boot."

"Well, you don't suppose the thief would walk over this rough mountain with his feet wrapped up in rags, do you? In the dark, too. They'd be catching against everything. No; he would take off the rags as soon as he reached hard ground and throw them into the cart; for it is not to be expected either that he would leave them lying on his trail to show people which way he had gone."

"No, of course not. But which way did he go, Joe; across the road or down it?"

"Down it. See. The wheel-tracks bear to the left. And if you want evidence that he came down in the dark, here you are. Look how one wheel skidded over this half-buried, water-worn boulder and slid off and scraped the spokes against this projecting rock. Look at the blue paint it left on the rock."

"Blue paint!" I cried. "Joe, Yetmore's cart was painted blue! I remember it very well. A very strongly-built cart, as it had to be to scramble up those rough roads that lead to the mines, painted blue with black trimmings. Joe, I begin to believe this is the ore-thief, after all."

"It does look like it. But where was he going? Not down to the smelter at San Remo, surely."

"Not he," I replied. "He would know better than that. The smelter has undoubtedly been notified of the robbery by this time, and the character of the Pelican tellurium is so well known that any one offering any of it for sale would have to give a very clear story as to how he came by it. No; this fellow will have to hide or bury the ore and leave it lying till he thinks the robbery is forgotten; and even then he will probably have to dispose of it at a distance in small lots or broken up very fine and mixed with other ore."

"In that case," said Joe, "we shall find his trail leaving the road again on one side or the other."

"I expect so. We'll keep a lookout. But come on, now, Joe: we mustn't delay any longer."

The road had been traveled over by several vehicles since last night, and the trail of the cart was undistinguishable with any certainty until we had passed the point where the highway branched off to the right to go down to San Remo; after which it appeared again, apparently headed straight for the ranch.

"Do you suppose he can have crossed our valley, Phil?" asked my companion.

"No, I expect not," I replied. "Keep your eyes open; we shall find the tracks going off to one side or the other pretty soon—to the left most likely, for the best hiding-places would be up in the mountains."

Sure enough, after traversing a bare, rocky stretch of road, we found that the tracks no longer showed ahead of us. The man had taken advantage of the hard ground to turn off. Pulling up our ponies, we both jumped to the ground once more, and going back a short distance, we made a cast on the western side of the road. In a few minutes Joe called out:

"Here we are, Phil! See! The wheel touched the edge of this little sandy spot, and if you look ahead about forty yards you'll see where it ran over an ant-hill. It seems as though he were heading for our canyon. Do you think that's likely?"

"Yes," I replied. "I think it is very likely. There is one place where he can get down, you remember, and then, by following up the bed of the stream for a short distance he will come to a draw which will lead him to the top of the Second Mesa—just the place he would make for. For, to any one knowing the country, as he evidently does, there would be a thousand good hiding-places in which to stow away ten small sacks of ore—you might search for years and not find them."

"Yes," said Joe. "But there's the horse and cart, Phil. How will he dispose of them?"

"Oh, that will be easy enough. He would tumble the cart into some canyon, perhaps, turn loose the horse, and be back in Sulphide before morning. But come on, Joe. We really mustn't waste any more time; it's getting on for six now."

It was fortunate we did not delay any longer, for we found my father anxiously pacing up and down the room, wondering what was keeping us. Without heeding our explanation at the moment, he hastily tore open the letter we had brought, read it through, and then stepping to the foot of the stairs, called out:

"Get your things on, mother. We must start at once. The train leaves at seven forty-five. There's no time to lose."

Turning to us, he went on: "Boys, I have to go to Denver. I may be gone five or six days—can't tell how long. I leave you in charge. If you can get at the plowing, go ahead; but I'm afraid you won't have the chance. If I'm not mistaken, there's another rain coming—wettest season I remember. Joe, run out and hitch up the big bay to the buckboard. Phil, you will have to drive down to San Remo with us and bring back the rig. Go in and get some supper now; it's all ready on the table."

In ten minutes we were off, I sitting on a little trunk at the back of the carriage, explaining to my father over his shoulder as we drove along the events of the last two days, and how it was we had taken so much time coming down from Sulphide.

"It certainly does look as though the thief had come down this way," said he; "and though we are not personally concerned in the matter, I think one of you ought to ride up to Sulphide again on Monday and give your information. Hunt up Tom Connor and tell him. And I believe"—he paused to consider—"yes, I believe I would tell Yetmore, too. I'm sure he is not concerned in this robbery; and I'm even more sure that if he was a party to the blowing up of that house, he never intended any harm to you. Yes, I think I'd tell Yetmore. It will prove to him that we bear him no ill-will, and may have a good effect."

Having seen them off on the train, I turned homeward again, going slowly, for the clouds were low and it was very dark. The consequence was that it was nearly ten by the time I reached the ranch, and before I did so the rain was coming down hard once more.

"Wet night, Joe," said I, as I pulled off my overcoat. "No plowing for a week, I'm afraid."

"I expect not," replied my companion. "It isn't often we have to complain of too much rain in Colorado, but we are certainly getting an over supply just now. There's one man, though, who'll be glad of it."

"Who's that?"

"That ore-thief. It will wash out his tracks completely."



CHAPTER XIV

THE SNOW-SLIDE

The rain, which continued pretty steadily all day, Sunday, had ceased before the following morning, when, looking through the rifts in the clouds to the west we could see that a quantity of new snow had fallen on the mountains.

"There'll be no trouble about water for irrigating this year, Joe," said I, as I returned from the stable after feeding the horses. "There's more snow up there, I believe, than I've ever seen before. It ought to last well into the summer, especially as the winds have drifted the gulches full and it has settled into solid masses."

"Yes, there ought to be a good supply," answered Joe, who was busy cooking the breakfast. "Which of the ponies do you think I had better take this morning, Phil? The pinto?"

"I thought so. I've given him a good feed of oats. He'll enjoy the outing, I expect, for he's feeling pretty chipper this morning. He tried to nip me in the ribs while I was rubbing him down. He needs a little exercise."

We had arranged between us that Joe should ride to Sulphide that morning to see Tom Connor and Yetmore, as my father had directed; and accordingly, as soon as he could get off, away he went; the pinto pony, very fresh and lively, going off as though he intended to gallop the whole distance.

Left to myself, I first went up to measure the flow of the underground stream, according to custom, and then, taking a shovel, I went to work clearing the headgates of our ditches, which had become more or less encumbered with refuse during the winter. There were two of them, set in niches of the rock on either side of the pool; for, to irrigate the land on both sides of the creek, we necessarily had to have two ditches. I had been at it only a few minutes when I noticed a curious booming noise in the direction of the mountains, which, continuing for a minute or two, presently died out again. From my position close under the wall of the Second Mesa, I could see nothing, and though it seemed to me to be a peculiar and unusual sound, I concluded that it was only a storm getting up; for, even at a distance of seven miles, we could often hear the roaring of the wind in the pine-trees.

A quarter of an hour later, happening to look up the Sulphide road, I was rather surprised to see a horseman coming down, riding very fast. He was about a mile away when I first caught sight of him, and I could not make out who he was, but presently, as I stood watching, a slight bend in the road allowed the sunlight to fall upon the horse's side, when I recognized the pinto. It was Joe coming home again.

I knew very well, of course, that he could not have been all the way to Sulphide and back in so short a time, and my first thought was that the spirited pony was running away with him; but as he approached I saw that Joe was leaning forward in the saddle, rather urging forward his steed than restraining him.

"What's up?" I thought to myself, as I stood leaning on my shovel. "Has he forgotten something? He seems to be in a desperate hurry if he has: Joe doesn't often push his horse like that. Something the matter, I'm afraid."

There was a rather steep pitch where the road came down into our valley, and it was a regular practice with us to descend this hill with some caution. Here, at any rate, I expected Joe to slacken his pace; but when I saw him come flying down at full gallop, where a false step by the pony would endanger both their necks, I knew there was something the matter, and flinging down my shovel, I ran to meet him.

"What is it, Joe?" I cried, as soon as he came within hearing.

Pulling in his pony, which, poor beast, stood trembling, with hanging head and legs astraddle, the breath coming in blasts from its scarlet nostrils, Joe leaped to the ground, crying:

"A snow-slide! A fearful great snow-slide! Right down on Peter's house!"

For a moment we stood gazing at each other in silence, when Joe, speaking very rapidly, went on:

"We must get up there at once, Phil: we may be able to help Peter. Though if he was in his house when the slide came down, I'm afraid we can do nothing. His cabin must be buried five hundred feet deep, and the heavy snow will pack like ice with its own weight."

"We'll take a couple of shovels, anyhow," I cried. "I'll get 'em. Pull your saddle off the pinto, Joe, he's used up, poor fellow, and slap it on to the little gray. Saddle my pony, too, will you? I'll clap some provisions into a bag and bring 'em along: there's no knowing how long we'll be gone!"

"All right," replied Joe. And without more words, he turned to unsaddle the still panting pony, while I ran to the house.

In five minutes, or less, we were under way.

"Not too fast!" cried Joe. "We mustn't blow the ponies at the start. It's a good eight miles up to Peter's house."

As we ascended the hill and came up on top of the Second Mesa, I was able to see for the first time the great scar on the mountain where the slide had come down.

"Phew!" I whistled. "It was a big one, and no mistake. Did you see it start, Joe?"

"Yes, I saw it start. I happened to be looking up there, thinking it looked pretty dangerous, when a great mass of snow which was overhanging that little cliff up there near the saddle, fell and started the whole thing. It seemed to begin slowly. I could see three or four big patches of snow fall from the precipice above Peter's cabin as though pushed over, and then the whole great mass, fifteen feet thick, I should think, three hundred yards wide and four or five times as long, came down with a rush, pouring over the cliff with a roar like thunder. I wonder you didn't hear it."

"I did," I replied, remembering the noise I had taken for a wind-storm, "but being under the bluff, and the waterfall making so much noise, I couldn't hear distinctly, and so thought nothing of it. Why!" I cried, as I looked again. "There used to be a belt of trees running diagonally across the slope. They're all gone!"

"Yes, every one of them. There were some biggish ones, too, you remember; but the slide snapped them off like so many carrots. It cut a clean swath right through them, as you see."

"Where were you, Joe, when you saw it come down?" I asked.

"More than half way to Sulphide. I came back in fifteen minutes—four miles."

"Poor little Pinto! No wonder he was used up!"

We had been riding at a smart lope, side by side, while this conversation was going on, and in due time we reached the foot-hills. Here our pace was necessarily much reduced, but we continued on up Peter's creek as rapidly as possible until the gulch became so narrow and rocky, and so encumbered with great patches of snow, that we thought we could make better time on foot.

Leaving our ponies, therefore, we went scrambling forward, until, about half a mile from our destination, Joe suddenly stopped, and holding up his hand, cried eagerly:

"Hark! Keep quiet! Listen!"

"Bow, wow, wow! Bow, wow, wow, wow, wow!" came faintly to our ears from far up the mountain.

"It's old Sox!" cried Joe. "There are no dogs up here!" And clapping his hands on either side of his mouth, he gave a yell which made the echoes ring. Almost immediately the sharp report of a rifle came down to us, and with a spontaneous cheer we plunged forward once more.

It was hard work, for we were about nine thousand feet above sea level; the further we advanced, too, the more snow we encountered, until presently we found the narrow valley so blocked with it that we had to ascend the mountain-spur on one side to get around it. In doing so, we came in sight of the cliff behind Peter's house, and then, for the first time, we understood what a snow-slide really meant.

Reaching half way up the thousand-foot precipice was a great slope of snow, completely filling the end of the valley; and projecting from it at all sorts of angles were trees, big and little, some whole, some broken off short, some standing erect as though growing there, some showing nothing but their roots. At the same time, from the edge of the precipice upward to the summit of the ridge, we had a clear view of the long, bare track left by the slide, with the snow-banks, fifteen or twenty feet thick, still standing on either side of it, held back by the trees.

"What a tremendous mass of snow!" I exclaimed, "There must be ten million tons of it! And what an irresistible power! Peter's house must have been crushed like an eggshell!"

"Yes," replied Joe. "But meanwhile where's Peter?"

Once more he shouted; and this time, somewhere straight ahead of us, there was an answering shout which set us hurrying forward again with eager expectancy.

At the same moment, up from the ground flew old Sox, perched upon the root of an inverted tree, where, showing big and black against the snow bank behind him, he set to work to bark a continuous welcome as we struggled forward to the spot, one behind the other.

Beneath a tree, stretched on a mat of fallen pine-needles, just on the very outer edge of the slide, lay our old friend, the hermit, who, when he saw us approaching, raised himself on his elbow, and waving his other hand to us, called out cheerily:

"How are you, boys? Glad to see you! You're welcome—more than welcome!"

"Hurt, Peter?" cried Joe, running forward and throwing himself upon his knees beside the injured man.

"A trifle. No bones broken, I believe, but pretty badly bruised and strained, especially the right leg above the knee. I find I can't walk—at least not just yet."

"How did you escape the slide?" I asked.

"Why, I had warning of it, luckily. I was up pretty early this morning and was just about to leave the house, when a dab of snow—a couple of tons, maybe—came down and knocked off my chimney. I knew what that meant, and I didn't waste much time, you may be sure, in getting out. I grabbed my rifle and ran for it. I was hardly out of my door when the roar began, and you may guess how I ran then. I had reached almost this spot when down it came. The edge of it caught me and tumbled me about; sometimes on the surface, sometimes on the ground; now on my face and now feet uppermost, I was pitched this way and that like a cork in a torrent, till a big tree—the one Sox is sitting on, I think—slapped me on the back with its branches and hurled me twenty feet away among the rocks. It was then I got hurt; but on the other hand, being flung out of the snow like that saved me from being buried, so I can't complain. It was as narrow a shave as one could well have."

"It certainly was," said I. "And did you hold on to the rifle all the time?"

"Yes; though why, I can't say. The natural instinct to hold on to something, I suppose. But how is it you are on hand so promptly? It did occur to me as I lay here that one of you might notice that there had been a slide and remember me, but I never expected to see you here so soon."

"Well, that was another piece of good fortune," I replied. "Joe saw the slide come down and rode a four-mile race to come and tell me. We did not lose a minute in getting under way, and we haven't wasted any time in getting here either. But now we are here, the question is: How are we going to get you out?"

"Where do you propose to take me?" asked Peter.

"Down to our house."

For a brief instant the hermit looked as though he were going to demur; but if he had entertained such an idea, he thought better of it, and thanked me instead.

"It's very good of you," said he; "though it gives me an odd sensation. I haven't been inside another man's house for years."

"Well, don't you think it's high time you changed your habits?" ask Joe, laughing. "And you couldn't have a better opportunity—your own house smashed flat; yourself helpless; and we two all prepared to lug you off whether you like it or not."

"Well," said Peter, smiling at Joe's threat, "then I suppose I may as well give in. You're very kind, though, boys," he added, seriously, "and I'm very glad indeed to accept your offer."

"Then let us pitch in at once and start downward," said Joe. "Do you think you could walk with help?"

"I doubt it; but I'll have a try."

It was no use, though. With one arm over Joe's shoulder and the other over mine he essayed to walk, but the attempt was a failure. His right leg dragged helplessly behind; he could not take a step.

"We've got to think of some other way," said Joe, as Peter once more stretched himself at full length upon the ground. "Can we——"

But here he was interrupted.

All this time, Sox, with rare backwardness, had remained perched upon his tree-root, looking on and listening, but at this moment down he flew, alighted upon the ground near Peter's head, made a complete circuit of his master's prostrate form, then hopped up on his shoulder, and having promenaded the whole length of his body from his neck to his toes, he shook out his feathers and settled himself comfortably upon the hermit's left foot.

We all supposed he intended to take a nap, but in another two seconds he straightened up again, eyed each of us in turn, and, with an air of having thought it all out and at last decided the matter beyond dispute, he remarked in a tone of gentle resignation:

"John Brown's body."

Having delivered this well-considered opinion with becoming solemnity, he threw back his head and laughed a rollicking laugh, as though he had made the very best joke that ever was heard.

"You black heathen, Sox!" cried his master. "I believe you would laugh at a funeral."

"Lies," said Sox, opening one eye and shutting it again; a remark which, though it sounded very much as though intended as an insult to Peter, was presumably but the continuation of his previous quotation.

"Get out, you old rascal!" cried the hermit, "shooing" away the bird with his hat. "Your conversation is not desired just now." And as Sox flew back to his perch, Peter continued: "How far down did you leave your ponies, boys?"

"About a mile," I replied.

"Then I believe the best way will be for one of you to go down and bring up one of the ponies. I can probably get upon his back with your help, and then, by going carefully, I believe we can get down."

"All right," said Joe, springing to his feet. "We'll try it. I'll go down. The little gray is the one, Phil, don't you think?"

"Yes," I answered. "The little gray's the one; he's more sober-minded than my pony and very sure-footed. Bring the gray."

Without further parley, away went Joe, and in about three-quarters of an hour he appeared again, leading the pony by the bridle.