"It's pretty rough going," said he, "but I think we can make it if we take it slowly. The pony came up very well. Now, Peter let's see if we can hoist you into the saddle."

It was a difficult piece of work, for Peter, though he had not an ounce of fat on his body, was a pretty heavy man, and being almost helpless himself, the feat was not accomplished without one or two involuntary groans on the part of the patient. At last, however, we had him settled into the saddle, when Joe, carrying the rifle, took the lead, while I, with the two shovels over my shoulder, brought up the rear. In this order the procession started, but it had no more than started when Peter called to us to stop.

In order to avoid going up the hill more than was necessary, we were skirting along the edge of the great snow-bank, when, as we passed just beneath the big tree upon one of whose roots Socrates was perched, Peter, looking up to call to the bird, espied something which at once attracted his attention.

"Wait a moment, boys, will you?" he requested, checking the pony; and then, turning to me, he continued: "Look up there, Phil. Do you see that black stone stuck among the roots? Poke it out with the shovel, will you? I should like to look at it."

Wondering rather at his taking any interest in stones at such a time, I nevertheless obeyed his behest, and with two or three vigorous prods I dislodged the black fragment, catching it in my hand as it fell; though it was so unexpectedly heavy that I nearly let it drop.

"Ah!" exclaimed Peter, when I had handed it up to him. "Just what I thought! This will interest Tom Connor."

"Why?" we both asked. "What is it?"

"A chunk of galena. Look! Do you see how it is made up of shining cubes of some black mineral? Lead—lead and sulphur. There's a vein up there somewhere."

"And the big tree, pushing its roots down into the vein, has brought away a piece of it, eh?" asked Joe.

"Yes, that is what I suppose. There are some bits of light-colored rock up there, too, Phil. Pry out one or two of those, will you?"

I did as requested, and on my passing them to Peter, he said:

"These are porphyry rocks. The general formation up there is limestone, I know—I've noticed it frequently—but I expect it is crossed somewhere—probably on the line of the belt of trees—by a porphyry dike. Put the specimens into your pocket, Joe; we must keep them to show to Connor. It's a very important find. And now let us get along."

The journey down the gulch was very slow and very difficult—we made hardly a mile an hour—though, when we left the mountain and started across the mesa we got along better. When about half way, I left the others and galloped home, where I lighted a fire and heated a lot of water, so that, when at length Peter arrived, I had a steaming hot tubful all ready for him in the spare room on the ground floor.

Though our friend protested against being treated like an invalid, declaring his belief that he would be about right again by morning, he nevertheless consented to take his hot bath and go to bed; though I think he was persuaded to do so more because he was unwilling to disappoint us after all our preparations, than because he really expected to derive any benefit.

Be that as it may—and for my part I shall always hold that it was the hot bath that did it—when we went into Peter's room next morning, what was our surprise to find our cripple up and dressed. Though his right leg was still so stiff as to be of little use to him, he declined our help, and with the aid of a couple of broomsticks propelled himself out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, where Joe was busy getting the breakfast ready. His rapid recovery was astonishing to both of us; though, as Joe remarked later, we need not be so very much surprised, for, with his hardy life and abstemious habits he was as healthy as any wild animal.

As we sat at our morning meal, we talked over our find of yesterday, and discussed what was the proper course for us to pursue.

"First, and most important," said Peter, "Tom Connor must be notified. We must waste no time. The prospectors are beginning to get out, and any one of them, noticing the new scar on the mountain, might go exploring up there. When does Tom quit work on the Pelican?"

"This evening," replied Joe. "It was this evening, wasn't it, Phil?"

"Yes," I replied. "He was to quit at five this evening, and his intention then was to come down here next day and make this place his base of operations."

"Then the thing to do," said Joe, "is for me to ride up there this morning—I started to go yesterday, you know, Peter—and catch Tom up at the mine at noon. When he hears of our discovery, I've not a doubt but that he will pack up and come back with me this evening, so as to get a start first thing to-morrow."

"I expect he will," said I. "And while you are up there, Joe, you can see Yetmore and give him your information about those cart-tracks."

"What do you mean?" asked Peter. "Information about what cart-tracks?"

"Oh, you haven't heard of it, of course," said I; and forthwith I explained to him all about the ore-theft, and how we suspected that the thief was in hiding somewhere in the foot-hills. Peter listened attentively, and then asked:

"Are you sure there was only one of them?"

"Well, that's the general supposition," I replied. "Why?"

"I thought there might be a pair of them, that's all. I'll tell you an odd thing that happened only the day before yesterday, which may or may not have a bearing on the case. When I got home about dusk that evening, I found that some one had broken into my house and had stolen a hind-quarter of elk, a box of matches, a frying-pan, and—of all queer things to select—a bear-trap. What on earth any one can want with a bear-trap at this season of the year, I can't think, when there is hardly a bear out of his winter-quarters yet; and if he was he'd be as thin as a rail. I found the fellow's tracks easily enough—tall man—big feet—long stride—and trailed them down the gulch to a point where another man had been sitting on a rock waiting for him. This other man's track was peculiar: he was lame—stepped short with his right foot, and the foot itself was out of shape. Their trail went on down the hill towards the mesa, but it was then too dark to follow it, and I was going off to take it up again next morning when that slide came down and changed my programme."

"Well," said Joe, who had sat with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands, listening closely, "where the lame man springs from I don't know, but if they should be the ore-thieves their stealing the meat and the frying-pan was a natural thing to do; for if they are going into hiding they will need provisions."

"Yes," replied Peter; "and whether they knew of my place before or came upon it by accident, they would probably think it safer to steal from me than to raid one of the ranches and thus risk bringing all the ranchmen about their ears like a swarm of hornets."

"That's true," said Joe. "Yes, I must certainly tell Tom and Yetmore about them: it may be important. And I'll start at once," he added, rising from the table as he spoke. "I'll take the buckboard, Phil, and then I can bring back Tom's camp-kit and tools for him; otherwise he would have to pack them on his pony and walk himself. I expect you will see us back somewhere about seven this evening."

With that he went out, and soon afterwards we heard the rattle of wheels as he drove away.



CHAPTER XV

THE BIG REUBEN VEIN

But it seemed as though Joe were destined never to get to Sulphide. I was still in the kitchen, when, not more than twenty minutes later, I heard the rattle of wheels again, and looking out of the window, there I saw my partner by the stable tying up his horse.

"Hallo, Joe!" I cried, throwing open the door. "What's up?"

Without replying at the moment, Joe came striding in, shut the door, and throwing his hat down upon the table, said:

"I came back to tell you something. I've a notion, Phil, that we've got to go hunting for that vein ourselves, and not lose time by going up to tell Tom."

"Why? What makes you think that, Joe?" I asked, in surprise.

"That's what I came back to tell you. You know that little treeless 'bubble' that stands on the edge of the canyon only about half a mile up-stream from here? Well, when I drove up the hill out of our valley just now I turned, naturally, to look at the scar on the mountain, when the first thing to catch my eye was the figure of a man standing on top of the 'bubble.'"

"Is that so? What was he doing?"

"He was looking at the scar, too."

"How do you know that, Joe?" I asked, incredulously. "You couldn't tell at that distance whether he had his back to you or his face."

"Ah, but I could, though," Joe replied; "and I'll tell you how. After a minute or so the man turned—I could see that motion distinctly enough—caught sight of me, and instantly jumped down behind the rocks."

"Didn't want to be seen, eh?" remarked Peter. "And what did you do next?"

"I felt sure he was watching me, though I couldn't see him," Joe went on, "and so, to make him suppose I hadn't observed him, I stayed where I was for a minute, and then drove leisurely on again. There's a dip in the road, you know, Phil, a little further on, and as soon as I had driven down into it, out of sight, I pulled up, jumped out of the buckboard, and running up the hill again I crawled to the top of the rise and looked back. There was the man, going across the mesa at a run, headed straight for Big Reuben's gorge!"

Joe paused, and for a moment we all sat looking at each other in silence.

"Any idea who he was?" I asked presently.

"Yes," replied Joe, without hesitation. "It was Long John Butterfield."

"You seem very sure," remarked Peter; "but do you think you could recognize him so far off?"

"I feel sure it was Long John," Joe answered. "I have very long sight; and as the man stood there on top of the 'bubble,' with the sun shining full upon him, he looked as tall as a telegraph pole. Yes, I feel certain it was Long John."

"Then Yetmore has started him out to prospect for that vein!" I cried. "He is probably camped in the neighborhood of Big Reuben's gorge, following up the stream, and I suppose he heard the roar of the slide yesterday and came down this way the first thing this morning to get a look at the scar."

"That's it, I expect," Joe answered.

"And you suppose," said Peter, "that he went running back to his camp to get his tools and go prospecting up on the scar."

Joe nodded.

"Then, what do you propose to do?" asked the hermit.

"I've been thinking about it as I drove back," replied Joe, "and my opinion is that Phil and I ought to go up at once, see if we can't find the spot where that big tree was rooted out, and stake the claim for Tom Connor. If we lose a whole day by going up to Sulphide to notify Tom, it would give Long John a chance to get in ahead of us and perhaps beat us after all."

The bare idea of such a catastrophe was too much for me. I sprang out of my chair, crying, "We'll go, Joe! And we'll start at once! How are we to get up there, Peter? There must be any amount of snow; and we are neither of us any good on skis, even if we had them."

"Yes, there's plenty of snow," replied Peter promptly, entering with heartiness into the spirit of the enterprise, "lots of snow, but you can avoid most of it by taking the ridge on the right of the creek and following along its summit to where it connects with the saddle. You'll find a little cliff up there, barring your way, but by turning to your left and keeping along the foot of the precipice you will come presently to the upper end of the slide, and then, by coming down the slide, you will be able to reach the place where the line of trees used to stand, which is the place you want to reach."

"Is it at all dangerous?" asked Joe.

"Why, yes," replied Peter, "it is a bit dangerous, especially on the slide itself now that the trees are gone; though if you are ordinarily careful you ought to be able to make it all right, there being two of you. For a man by himself it would be risky—a very small accident might strand him high and dry on the mountain—but where there are two together it is reasonably safe."

"Come on, then, Joe," said I. "Let's be off."

"Wait a bit!" cried our guest, holding up his hand. "You talk of staking a claim for Tom Connor; well, suppose you should find the spot where the big tree was rooted out, and should find a vein there—do you know how to write a location-notice?"

"No," said I, blankly. "We don't."

"Well, I'll write you out the form," said Peter. "I've read hundreds of them and I remember it well enough, and you can just copy the wording when you set up your stake—if you have occasion to set one up at all."

He sat down and quickly wrote out the form for us, when, pocketing the paper, we went over to the stable, saddled up, and leaving Peter in charge, away we rode, armed with a pick, a shovel, an ax and a coil of rope.

According to the hermit's directions, instead of following up the bed of the creek which led to his house, we took to the spur on the right, the top of which being treeless, had been swept bare of snow by the winds and presented no serious obstacle to our sure-footed ponies. We were able, therefore, to ride up the mountain so far that we presently found ourselves looking down upon Peter's house, or, rather, upon the mountain of snow which covered it. But here the character of the spur changed, or, to speak more accurately, here the spur ended and another one began. Between the two, half-filled with well-packed snow, lay a deep crevice, which, bearing away down hill to our right, was presently lost among the trees.

"From the lay of the land," said Joe, "I should judge that this is the head of the creek which runs through Big Reuben's gorge—Peter told us it started up here, you remember. And from the look of it," he continued, "I should suppose that the shortest way of getting over to the slide would be to cut right across here to the left through the trees. But that is out of the question: the snow would be ten feet over our heads; so our only way is to cross this gulch and go on up as far as we can along the top of the next ridge, as Peter said."

"Then we shall have to leave the ponies here," I remarked, "and do the rest on foot: there's no getting them across this place."

Accordingly, we abandoned our ponies at this point, and having with some difficulty scrambled across the gulch ourselves, we ascended to the ridge of the next spur and continued our way upward. This spur was crowned by an outcrop of rock, which being much broken up and the cracks being filled with snow, made the walking not only difficult but dangerous. By taking care, however, we avoided any accident, and, after a pretty stiff climb arrived at the foot of a perpendicular ledge of rocks which cut across our course at right angles—the little cliff Peter had told us we should find barring our way.

Here, turning to the left, as directed, we skirted along the base of the cliff, sometimes on the rocks and sometimes on the edge of the snow which rested against them, until at last we reached a point whence we could look right down the steep slope of the slide.

Covered with loose shale, the slope for its whole length appeared to be smooth and of uniform pitch, except that about three-quarters of the way down we could see a line of snow hummocks stretching all across its course, indicating pretty surely that here had grown a strip of trees, which being most of them broken off short had caught and held a little snow against the stumps.

"There's where we want to get, Joe!" I cried, eagerly. "Down there to that row of stumps! This is a limestone country—all this shale, you see, is composed of limestone chips—but that tree-root in which we found the chunk of galena held two or three bits of porphyry as well, you remember, and if it did come from down there, there's a good chance that that line of stumps indicates the course of a porphyry outcrop, as Peter guessed, cutting across the limestone formation."

"Well, what of that?" asked Joe. "Is a porphyry outcrop a desirable thing to find? Is it an 'indication'?"

"It's plain you're no prospector, Joe," said I, laughing; "and though I don't set up to know much about it myself, I've learned enough from hearing Tom Connor talk of 'contact veins' to know that if there's a vein in the neighborhood the most promising place to look for it is where the limestone and the porphyry come in contact."

"Is that so?" cried Joe, beginning to get excited. "Then let us get down there at once; for, ten to one, that's where our big tree came from."

"That's all very well," said I. "The row of stumps is our goal, all right, but how are we going to get down there? I don't feel at all inclined to trust myself on this loose shale. The pitch is so steep that I should be afraid of its starting to slide and carrying us with it, when I don't see anything to stop us from going down to the bottom and over the precipice at the lower end."

"That's true," Joe assented. "No, it won't do to trust ourselves on this treacherous shale; it's too dangerous. What we must do, Phil, is to get across to that long spur of rocks over there and climb down that. It will bring us close down to the line of stumps."

The spur to which Joe referred, connecting at its upper end with the cliff at the foot of which we were then standing, reached downward like a great claw to within a short distance of the chain of snow hummocks, and undoubtedly our safest course would be to follow it to its lowest extremity and begin our descent from there. It was near the further edge of the slide, however, and to get over to it we had to take a course close under the cliff, holding on to the rocks with our right hands as we skirted along the upper edge of the shaly slope. It was rather slow work, for we had to be careful, but at length we reached our destination, when, turning once more to our left, we scrambled down the spur to its lowest point.

"Now, Phil," cried Joe, "you stay where you are while I go down. No use to take unnecessary risks by both going down together. You sit here, if you don't mind, and wait for me; I won't be any longer than I can help."

"All right," said I; "but take the end of the rope in your hand, Joe. No use for you to take unnecessary risks, either."



"That's a fact," replied my companion. "Yes, I'll take the rope."

With a shovel in one hand and the end of the rope in the other, Joe started downward, but presently, having advanced as far as the rope extended, he dropped it and went cautiously on, using the shovel-handle as a staff. Down to this point he had had little difficulty, but a few steps further on, reaching presumably the change of formation we had expected to find, where the smooth, icy rock beneath the shale was covered only by an inch or so of the loose material, the moment he stepped upon it Joe's feet slipped from under him and falling on his back he shot downward like an arrow.

I held my breath as I watched him, horribly scared lest he should go flying down the whole remaining length of the slope and over the precipice; but my suspense lasted only a few seconds, for presently a great jet of snow flew into the air, in the midst of which Joe vanished. The next moment, however, he appeared again, hooking the snow out of his neck with his finger, and called out to me:

"All right, Phil! I fell into a hole where a tree came out. I'm going to shovel out the snow now. Don't let go of that rope whatever you do."

So saying he set to work with the shovel, making the snow fly, while I sat on the rocks a hundred feet above, watching him. In about a quarter of an hour he looked up and called out to me:

"I've found it, Phil. Right in this hole. It's the hole our big tree came out of, I believe. Can't tell how much of a vein, though, the ground is frozen too hard. Bring down the pick, will you? Come down to the end of the rope and throw it to me."

In response to this request, having first tied a knot in the end of the rope and fixed it firmly in a crack in the rocks, I went carefully down as far as it reached, when, with a back-handed fling, I sent the pick sliding down to my partner.

"Don't you think I might venture down and help you, Joe?" I called out.

"No!" replied Joe with much emphasis. "You stay where you are, Phil. It would be too risky. I can do the work by myself all right."

Still keeping my hold on the rope, therefore, I sat myself down on the shale, while Joe, pick in hand, went to work again. Pretty soon he straightened up and said:

"I've found the vein all right, Phil; I don't think there can be a doubt of it. Good strong vein, too, I should say."

"How wide is it?" I asked.

"Can't tell how wide it is. I've found what I suppose to be the porphyry hanging-wall, right here"—tapping the rock with his pick—"and I've been trying to trench across the vein to find the foot-wall, but the shale runs in on me faster than I can dig it out."

"What do you propose to do, then, Joe?"

"Try one of those other holes further along and see if I can't find the vein again and get its direction. You sit still there, Phil. I shall want you to give me a hand out of here soon."

With extreme caution he made his way along the line of stumps, helping himself with the pick in one hand and the shovel in the other, until, about a hundred yards distant, he arrived at another hole where a tree had been rooted out, and here he went to work again. This time he kept at it for a good half hour, but at length he laid down his tools, and for a few minutes occupied himself by building with loose pieces of rock a little pillar about eighteen inches high.

"Can you see that, Phil?" he shouted.

"Yes, I can see it," I called back.

This seemed to be all Joe wanted, for he at once picked up his tools again, and with the same caution made his way back to the first hole.

"What's your pile of stones for, Joe?" I asked.

"Why, I found the vein again, hanging-wall and all, and I set up that little monument so as to get the line of the vein from here."

Taking out of his pocket a little compass we had brought for the purpose, he laid it on the rock, and sighting back over his "monument," he found that the vein ran northeast and southwest.

"Phil," said he, "do you see that dead pine, broken off at the top, with a hawk's nest in it, away back there on the upper side of the gulch where we left the ponies?"

"Yes," I replied, "I see it. What of it?"

"The line of the vein runs right to that tree, and I propose we get back and hunt for it there. I don't want to set up the location-stake here: this place is too difficult to get at and too dangerous to work in. So I vote we get back to the dead tree and try again there. What do you say?"

"All right," I replied. "We'll do so."

"Very well, then I'll come up now."

But this was more easily said than done. Do what he would, Joe could not get up to where I sat, holding out to him first a hand and then a foot. He tried walking and he tried crawling, but in vain; the rock beneath the shale was too steep and too smooth and too slippery. At length, at my suggestion, Joe threw the shovel up to me, when, on my lying flat and reaching downward as far as I could stretch, he succeeded in hooking the pick over the shoulder of the shovel-blade, after which he had no more difficulty.

"Well, Joe," said I, when we had safely reached the rocks again, "it's just as well we didn't both go down together after all, isn't it?"

"That's what it is," replied my partner, heartily. "If you had tried to come down with me we should both probably have tumbled into that hole together, and there we should have had to stay till somebody came up to look for us; and there'd have been precious little fun in that. Did it scare you when I went scooting down the slide on my back?"

"It certainly did," I replied. "I expected to have to go down to Peter's house and lug you home next—if there was any of you left."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I was a bit scared myself. It was a great piece of luck my falling into that hole. It's a dangerous place, this, and the sooner we get out of it the better; so, let us start back, at once."

Making our way up the spur, we again skirted along between the upper edge of the slide and the foot of the cliff, and ascending once more to the ridge, we retraced our steps down it until we presently arrived at the dead tree with the hawk's nest in it.

Here, after a careful inspection of the ground, we went to work, Joe with the pick, and I, following behind him, throwing out the loose stuff with the shovel and searching through each shovelful for bits of galena. In this way we worked, cutting a narrow trench across the line where we supposed the vein ought to run, until presently Joe himself gave a great shout which brought me to his side in an instant.

With the point of his pick he had hooked out a lump of galena as big as his head!

My! How excited we were! And how we did work! We just flew at it, tooth and nail—or, rather, pick and shovel. If our lives had depended on it we could not have worked any harder, I firmly believe. The consequence was that at the end of an hour we had uncovered a vein fifteen feet wide, disclosing a porphyry wall on one side and a limestone wall on the other.

The vein was not, of course, a solid body of ore. Very far from it. Though there were bits of galena scattered pretty thickly all across it, the bulk of the vein-matter was composed of scraps of quartz mixed with yellow earth—the latter, as we afterwards learned, being itself decomposed lead-ore—to say nothing of grass-roots, tree-roots and other rubbish which helped to make up the mass.

But that we had found a real, genuine vein, even we, novices as we were at the business, could not doubt, and very heartily we shook hands with each other when our trenching at length brought us up against the limestone foot-wall. With the discovery of this foot-wall, Joe called a halt.

"Enough!" he cried. "Enough, Phil! Let's stop now. We've got the vein, all right, and a staving good vein it is, and all we have to do for the present is to set up our location-stake. To-morrow Tom will come up here, when he can make his camp and get to work at it regularly, sinking his ten-foot prospect-hole. What are we going to name it? The 'Hermit'? The 'Raven'? The 'Socrates'?"

"Call it the 'Big Reuben,'" I suggested.

"Good!" exclaimed Joe. "That's it! The 'Big Reuben' it shall be."

This, therefore, was the title we wrote upon our location-notice, by which we claimed for Tom Connor a strip of ground fifteen hundred feet in length along the course of the vein and one hundred and fifty feet wide on either side of it; and thus did our old enemy, Big Reuben, lend his name to a "prospect" which was destined later to take its place among the foremost mines of our district.



CHAPTER XVI

THE WOLF WITH WET FEET

We had been so expeditious, thanks largely to Joe's good judgment in tumbling into the right hole at the start when he slid down the shale, that we reached home well before sunset, when, according to the arrangement we had made as we rode down, Joe started again that same evening for Sulphide. This time he made the trip without interruption, and when at eight o'clock next morning he drove up to our house, Tom Connor was with him.

"How are you, old man?" cried the latter, springing to the ground and shaking hands very heartily with our guest. "That was a pretty narrow squeak you had."

"It certainly was," replied Peter. "And if it hadn't been for these boys, I'd have been up there yet. What's the news, Connor? Any clue to your ore-thieves?"

"Not much but what you and the boys have furnished. But ask Joe, he'll tell you."

"Well," said Joe, "in the first place, Long John has disappeared. He has not been seen since the evening before the robbery. No one knows what's become of him."

"Is that so?" I cried. "Then I suppose the robbery is laid to him."

"Yes, to him and another man. I'll tell you all about it. After I had been to the mine and given Tom our news, I went down town to Yetmore's and had a long talk with him. That was a good idea of your father's, Phil, that we should go and tell Yetmore: he took it very kindly, and repeated several times how much obliged he felt. He seems most anxious to be friendly."

"It's my opinion," Tom Connor cut in, "that he got such a thorough scare that night of the explosion, and is so desperate thankful he didn't blow you two sky-high, that he can't do enough to make amends."

"That's it, I think," said Joe. "And I believe it is a great relief to him also to find that we are not trying to lay the blame on him. Anyhow, he couldn't have been more friendly than he was; and he told me things which seem to throw some light on the matter of the ore-theft. There was seemingly a second man concerned in it; a man with a club-foot, Peter."

"Ah, ha!" said Peter. "Is that so?"

"Yes. There used to be a man about town known as 'Clubfoot,' a crony of Long John's," Joe continued. "He was convicted of ore-stealing about three years ago, and was sent to the penitentiary. A few days ago he escaped, and it is Yetmore's opinion that he ran straight to Long John for shelter. On the night after the explosion he—Yetmore, I mean, you know—went to John's house 'to give the blundering numskull a piece of his mind,' as he said—we can guess what about—and John wouldn't let him in; so they held their interview outside in the dark. I gathered that there was a pretty lively quarrel, which ended in Yetmore telling Long John that he had done with him, and that he needn't expect him to grub-stake him this spring.

"It is Yetmore's belief that the reason John wouldn't let him into his house—it's only a one-roomed shanty, you know—was that Clubfoot was then inside; and he further believes that John, finding himself deprived of his expected summer's work, and no doubt incensed besides at Yetmore's going back on him, as he would consider it, then and there planned with Clubfoot the robbery of the ore; both of them being familiar with the workings of the Pelican."

"That sounds reasonable," remarked Peter; "though, when all is said and done, it amounts to no more than a guess on Yetmore's part. But, look here!" he went on, as the thought suddenly occurred to him. "If Long John is not prospecting for Yetmore or himself either, being supposedly in hiding, what was he doing on the 'bubble' yesterday?"

"But perhaps he is prospecting for himself," Tom Connor broke in. "Here we are, theorizing away like a house afire on the idea that he is the thief, when maybe he had nothing to do with it. And if he is prospecting for himself, the sooner I get up to that claim the better if I don't want to be interfered with. I reckon I'll dig out right away. If you boys," turning to us, "can spare the time and the buckboard you can help me a good bit by carrying up my things for me."

"All right, Tom," said I. "We can do so."

Starting at once, therefore, with a load of provisions, tools and bedding, we carried them up the mountain as far as we could on wheels, and then packed them the rest of the way on horseback, when, having seen Tom comfortably established in camp near the Big Reuben—with the look of which he expressed himself as immensely pleased—Joe and I turned homeward again about four in the afternoon.

We were driving along, skirting the rim of our canyon, and were passing between the stream and the little treeless "bubble" upon which Joe had, as he believed, seen Long John standing the day before, when my companion remarked:

"I should very much like to know, Phil, what Long John was doing up there. Do you suppose——Whoa! Whoa, there, Josephus! What's the matter with you?"

This exclamation was addressed to the horse; for at this moment the ordinarily well-behaved Josephus shied, snorted, and standing up on his hind feet struck out with his fore hoofs at a big timber-wolf, which, springing out from the shelter of some boulders on the margin of the canyon and passing almost under his nose, ran off and disappeared among the rocks.

"He must have been down to the stream to get a drink," suggested Joe.

"He couldn't," said I; "the canyon-wall is too steep; no wolf could scramble up."

"Well, if he didn't," remarked my companion, "how did he get his feet wet? Look here at his tracks."

As he said this, Joe pointed to the bare stone before us, where the wolf's wet tracks were plainly visible.

"Well," said I, "then I suppose there must be a way up after all. Wait a moment, Joe, while I take a look."

Jumping from the buckboard, I stepped over to the boulders whence the wolf had appeared, where, to my surprise, I found a pool, or, rather, a big puddle of water, which, overflowing, dripped into the canyon.

Where the water came from I could not at first detect, but on a more careful inspection I found that it ran, a tiny thread, along a crack in the lava not more than a couple of inches wide, which, on tracing it back, I found we had driven over without noticing. Apparently the water came down from the "bubble" through a rift in the crater-wall.

As I have stated before, several of the little craters contributed small streams of water to our creek, but this was not one of them, so, turning to my companion, I said:

"Joe, this is the first time I have ever seen any water come down from that 'bubble.' Let us climb up to the top and take a look inside."

Away we went, therefore, scrambling up the rocky slope, when, having reached the rim, we looked down into the little crater. The area of its floor was only about an acre in extent, but instead of being grown over with grass and sagebrush, as was the case with most of them, this one was covered with blocks of stone of all sizes, some of them weighing several tons. It was evident that the walls, which were only about thirty feet in height, had at one time been much higher, but that in the course of ages they had broken down and thus littered the little bowl-shaped depression with the fragments.

The thread of water which had drawn us up there came trickling out from among these blocks of stone, and we set out at once to trace it up to its source while we still had daylight. But this, we found, was by no means easy, for, though the stream did not dodge about much, but ran pretty directly down to the crack in the wall, its course was so much impeded by rocks, under and around which it had to make its way—while over and around them we had to make our way—that it was ten or fifteen minutes before we discovered where it came from.

We had expected to find a pool of rain-water, more or less extensive, seeping through the sand and slowly draining away. What we actually did find was something very different: something which filled us with wonder and excitement!

About the middle of the little crater there came boiling out of the ground a strong spring, which, running along a deep, narrow channel it had in the course of many centuries worn in the solid stone floor of the crater, disappeared in turn beneath the litter of rocks. A short distance below the spring the channel was half filled for some distance with fragments of stone of no great size, which, checking the rush of the water, caused it to lap over the edge. It was this slight overflow which supplied the driblet we had followed up from the canyon below.

"Joe!" I exclaimed, greatly excited. "Do you know what I think?"

"Yes, I do," my companion answered like a flash. "I think so, too. Come on! Let's find out at once!"

Following the channel, we went clambering over the rocks, which just here were not quite so plentiful, until, at a distance from the spring of about fifty yards, we came upon a large circular pool in which the water flowed continuously round and round as though stirred with a gigantic spoon, while in the centre it spun round violently, a perfect little whirlpool, and sank with a gurgle into the earth.

For a moment we stood gazing spellbound at this natural phenomenon, hardly realizing what it meant, and then, with one impulse, we both threw our hats into the air with a shout, seized each other's hands, and danced a wild and unconventional dance, with no witness but a solitary eagle, which, passing high overhead, paused for an instant in his flight to wonder, probably, what those crazy, unaccountable human beings were up to now.

At length, out of breath, we stopped, when Joe, clapping his hands together to emphasize his words, cried:

"At last we've found it, Phil! This, surely, is the water-supply that keeps the 'forty rods' wet!"

"It must be," I replied, no less excited than my partner. "It must be; it can't be anything else. But how are we going to prove it, Joe?"

"The only way I see is to divert the flow here; then, if our underground stream stops, we shall know this is it."

"Yes, but how are we to divert it?"

"Why, look here," Joe answered. "The spring, I suppose, is a little extra-strong just now, causing that slight overflow up above here. Well, what we must do is to take the line marked out for us by the overflow, and following it from the channel down to the crack in the crater-wall, break up and throw aside all the rocks that get in the way; then cut a new channel and send the whole stream off through the crack, when it will pour into the canyon, run across the ranch on the surface, and the 'forty rods' will dry up!"

He gazed at me eagerly, with his fists shut tight, as though he were all ready to spring upon the impeding rocks and fling them out of the way at once.

"That's all right, Joe," I replied. "It's a good programme. But it's a tremendous piece of work, all the same. There are scores of rocks to be broken up and moved; and when that is done, there is still the new channel to be cut in the solid stone bed of the crater. The present channel is about eighteen inches deep; we shall have to make the new one six inches deeper, and something like a hundred feet long: a big job by itself, Joe."

"I know that," Joe answered. "It's a big job, sure enough, and will take time and lots of hard work. Still, we can do it——"

"And what's more we will do it!" I cried. "What's the best way of setting about it?"

"We shall have to blast out the channel and blow to pieces all the bigger rocks," Joe replied. "It would take forever to do it with pick and sledge—in fact, it couldn't be done. We shall have to use powder and drill."

"Well, then," said I, "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll borrow the tools from Tom Connor. He left a number of drills, you know, stored in our blacksmith-shop, and he'll lend 'em to us I'm sure. One of us had better drive back to the Big Reuben to-morrow morning and ask him."

"All right, Phil, we'll do so. My! I wish—it doesn't sound very complimentary—but I wish your father would stay away another week. I believe we can do this work in a week, and wouldn't it be grand if we could have the stream headed off before he got home! But how about the plowing, Phil? I was forgetting that."

"Why, the only plowing left," I replied, "is the potato land, and that, fortunately, is not urgent; whereas the turning of this stream is urgent—extremely urgent—and my opinion is that we ought to get at it. Anyhow, we'll begin on it, and if my father thinks proper to set us to plowing instead when he gets home—all right."

"Well, then, we'll begin on this work as soon as we can. And now, Phil, let us get along home."

We had been seated on a big stone while this discussion was going on, and were just about to rise, when Joe, suddenly laying his hand on my arm, held up a warning finger. "Sh!" he whispered. "Don't speak. Don't stir. I hear some one moving about!"

Squatting behind the rocks, I held my breath and listened, and presently I heard distinctly, somewhere close by, the tinkle of two or three chips of stone as they rolled down into the crater. Some one was softly approaching the place where we sat.

Though to move was to risk detection, our anxiety to see who was there was too strong to resist, so Joe, taking off his hat, slowly arose until he was able to peep through a chink between two of the big fragments which sheltered us. For a moment he stood there motionless, and then, tapping me on the shoulder, he signed to me to stand up too.

Peeping between the stones, I saw, not fifty yards away, a man coming carefully down the crater-wall on the side opposite from that by which we ourselves had entered. In spite of his care, however, he every now and then dislodged a little fragment of stone, which came clattering down the steep slope. It was one of these that had given us notice of his approach.

There was no mistaking the tall, gaunt figure, even though the light of the sunset sky behind him made him look a veritable giant. It was Long John Butterfield.

He was headed straight for our hiding-place, and it was with some uneasiness that I observed he had a revolver strapped about his waist. In appearance he looked wilder and more unkempt than ever, while the sharp, suspicious manner in which he would every now and then stop short and glance quickly all around, showed him to be nervous and ill at ease.

While Joe and I stood there silent and rigid as statues, Long John came on down the slope, until presently he stopped scarce ten steps from us beside a big, flat stone. There, for a moment, he stood, his hand on his revolver, his body bent and his head thrust forward, his ears cocked and his little eyes roving all about the crater—the picture of a watchful wild animal—when, satisfied apparently that he was alone and unobserved, he went down upon his knees, threw aside several pieces of rock, and thrusting his arm under the flat stone, he pulled out—a sack!

So close to us was he, that even in that uncertain light we could distinguish the word, "Pelican," stenciled upon it in big black letters.

Laying this sack upon the flat stone, John reached into the hole again, and, one after another, brought out four others. Apparently there were no more in there, for, having done this, he rose to his feet again, looked all about him once more, and then walked off a short distance up-stream. At the point where the channel overflowed he stopped again, when, to our wonderment he pulled off his coat, rolled up one sleeve, and going down upon his knees, began scratching around in the water. In a few seconds he fished out one at a time five dripping sacks, all of which he carried over and set down beside the first five.

Evidently he was working with some set purpose; though to us watchers it was all a perfectly mysterious proceeding.

A few steps from where the sacks were piled was a little ledge of rock less than a foot high, above which was a steep slope covered with loose fragments of stone. Taking up the sacks, two at a time, John carried them over to this spot, laid them all, end to end, close under the little ledge, and then, climbing up above them, he sat down, and with his big, flat feet sent the loose shale running down until the row of sacks was completely buried.

This seemed to be all he wanted, for, having examined the result of his work and satisfied himself apparently that the sacks were perfectly concealed, he turned and went straight off up the crater-wall again, pausing at the crest for a minute to inspect the country ahead of him, and then, stepping over the rim, in another moment he had vanished.

"Come on, Phil!" whispered my companion, eagerly. "Let us see which direction he takes."

"Wait a bit," I replied. "Give him five minutes: he might come back."

We waited a short time, therefore, when, feeling pretty sure that John had gone for good, we scrambled to the summit of the ridge and looked out over the mesa. There we could see Long John striding away at a great pace, apparently making straight for Big Reuben's gorge.

"Then Yetmore was right," said Joe. "Those fellows were the ore-thieves after all. I wonder if they haven't taken up their quarters in Big Reuben's old cave. It would be a pretty good place for their purpose."

"Quite likely," I assented. "But what do you suppose, Joe, can have been Long John's object in coming down here and moving those ore-sacks?—for, of course, they are the Pelican ore-sacks. They were well enough concealed before."

"It does look mysterious at first sight," replied Joe, "but I expect the explanation is simple enough. I think it is probable that when they brought the ore up here the two men divided the spoils on the spot, each hiding his own share in a place of his own choosing; and our respected friend, John, thinking to get ahead of the other thief, has just come and stolen his partner's share."

"That would be a pretty shabby trick, but I expect it is just what he has done. He'll be a bit surprised when he finds that some one has played a similar trick on him. For, of course, we can't leave the sacks there, to be moved again if Long John should take the notion that the hiding place is not safe enough. How shall we manage it, Joe? If we are going to do anything this evening we must do it quickly: there won't be daylight much longer."

After a moment's consideration, Joe replied: "Let us go down and carry those sacks outside the crater. Then get along home, and come back here with the wagon and team by daylight to-morrow and haul them off. It is too much of a load for the buckboard, even if we walked ourselves, so it won't do to take them with us now."

"All right," said I. "Then we'll do that; and afterwards you can ride up to see Tom Connor about those tools, while I drive to Sulphide with the ore. Won't Yetmore be glad to see me!"

There was no time to lose, and even as it was, the waning light made it pretty difficult to pick our way across the rock-strewn bottom of the crater with a fifty-pound sack under each arm, but at length we had them all safely laid away in a crack in the rocks just outside the crater, whence it would be handy to remove them in the morning.

By the time we had finished it was dark, and we hurriedly drove off home, contemplating with some reluctance the chores which were still to be done. From this duty, however, we had a happy relief, for our good friend, Peter, anxious to make himself of some use, and taking his time about it, had managed to feed the horses and pigs, milk the cows, shut up the chickens and start the fire for supper—a service on his part which we very thoroughly appreciated.

We had just sat down to our evening meal, and were telling Peter all about our two great finds of the afternoon, when our guest, whose long and solitary life as a hunter had made his hearing preternaturally sharp, straightened himself in his chair, and holding up one finger, said:

"Hark! I hear a horse coming up the valley at a gallop!"

At first Joe and I could hear nothing, but presently we detected the rhythmical beat of the hoofs of a horse approaching at a smart canter. Somebody was coming up from San Remo—for though a wheeled vehicle could not pass over the "forty rods," a horseman could pick his way—and knowing that nobody ever came that way in the "soft" season unless our house was his destination, I stepped to the door, wondering who our visitor could be. Great was my surprise when the horseman, riding into the streak of light thrown through the open doorway, proved to be Yetmore!

"Why, Mr. Yetmore!" I cried. "Is it you? Come in! You're just in time for supper."

"Thank you, Phil," replied the storekeeper, "but I won't stop. I was down at San Remo this afternoon, and it occurred to me to ride home this way and inquire of you if you'd seen or heard anything more of those ore-thieves. By the way, before I forget it: I brought your mail for you;" at the same time handing me one letter and two or three newspapers.

"Thank you," said I, thrusting the letter into my pocket. "And as to the ore-thieves, Mr. Yetmore, we've seen one of them; but we've done something a good deal better than that—we've found the ore."

"What!" shouted Yetmore, so loudly that Joe came running out, thinking there must be something the matter. "What! You've found the ore!"

So saying, he leaped from his horse and seizing me by the arm, cried: "You're not joking, are you, Phil? For goodness' sake, don't fool me, boys. It's a matter of life and death to me, almost!"

His anxiety was plainly expressed in his eager eyes and trembling hand, and I was glad to note the look of relief which came over his face when I replied:

"I'm not fooling, Mr. Yetmore. We've found it all right—this evening. Come in and have some supper, and we'll tell you all about it."

Yetmore did not decline a second time, but forgetting even to tie up his horse, which Joe did for him, he followed me at once into the kitchen, where, hardly noticing Peter, to whom I introduced him, and neglecting entirely the food placed before him, he sat down and instantly exclaimed:

"Now, Phil! Quick! Go ahead! Go ahead! Don't keep me waiting, there's a good fellow! How did you find the ore? Where is it? What have you done with it?"

Not to prolong his suspense, I at once related to him as briefly as possible the whole incident, winding up with the statement that we proposed to go and bring in the sacks by daylight on the morrow.

At this conclusion Yetmore sprang to his feet.

"Boys," said he, in a tremulous voice, "you've done me an immense service; now do me one more favor: lend me your big gun. I'll ride right up to the 'bubble' and stand guard over the ore till morning. If I should lose it a second time I believe it would turn my head."

That he was desperately in earnest was plain to be seen: his voice was shaky, and his hand, I noticed, was shaky, too, when he held it out entreating us to lend him our big gun.

I was about to say he might take it, and welcome, when Joe pulled me by the sleeve and whispered in my ear; I nodded my acquiescence; upon which my companion, turning to Yetmore, said:

"We can do better than that, Mr. Yetmore. We'll hitch up the little mules and go and bring away the ore to-night."

I have no doubt that to our anxious visitor the time seemed interminable while Joe and I were finishing our supper, but at length we rose from the table, and within a few minutes thereafter we were off; Yetmore himself sitting in the bed of the wagon with the big shotgun across his knees.

As it was then quite dark, and as we did not wish to attract any possible notice by carrying a light, we were obliged to take it very slowly, one or other of us now and then descending from the wagon and walking ahead as a pilot. In due time, however, we reached the foot of the "bubble," when, leaving Yetmore to take care of the mules, Joe and I climbed up to the crevice, and having presently, by feeling around with our hands, found the hiding-place of the sacks, we pulled them out and carried them, one at a time down to the wagon. All this, being done in the dark, took a long time, and it was pretty late when we drew up again at our own door.

Here, for the first time, Yetmore, striking a match, examined the ten little sacks.

"It's all right, boys," said he, with a great sigh of relief. "These are the sacks; and none of them has been opened, either." He paused for a moment, and then, with much earnestness of manner, went on: "How am I to thank you, boys? You've done me a service of infinite importance. The loss of that ore almost distracted me: I needed the money so badly. But now, thanks to you, I shall be all right again. You don't know how great a service you have done me. I shan't forget it. We've not always been on the best of terms, I'm sorry to say—my fault, though, my fault entirely—but I should be very glad, if it suits you, to start fresh to-night and begin again as friends."

He was so evidently in earnest, that Joe and I by one impulse shook hands with him and declared that nothing would suit us better.

"And how about the ore, Mr. Yetmore?" I asked. "What will you do now?"

"If you don't mind," he replied, "I should like to drive straight up to Sulphide at once. If you will lend me the mules and wagon, I'll set right off. I'll return them to-morrow."

"Very well," said I. "And you can leave your own horse in the stable, so that whoever brings down the team will have a horse to ride home on."

Yetmore, accordingly, climbed up to the seat and drove off at once, calling back over his shoulder: "Good-night, boys; and thank you again. I feel ten years younger than I did this morning!"



CHAPTER XVII

THE DRAINING OF THE "FORTY RODS"

As soon as Yetmore was out of sight, Joe and I turned into the house, where we found that Peter, wise man, had gone to bed; an example we speedily followed. But, tired though we were, we could neither of us go to sleep. For a long time we lay talking over the exciting events of the day, and going over the probable consequences, if, as now seemed certain, we had indeed discovered the source of our underground stream. First and foremost, by diverting it we should dry up the "forty rods" and render productive a large piece of land which at present was more bane than benefit; we should bring the county road past our door; we should more than double our supply of water for irrigation purposes—a fact which, by itself, would be of immense advantage to us.

At present we had no more than enough water—sometimes hardly enough—to irrigate our crops, but by doubling the supply we could bring into use another hundred acres or more. On either side of our present cultivated area, and only three feet above it, spread the first of the old lake-benches, a fine, level tract of land, capable of growing any crop, but which, for lack of water, we had hitherto utilized only as a dry pasture for our stock. By a test we had once made of a little patch of it, we had found that it was well adapted to the cultivation of wheat; and as I lay there thinking—Joe having by this time departed to the land of dreams—I pictured in my mind the whole area converted into one flourishing wheat-field; I built a castle in the air in the shape of a flour-mill which I ran by power derived from our waterfall; and with a two-ton load of flour I was in imagination driving down to San Remo over the splendid road which traversed the now solid "forty rods," when a light shining in my face disturbed me.

It was the sun pouring in at our east window!

Half-past seven! And we still in bed! Such a thing had not happened to me since that time when, a rebellious infant, I had been kept in bed perforce with a light attack of the measles.

Needless to say, we were up and dressed in next to no time, when, on descending to the kitchen, we found another surprise in store for us. Peter was gone! He must have been gone some hours, too, for the fire in the range had burned out. He had not deserted us, however, for on the table was a bit of paper upon which he had written, "Back pretty soon. Wait for me"—a behest we duly obeyed, not knowing what else to do.

About an hour later I heard the trampling of horses outside the front door, and going out, there I saw Peter stiffly descending from the back of our gray pony; while beside him, with a broad grin on his jolly face, stood Tom Connor.

"Why, Tom!" I cried. "What brings you here?"

Tom laughed. "Didn't expect to see me, eh, Phil," said he. "It's Peter's doing. While you two lazy young rascals were snoring away in bed, he started out at four-thirty this morning and rode all the way up to my camp to borrow my tools for you. And when he told me what you wanted 'em for, I decided to come down, too. You did me a good turn in finding the Big Reuben for me—and 'big' is the word for it, Phil, I can tell you—and so I thought I couldn't do less than come down here for a day or two and give you a hand. It's probable I can help you a good bit with your trench-cutting."

"There's no doubt about that, Tom," I replied. "We shall be mighty glad of your help. You can give us a starter, anyhow. But you, Peter, we couldn't think what had become of you. Don't you think it was a bit risky to go galloping about the country with that game leg of yours?"

"I couldn't very well go without it," replied our guest, laughing. "No, I don't think so," he added, more seriously. "It was easy enough, all except the mounting and dismounting. In fact, Phil, I'm so nearly all right again that I should have no excuse to be hanging around here any longer if it were not that I can be of use to you by taking all the chores off your hands, thus leaving you and Joe free to get about your work in the crater."

"That will be a great help," I replied. "Though as to letting you go, Peter, we don't intend to do that, at least till my father and mother get home."

"When do they get home?" asked Tom. "Have you heard from them since they left?"

"Why!" I cried, suddenly remembering the letter Yetmore had brought up from San Remo the previous evening. "I have a letter from my father in my pocket now. I'd forgotten all about it."

Quickly tearing it open, I read it through. It was very short, being written mainly with the object of informing me that he was delayed and would not be home until the afternoon of the following Wednesday. This was Friday.

"Joe!" I shouted; and Joe, who was in the stable, came running at the call. "Joe," I cried, "we have till Wednesday afternoon to turn that stream. Four full days. Tom is going to help us. Peter will take the chores. Can we make it?"

"Good!" cried Joe. "Great! Make it? I should think so. We'll do it if we have to work night and day. My! But this is fine!"

He rubbed his hands in anticipation of the task ahead of him. I never did know a fellow who took such delight in tackling a job which had every appearance of being just a little too big for him.

We did not waste any time, you may be sure. Having picked out the necessary tools, we went off at once, taking our dinners with us, and arriving at the foot of the "bubble," we carried up into the crater the drills, hammers and other munitions of war we had brought with us.

"I thought you said there was a driblet of water running out at the crevice," remarked Tom. "I don't see it."

"There was yesterday," I replied, "but it seems to have stopped. I wonder why."

"That's easily accounted for," said Joe. "It was those sacks lying in the channel which backed up the water and made it overflow, and when Long John cleared the course by pulling out the sacks it didn't overflow any more."

"Then it's to Long John you owe this discovery!" cried Tom. "If 'The Wolf' hadn't blocked that channel the water would not have run down to the canyon, and the other wolf would not have got his feet wet; and if the other wolf had not got his feet wet, you would never have thought of coming up here."

"That's all true," I assented. "In fact, you may go further than that and say that if John had not stolen the ore he would not have blocked the channel with it, and we should not have found the spring; if Yetmore had not given John leave to blow up your house, John would not have stolen the ore; if you had not bored a hole in Yetmore's oil-barrel, Yetmore would not have given John leave—it's like the story of 'The House that Jack Built.' And so, after all, it is to you we owe this discovery, Tom."

"Well, that's one way of getting at it," said Tom, laughing. "But, come on! Let's pick out our line and get to work."

"This won't be so much of a job," he remarked, when we had gone over the ground. "You ought to make quick work of it. We'll follow the wet mark left by the overflow, throw all these rocks out of the way, and then pitch in and cut our trench. Come on, now; let's begin at once. Phil, you throw aside all the rocks you can lift; Joe, take the sledge and crack all those too heavy to handle; I'll take the single-hand drill and hammer and put some shots into the big ones. Now, boys, blaze away, and let's see how much of a mark we can make before sunset."

Blaze away we did! Never before had Joe and I worked so hard for so long a stretch; not a minute did we lose, except on those four or five occasions when Tom, having put down a hole into one of the large pieces, called out to us to get to cover, when, running for shelter, we crouched behind some friendly rock until a sharp, cracking explosion told us that another of the big obstructions was out of the way.

So hard did we work, in fact, and so systematically, that by sunset we had cleared a path six feet wide. There remained only one more of the big rocks to break up, and into this Tom put a three-foot hole, which he charged and tamped, when, sending us ahead to hitch up the horse, he touched off the fuse, the explosion following just as we started homeward.

"A great day's work, boys!" cried Tom. "If it wasn't for the training you've had all winter handling rocks, you never could have done it. There is a good chance now, I think, of getting the trench cut before Wednesday evening. I'll work with you all day to-morrow—I must get back to my camp then—and that will leave you two days and a half to finish up the job. You ought to do it if you keep hard at it."

By sunrise next morning we were at it again, working under Tom's direction, in the same systematic manner.

"Take the sledge, Joe," said he, "and crack up the fragments of that big rock we shot to pieces last night. Phil, you and I will put down our first hole, beginning here at the crevice and working upward. Now! Let's get to work!"

Tom and I, therefore, went to work with drill and hammer, Tom taking the larger share of the striking; for though the swinging of the seven-pound hammer is the harder part of the work, the turning of the drill is the more particular, and as our instructor justly remarked, it was as well I should have all the practice I could get while he was on hand to superintend.

The hole being deep enough, Tom made me load and tamp it with my own hands, using black powder, which, though perhaps less effective for this particular kind of work than giant powder would have been, he regarded as safer for novices like ourselves to handle.

Our first shot broke out the rock in very good style, and then, while I busied myself cracking up the big pieces and throwing them aside, Joe took my place.

The second hole was loaded and tamped by Joe, under Tom's supervision; after which my partner once more took the sledge, while I turned drill again.

In this order we worked all day, making, before quitting time, such encouraging progress that we felt very hopeful of getting the task completed before my father's return.

Tom having fairly started us, went back to his camp on Lincoln, leaving Joe and me to continue the work by ourselves; and sorely did we miss our expert miner when, on the Monday morning, we returned to the crater. Though we kept steadily at it all day, our progress was noticeably slower than it had been the first day, for, besides the fact that there were only two of us, and those the least skilful, as we ascended towards the stream each hole was a little deeper than the last, each charge a little stronger, and each shot blew out a greater amount of rock to be broken up and cast aside.

Nevertheless, we made very satisfactory headway, and continuing our work the next two days with unabated energy and some increase of skill with every hole we put down, we made such progress that by two o'clock on the Wednesday afternoon there remained but three feet of rock to be shot out to make connection with the channel.

I was for blasting this out forthwith, but Joe on the other hand suggested that we trim up our trench a little before turning in the water; for, hitherto, we had merely thrown out the loose pieces, and there were in consequence many projections and jagged corners both in the sides and bottom of our proposed water-course. These we attacked with sledge and crowbar, and in two hours or so had them pretty well cleared out of the way, when we went to work putting down our last hole.

As we wanted to make a sure thing of it, we sank this hole rather deeper than any of the others, charging it with an extra allowance of powder. Then, the tools having been removed, I touched off the fuse and ran for shelter behind the big rock where Joe was already crouching, making himself as small as possible. Presently there was a tremendous bang! Rocks of every size and shape were flung broadcast all over the crater—some of them coming down uncomfortably close to our hiding-place—but as soon as the clatter ceased, up we both jumped and ran to see the result.

Nothing could have been better. Our last shot had torn a great hole, extending across almost the whole width of the old channel, and our trench being six inches or more below the original level, the whole stream at once rushed into it, leaving its former bed high and dry.

"Hooray, for us!" shouted Joe. "Come on, Phil! Let us run down and see it go into the canyon."

Away we went; but as the crater-side was pretty steep we had to descend with some caution; whereas the water, having no neck to break, went down headlong. The consequence was that the stream beat us to the canyon by a hundred yards, and by the time we arrived it was pouring over the edge in a sixty-foot cascade.

We were in time, however, to see a wall of foam flying down the canyon; a sight which, while it delighted us, at the same time gave us something of a start.

"Joe!" I cried. "How about our bridge?"

"Pht!" Joe whistled. "I never thought of it. It will go out, I'm afraid. Let us get down there at once."

Off we ran to where our horse was standing, eating hay out of the back of the buckboard, threw on the harness, hitched him up, and scrambling in, one on either side, away we went as fast as we dared over the uneven, rocky stretch of the mesa which lay between us and home.

The course of the stream being more circuitous than the one we took across country, we beat the water down to the ranch; but only by a few seconds. We had hardly reached the bridge when the swollen stream leaped into the pool in such volume that I felt convinced it would sweep it clear of all the sand in it whether black or yellow; rushed under the bridge, and went tearing down the valley—a sight to see! Luckily the creek-bed was fairly wide and straight, so that the banks did not suffer much.

As to the bridge, the stringers being very long and well set, and the floor being composed of stout poles roughly squared and firmly spiked down, it did not go out, though the water came squirting up between the poles in a way which made us fear it might tear them loose at any moment.

To prevent this, we ran quickly to the stable, harnessed up the mules to the wood-sled, loaded the sled with some of our big flat lava-rocks, and driving back to the bridge, we laid these rocks upon the ends of the poles, leaving a causeway between them wide enough for the passage of a wagon.

We had just finished this piece of work, when we heard a rattle of wheels, and looking up the road we saw coming down the hill an express-wagon, driven by Sam Tobin, a San Remo liveryman, and in the wagon sat my father and mother.

"Why, what's all this?" cried the former, as the driver pulled up on the far side of the bridge. "Where does all this water come from?"

Then did the pent-up excitement of the past week burst forth. The flood of water going under the bridge was a trifle compared with the flood of words we poured out upon my bewildered parents; both of us talking at the same time, interrupting each other at every turn, explaining each other's explanations, and tumbling over each other, as it were, in our eagerness. All the details of the strenuous days since the snow-slide came down—the discovery of the Big Reuben, the recovery of the stolen ore, and above all the heading-off of the underground stream—were set forth with breathless volubility; so that if the hearers were a little dazed by the recital and a trifle confused as to the particulars, it was not to be wondered at. One thing, at least, was clear to them: we had found and turned the underground stream; and when he understood that, my father leaped from the wagon, and shaking hands with both of us at once, he cried:

"Boys, you certainly have done a stroke of work! If it had taken you a year instead of a week it would have been more than worth the labor. As to its actual money value, it is hard to judge yet; but whether that shall turn out to be much or little, there is one thing sure:—we have our work cut out for us for years to come—a grand thing by itself for all of us. And now, let us go on up to the house: Sam Tobin wants to get back home as soon as possible."

This the driver was able to do at once, for the livery horses, frightened by the water which came spurting up through the floor of the bridge, declined to cross, so Joe and I, taking out the trunk, placed it on the wood-sled and thus drew it up to the house.

As we walked along, my mother said:

"So the hermit has been staying with you, has he? And what sort of a man is your wild man now you've caught him?"

"He isn't a wild man at all," cried Joe, somewhat indignantly. "He's a fine fellow—isn't he, Phil? He has been of great help to us these last few days. We could never have finished our trench in time if he hadn't taken the chores off our hands. He is in the kitchen now, getting the supper ready. I'll run and bring him out."

So saying, Joe ran forward—we others walking on more leisurely—and as we approached the house the pair came out of the front door side by side.

In spite of Joe's assurance to the contrary, my parents still had in their minds the idea that any one going by the name of "Peter, the Hermit" must be a rough, hirsute, unkempt specimen of humanity. Great was their surprise, therefore, when Peter, always clean and tidy, his hair and beard neatly trimmed in honor of their return, issued from the doorway, looking, with his clear gray eyes, his ruddy complexion and his spare, erect figure, remarkably young and alert.

There was an added heartiness in their welcome, therefore, when Joe proudly introduced him; and though Peter threw out hints about sleeping in the hay-loft that night and taking himself off the first thing in the morning, my mother scouted the idea, telling him how she had long desired to make his acquaintance, and intimating that she should take it as a very poor compliment to herself if he should run off the moment she got home.

So Peter, set quite at his ease, said no more about it, but went back into the kitchen, whence he presently issued again to announce that supper was ready.

A very hearty and a very merry supper it was, too, and long and animated was the talk which followed, as we sat before the open fire that evening.

"I feel almost bewildered," said my father, "when I think of the amount and the variety of the work we have before us; it is astonishing that the turning of that stream should carry with it so many consequences, as I foresee it will—that and Tom Connor's strike."

"There's no end to it!" cried Joe, jumping out of his chair, striding up and down the room, and, for the last time in this history, rumpling his hair in his excitement. "There's no end to it! There's the hay-corral to enlarge—rock hauling all winter for you and me, Phil! We shall need a new ice-pond; for this new water-supply won't freeze up in winter like the old one did! Then, when the 'forty rods' dries up, there will be the extension of our ditches down there; besides making a first-class road to bring all the travel our way—plenty of work in that, too! Then, when we bring the old lake-benches under cultivation, there will be new headgates needed and two new ditches to lay out, besides breaking the ground! Then——Oh, what's the use? There's no end to it—just no end to it!"

Joe was quite right. There was, and there still seems to be, no end to it.

* * * * *

The effect of Tom Connor's strike on Mount Lincoln was just what my father had predicted: our whole district took a great stride forward; the mountains swarmed with prospectors; the town of Sulphide hummed with business; our new friend, Yetmore, doing a thriving trade, while our old friend, Mrs. Appleby, followed close behind, a good second.

As for Tom, himself, he is one of our local capitalists now, but he is the same old Tom for all that. Just as he used to do when he was poor, so he continues to do now he is rich: any tale of distress will empty his pocket on the spot. Though my father remonstrates with him sometimes, Tom only laughs and remarks that it is no use trying to teach old dogs new tricks; and moreover he does not see why he should not spend his money to suit himself. And so he goes his own way, more than satisfied with the knowledge that every man, woman and child in the district counts Tom Connor as a friend.

The fate of those two poor ore-thieves was so horrible that I hesitate to mention it. It was six months later that a prospector on one of the northern spurs of Lincoln came upon two dead bodies. One, a club-footed man, had been shot through the head; the other, unmistakably Long John, was lying on his back, an empty revolver beside him, and one foot caught in a bear-trap. Though the truth will never be known, the presumption is that, setting the stolen trap in a deer run in the hope of catching a deer, they had got into a quarrel; Clubfoot, striking at his companion, had caused him to step backward into the trap, when, in his pain and rage, Long John had whipped out his revolver and shot the other. What his own fate must have been is too dreadful to contemplate.

And the Crawford ranch? Well, the Crawford ranch is the busiest place in the county.

Peter, for whom my parents, like ourselves, took a great liking, quickly thawed out under my mother's influence, and related to us briefly the reason for his having taken to his solitary life. He had been a school-teacher in Denver, but losing his wife and two children in an accident, he had fled from the place and had hidden himself up in our mountains, where for several years he had spent a lonely existence with no company but old Socrates. Now, however, his house destroyed and his mountain overrun with prospectors, he needed little inducement to abandon his old hermit-life; and accepting gladly my father's suggestion that he stay and work on the ranch, he built for himself a good log cabin up near the waterfall, and there he and Socrates took up their residence.

There was plenty of work for him and for all of us—indeed, for the first two years there was almost more than we could do. It took that length of time for the "forty rods" to drain off thoroughly, but by the middle of the third summer we were cutting hay upon it; the ore wagons from Sulphide and from the Big Reuben were passing through in a continuous stream; the stage-coach was coming our way; the old hill road was abandoned.

In fact, everybody is busy, and more than busy—with one single exception.

The only loafer on the place is old Sox—tolerated on account of his advanced age. That veteran, whose love of mischief and whose unfailing impudence would lead any stranger to suppose he had but just come out of the egg, spends most of his time strutting about the ranch, stealing the food of the dogs and chickens; awing them into submission by his supernatural gift of speech. And as though that were not enough, his crop distended with his pilferings to the point of bursting, he comes unabashed to the kitchen door and blandly requests my mother, of all people, to give him a chew of tobacco!

But the mail-coach has just gone through, and I hear Joe shouting for me; I must run.

"Yetmore wants fifty-hundred of oats, Phil," he calls out. "You and I are to take it up. We must dig out at once if we are to get back to-night. To-morrow we break ground on our new ditches. A month or more of good stiff work for us, old chap!"

He rubs his hands in anticipation; for the bigger he grows—and he has grown into a tremendous fellow now—the more work he wants. There is no satisfying him.

We have been very fortunate, wonderfully fortunate; but I am inclined to set apart as pre-eminently our lucky day that one in the summer of '79, when young Joe Garnier, the blacksmith's apprentice, stopped at our stable-door to ask for work!

THE END



By Amy E. Blanchard

War of the Revolution Series

The books comprising this series have become well known among the girls and are alike chosen by readers themselves, by parents and by teachers on account of their value from the historical standpoint, their purity of style and their interest in general.

A Girl of '76

ABOUT COLONIAL BOSTON. 331 pp.

It is one of the best stories of old Boston and its vicinity which has ever been written. Its value as real history and as an incentive to further study can hardly be overestimated.

A Revolutionary Maid

A STORY OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD IN THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.

No better material could be found for a story than the New Jersey campaign, the Battle of Germantown, and the winter at Valley Forge. Miss Blanchard has made the most of a large opportunity and produced a happy companion volume to "A Girl of '76."

A Daughter of Freedom

A STORY OF THE LATTER PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. 312 pp.

In this story the South supplies the scenery, and good use is made of the familiar fact that a family often was divided in its allegiance. It is romantic but not sensational, well-written and rich in entertainment.

War of 1812 Series

This period is divided into two historical volumes for girls, the one upon the early portion describing the causes, etc., of the war, the latter showing the strife along the Northern border.

A Heroine of 1812

A MARYLAND ROMANCE. 335 pp.

This Maryland romance is of the author's best; strong in historical accuracy and intimate knowledge of the locality. Its characters are of marked individuality, and there are no dull or weak spots in the story.

A Loyal Lass.

A STORY OF THE NIAGARA CAMPAIGN OF 1814. 319 pp.

This volume shows the intense feeling that existed all along the border line between the United States and Canada, and as was the case in our Civil War even divided families fought on opposite sides during this contest. It is a sweet and wholesome romance.

EACH VOLUME FULLY ILLUSTRATED. Price, $1.50

W. A. WILDE COMPANY,—Boston and Chicago



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

THE END