A Wilderness Camp

As the little party climbed upward on the gulch trail, they were discussing Dad and what they knew of his life. Each boy telling little stories and incidents that he had heard concerning the old man. Willis lagged behind, and did not seem to be particularly interested in the conversation.

“Well, old man, what are you so glum about?” inquired Ham. “One would think you had been to a funeral instead of chatting with the most humorous of old mountaineers. You aren’t getting weak in the knees already, are you?”

Mr. Allen came to the rescue.

“No, Ham, he’s just like me busy thinking of the really admirable qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is gathered into that one life frontiersman, cattle man, freighter, prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when it comes to good, common horse-sense. I’d rather take Dad’s opinion of a man than any one’s I know of in this world. It wouldn’t be in polished English, but it would be shrewd and just.”

From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.

As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man. He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props. Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, “Hello, there; must be going to build a cabin!” The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.

“Yes, an underground one,” he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he continued, “Well, well, aren’t you the fellows I saw over at Ben’s place the other evening?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on: “Why, yes, there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your systems?”

“Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains,” said Willis. “It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are you doing up here, anyway?” He turned and surveyed the valley.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle. “It’s like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest desire to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature’s storehouse. As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed.” He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent. “I’ve been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It’s a funny thing about mines, boys you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quantities. I’ve had the gold fever for twenty years.”

“Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?” inquired Willis. “My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine never developed. I’d love to find it, though, just because it was his. He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy.”

The miner’s face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, “Just as I thought,” then continued, “Well, I ” He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.

“I can’t tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one with a dump of black rock,” pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, “belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs Williams and somebody.” He never took his eyes from the boy’s face as he spoke.

“Williams, why why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn’t know that he

The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding, “And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to a young engineer, and was located many years ago. The Williams shaft has been sunk in the last few years. That hole has the very best prospects of being something of any on the mountain. The Williams outfit restaked the claim because the assessment work had not been kept up by the original owner.”

“What was the original owner’s name? Do you know? You say he was a young engineer?”

“Yes, his name was Thornton.” The man dropped his head and worked the heel of his boot nervously in the dirt. “I used to know him quite well, years ago.” Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, “I haven’t seen anything of him for nearly a dozen years.”

The corners of Willis’s mouth twitched nervously. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.

“Would you mind telling me all about him all you know?” asked Willis. The miner looked at him curiously a minute, then asked, in a quiet, well-controlled voice, “Did you know the man, lad?”

“Not so well as I would like to have known him, sir; but perhaps I may get better acquainted with him now. He was my father, but I hardly remember him, except for the stories and pictures that mother has told me about. I’ve always wanted to know more about him.”

“I can’t tell you much, my boy,” returned the miner in a kind, friendly voice, “only that he was the best man that ever set a hoisting plant in this region, and the finest, cleanest young fellow that ever came into these hills. Every man was his friend.”

“Did you ever know a Mr. Kieser who was a friend of my father’s?” asked Willis, after a moment’s thought.

“Seems like I did,” replied the miner, “a great many years ago, but he disappeared from this region long since.”

“Did you say the mine which once belonged to my father seemed to be the best in the canyon?” broke in Willis.

“Yes, it did, the last I knew of it; but nothing ever came of it, except that there have been two men there to-day, preparing to do this season’s assessment work. You can never tell, you know, about a gold mine, for most of them have just been ‘holes full of hope,’ and the hope usually leaked out sooner or later.”

Chuck halloed from up the trail to get under way, or they would never reach the top by dark.

“Going to camp up in the Park to-night, I presume?” asked the miner.

“Yes, if we can make it,” replied Mr. Allen. “Have you been up to the top lately?” “Yes, I was up yesterday, and it’s a grand sight at this season of the year. The Maraposa lilies are blooming in great profusion, and the spring is running a fine little stream. I had a very pleasant surprise up there, too. Years ago there was a large herd of deer which lived in that park, but they were supposedly all killed off. Yesterday, about this time, as I sat on a dead log just back from the spring, quietly thinking over some of the memories of old times when I had hunted on that very ground, I heard the dry twigs snap, and, turning, I saw a doe and two tiny, spotted fawns cross the park and enter the timber at the other side. If you build a fire to-night you may get a glimpse of them.”

“I’m coming to have a long talk with you some of these days,” called Willis as they started off.

At last the entrance to the Park was reached, and they came upon a stretch of level ground. The entire country changed. Instead of the stony tallus of the canyon, there was soft, black soil under foot. Instead of the great spruces and firs scenting the air, there were only tall, stately aspens on every side, their leafy tops lost in the deepening shadows. Instead of the ground cedar and berry bushes, wild grass grew in rank profusion. The air was tinged with a faint fragrance, and somewhere in the distance came the sound of gently-splashing waters, “Like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows.”

The party halted and turned to the right of the trail, where a great, lone pine tree stood on a little rise of ground, directly above the tiny spring. This was to be the camping spot for the night. Packs were quickly removed and unfolded, dry sticks gathered for the fire, and sweet-scented balsam boughs were cut and brought to the tree. One generous bed was made, big enough for all, close in front of the camp-fire. Mr. Allen cleaned and filled his small acetylene lamp “In case of need,” he said. The guns were stacked in a handy place and supper operations gotten under way.

“It sure does smell awfully good up here,” began Phil. “I wish we had gotten here before dark I’d like to have had a little look around before I went to sleep. Who knows but we may be sleeping ten yards from a bear’s den. We are up in a real wilderness, now!”

“Bears, your grandmother!” snorted Ham, as he deftly opened a can of baked beans with his pocket knife. “A lot of great big bare spots is about all you could find. Say, Phil, on the dead square, what would you do, now, if a black bear would sneak down here to-night and crawl into bed with you?” “I’d say, ’Mr. Bear, if you want a real sweet, tender morsel that’s easily digested, just help yourself to that little imported Ham over there.’” A roar of laughter went up from the others.

Chuck was philosophizing about the value of gathering food while it was yet day, as he sat stowing away his quart of fresh raspberries.

“You can have all you want of them,” retorted Mr. Allen. “I’m seedy enough now, without eating those things.”

“What’s the matter, Willis? Did we walk you too hard?” inquired Fat.

“No, I could walk a hundred miles yet to-night,” replied Willis, as he sliced up his bacon preparatory to frying it. “But this has been a very wonderful day for me. It’s all so new, you know, and I’m green, too. Besides, it all has a very special significance to me, some way. I love it. I like it better than anything in the world. I could live this way forever. I’m sure I could write poetry to-night, or paint a great picture, or even sing. It’s a wonderful feeling. Did you ever feel that way? It’s the charm of the great out-of-doors.”

“I think we had better picket Willis to-night,” dryly remarked Ham. “He’s liable to be floating off in his enthusiasm. But if he happens to be fortunate enough to lie on a friendly pine knot all night, he’ll feel differently in the morning.”

So the merry talk went on. After supper bigger logs were laid on the fire. A collapsible canvas bucket, filled with drinking water, was hung on a low limb of the tree, and the supply of night wood was conveniently placed near Mr. Allen’s end of the bed.

Then Ham got a long, cotton bag, from which he produced several handfuls of pinion nuts. They were always the introduction to the camp-fire stories. He seated himself, drew his knees up close to his body, leaned back against the great tree trunk, and shouted: “All aboard, let her flicker. What’s first? Mr. Allen, let’s have that promised story you didn’t get out of Dad. I believe you just side-tracked him on purpose, so you could tell it yourself. Come, now, wasn’t that it?” He began to whistle in a low tone as he waited for the story. Fat stretched himself at full length before the fire, his head resting on his blanket roll. Phil had backed up on one side of Mr. Allen and Willis on the other. Everybody was waiting.

“Well, once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a little fairy,” began Mr. Allen.

“You don’t say so,” interrupted Ham, as he tossed a stick into the fire in a disgusted manner. “Was it fairy long ago? I can recite Mother Goose rhymes myself. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Phil nudged Mr. Allen in the ribs and chuckled to himself.

“Well, then, how’s this: Not many years ago, in a wonderful little village, there

“Was a wooden wedding at which two Poles were married,” interrupted Ham, with a mischievous grin on his face.

“You’re kind of hard to please, Ham,” suggested Fat, as he rolled over to warm his other side.

“How’s this? The night was dark and stormy,” started in Mr. Allen. Ham settled back contentedly. “That’s something like it. ’The night was dark and stormy,’ and what else?”

“Well, if you must have it. I have heard a good many stories of how the Old Road House was burned, but they are all different. Which one shall I tell you? I’ll tell you the one that Daddy tells himself, because it probably comes nearest the truth. As a matter of fact, though, I don’t believe any one knows just how it burned down.

“You know Dad spent his boyhood on a great southwestern cattle ranch, and knew at first hand a great many things about Indians and tramping and mining and ‘explorin’,’ as he calls it. Just why he left this ranch life he never told me exactly, but I know he had his first case of real gold fever in forty-nine, and has never gotten over it. His father was a United States marshal, and was instrumental in gathering in a number of the most notorious criminals of his day. One of Dad’s favorite stories is of the capture of a gang of Mississippi River pirates.

“It was Dad’s father that finally cleaned out this great nuisance when he captured Mason, their leader, through the treachery of his fellows. When the final raid was made, Dad, who was then a young man, was one of the party. It seems that there was a certain boy in this pirate gang who escaped, after having been arrested with the others. Several years later Dad had occasion to remember the threats this boy had made to him at the time of the raid.

“Dad was out on a trapping trip with a group of professional trappers, and, as was the custom, each man had taken with him two good horses, one to carry his share of the hides and his food supply, the other to be used in case of emergency. They were trapping in the Arkansas valley, and after a few weeks out they began to suspect that their camp was being watched by a large band of hostile Indians. They understood the situation perfectly. The Indians were not following them for murder or for a mere fight, but for their horses and furs. They would not attack, however, until they were reasonably sure of getting away with the desired booty without loss of life to their own party.

“The trappers’ hunt had been a very successful one, and a large amount of money was already represented in the heavy packs of fur. Each night these packs of fur were carefully arranged in a big circle, forming a crude rampart for the party. The furs gave the men reasonable safety as they slept, for no arrow, however swift, could penetrate a roll of green hides. The horses were always securely fastened not far from the camp, and guards posted at night.

“Finally the ideal night for attack came. It was dark as pitch, not even a star showing in the cloudy sky. As night fell, it was so stormy that the usual night guard was not deemed necessary. Instead, every man went to sleep. Sometime in the night Dad was suddenly awakened by the pounding of many hoofs on the hard gravel of the valley. In less than a second the entire camp was awake, and every man gripped his rifle in readiness. No one dared to leave the rampart. Safety lay in being all together. The pounding of hoofs grew louder and louder, the picketed horses whinnied, then there was a wild gallop past the little camp, accompanied by fiendish yells. Not a man dared to investigate, for fear of ambush. All that they could do was to patiently await the coming of morning.

“With the first rays of light all looked anxiously toward where the horses had been picketed so carelessly. They were gone, every one of them. A hasty examination told the tale. Under the cover of the intense darkness, the hobbles and the picket ropes had been cut at the pins, so as not to disturb the horses or waken the sleeping trappers. After the ropes were cut, the Indians had ridden pell-mell past the free animals, and they, finding their fastenings gone, had joined the stampede. It was a clever game, and the trappers had lost. What were they to do fifteen days’ journey from any assistance, and not a horse within a hundred miles?

“As they climbed a hill on the far side of the river, to take a look at the surrounding country, they heard a faint whinny, and there, in the bottom of the gulch, lay one of their horses, stretched at full length. His feet had become entangled in the long picket rope, and he had fallen at the edge of the washout with a badly-broken leg. The party gathered about the unfortunate animal, lamenting the fact that he must be shot to relieve him of his suffering.

“As they stood talking, Dad noticed a movement in a nearby clump of bushes. Was he mistaken? He quietly told his partner what he had seen, and, with rifles leveled, the two cautiously approached the spot. There was, however, no need of fear, for it turned out to be only a young Indian boy, and he badly injured. He had probably been riding the horse before its fall. Everybody was for instantly shooting the lad except Dad, who protested, explaining that the boy might be able to give them valuable information as to the number of Indians in the war party, and something of their future plans. This seemed to be reasonably wise, so the wounded Indian was taken back to the trappers’ camp.

“For many days he kept silence, never once speaking to any one, growing weaker and weaker every day from his injuries. Finally he was taken with an awful fever, and every man in the party knew that nothing could possibly save him. Dad nursed him and cared for him as patiently as if he had been one of their own party. When the Indian learned that he was to be treated kindly for the present, at least, he called for Dad, making feeble signs that he wanted to talk to him secretly. After a long and painful effort he made Dad understand who was with the band of Indians, and why they had watched the trappers so long and so closely. There was a certain pale face with them who was their leader and who had been a ’heap big robber’ on the big river. He had offered a reward for Dad’s life to every Indian in the party. He had invented the stampede, and when the men were faint with hunger and watching, they would be back to kill them all. Dad was to be hung in honor of the occasion, to celebrate the day the pirate had made his escape from Dad’s father. In a few hours the Indian died. Dad kept his secret to himself, although he was greatly disturbed over it. He was being hunted hunted by a savage worse than any red man that ever shot a bow or took a scalp. He remembered, now, that many of his comrades of that memorable raid had since mysteriously disappeared. The truth flashed upon him in an instant. Shorty Thunder, the river pirate, was taking his revenge. Slowly but surely he was hounding down every man that had sought his life that day.

“In a few days the trapping party was picked up by another hunting party.

“What’s the matter, Ham? Are you getting sleepy?” called Mr. Allen as he arose to replenish the fire. Ham had sprawled out on the ground and was looking off into the dark woods, all alert.

“Sh-h-, you,” he whispered as he motioned them not to move. “I saw something move out there in those bushes just now; I’ll bet my hat on it.”

“O sugar,” said Phil. “Something moved, did it? What do you suppose it was, an elephant?”

Just then Fat raised his finger cautiously. “Quiet, there, a second, you rubes. Use your eyes more instead of your mouths, and you’ll see more. Can’t you see that light spot right over there?” pointing into the darkness with a very crooked stick he had been fooling with. All sat quietly listening and watching, but to no avail. They could see nothing.

“Go on with your story, Mr. Allen,” urged Ham. “What’s river pirates got to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that’s what I’d like to know.” The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.

“Well, it’s like this, Ham,” continued Mr. Allen. “Every great story has a preface, and I’ve been telling you the preface so far.” Ham let out a few long, extra well-developed snores. “Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to the beginning of the first chapter, will you?”

“Finally Dad came to Colorado just why, I don’t know; but he prospected hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in Cripple Creek he was right on hand. In 1873, I think it was, the county built the Cripple Creek Stage Road. Dad was a pretty old man then, but not too old to see his opportunity. With a little outside capital, he constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House. In a short time after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon producing a nice little revenue for Dad.

“The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and stormy. It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full blast. The thunder and lightning were terrific. When the down stage pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the night, fearing a possible cloudburst. It happened that the stage was full of passengers that night. There was a little Irishman who had just discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch. Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his business all to himself. As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little incidents that gave evidence to his own theory. For instance, several times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out into the night. He seemed very nervous about something. He did not mingle with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself. When it became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch near the fireplace. Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.

“The storm was at its worst. Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad’s dog let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls. Dad shouted down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat outside. He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and scratched at the door. There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in a peal of thunder, then the cry of ‘Fire!’ The smoke of the burning logs was already streaming up the open stairway. The outside door opened and shut, yet the dog was left inside. Almost before the sleeping guests could grab their clothes, the whole house was a sheet of flame. There was a wild scramble for the back stairway. Dad hurried down the front way, stumbling through the smoke to the door. The dog gave a joyous bark and sprang toward him. As he opened the door, he stumbled over a large oil-can that always stood just under the stairway. He didn’t think of it at the time because of his excitement, but later, as he puzzled over the real cause of the fire, he remembered with startling distinctness his stumbling over the empty oil-can, which he knew had been full the day before. As months went by he put this with other little bits of information, and he believed he understood, yet he had no proof. The old man who had slept downstairs had oiled the entire first floor, then set it afire. But why? That was the question.

“He remembered how the old man had insisted that the house had been struck by lightning. Dad never saw him again after that night, but a few months afterwards he recognized him in a description of one of the robbers of a stage coach, held up at Duffield’s. Then, like a flash, it came to Dad. The old-timer was his enemy of the river pirates, old Shorty Thunder. He had accidently stumbled onto Dad here in these mountains, and had determined to settle scores once for all. He had meant by setting fire to the cabin to burn Dad alive, and if it hadn’t been for the dog he probably would have succeeded.”

“Great old tale,” sighed Phil, as he arose and stretched himself.

“Let’s turn in,” suggested Fat, “for you know we have some walking ahead of us to-morrow.” “Second the motion,” joined in Ham. “Me for a good, big drink, though, to wash that fairy tale down. How about it?”

The little party gathered close about the fire after all final arrangements had been made for the night. Boots were pulled off and set away from the fire. Watches were wound and trousers unbuckled. They had all instinctively looked toward the “Chief.” He had drawn close to the fire, and was turning over the leaves of a pocket Testament.

“What will you have to-night, fellows, from the Great Spirit’s Message before we sleep?”

“The one about the lilies,” said Ham thoughtfully. “There are several big ones in bloom just at the head of my bed.” The “Chief” began to read in low, reverent tones.

“And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” So he went on reading till he came to the end of the chapter, after which there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for bed.

“They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of God,” snorted Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, “but they aren’t in it with a night like this spent in the open in such a country.”

“There’s a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham,” said Mr. Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.

“How do you make that out?” asked Ham.

“Well, you’re just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously; but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create such a Nature.” “Too deep for me, too deep for me; I’m no philosopher,” grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night’s sleep.

Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.

“Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say,” he remarked half-aloud, as he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. “He’s the very spit’n image of Bill, now that’s dead sure, and there’s one thing more that’s certain.” He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling in the sky far above them.

“That mine belongs to the boy, but how’s he going to get it?”

He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came down the trail, the smell of Dad’s simple supper came floating up to him. He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him. He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be something.

“Howdy, Tad, strike it rich to-day? S’pose ye jist been a shovelin’ out nuggets all day long, till yer tired o’ seein’ ’em, hain’t ye? Tad, I seed the beatenest bunch o’ young’uns to-day ye ever seed in yer life, all on a explorin’ trip o’ some kind.”

“That so?” replied Tad, “must have been the same party I saw. Did you see that tall, slender lad with the brown eyes and dark hair?”

“Yep, b’lieve I did, come t’ think on it, only I didn’t pay much pertic’lar ’tention to none of ’em.”

Tad helped himself to an old chair, and, leaning back against the wall, lighted his pipe. He was quiet for a long time, then he spoke in a slow, thoughtful manner, his pipe held firmly between his teeth, his eyes fixed on a spot far away down the mountain.

“Dad, the boy has come. He’s come to me, and he’s just like his father tall and straight and clean-cut. Dad, he needs a father, and perhaps I’ll have to act in that capacity yet, who knows, for that uncle of his is a rascal and will bear a good deal of watching.”

“What? Ye don’t mean the young feller ye was a tellin’ me about the other evenin’? Bill’s boy really come to the mountains?” asked Dad, becoming interested at once.

“Yes, he’s here, Dad, as sure as I’m a living man. He went up this trail this afternoon, and I talked with him. He asked about his father the first thing; said his father owned a mine up here somewhere, and asked me if I knew Tad Kieser.”

“Shoot me fer a pole-cat. Well, I’ll be dum-swizzled, course ye told him Yep, ye knowed him a little, didn’t ye?”

“No, Dad, I didn’t, and that’s just what I’ve come down to talk to you about this evening. You see, it’s like this: If I had told him who I was, that would have been the end of it, but if he doesn’t really find out who I am for a while yet, perhaps I can locate a paying gold mine for him. I always have felt that I owed him at least that much.”

“So ye didn’t tell him?” pondered Dad. “Well, Tad, yer head is a sight longer’n mine is, an’ I s’pose ye know what’s best; but, my boy, let me give ye a little advice: If ye wait till ye find a real gold mine in these here parts, the boy’s likely as not to die o’ old age ’fore ye find it.”

“Perhaps so, Dad. Perhaps you’re right; but then, if I don’t ever find it, I won’t tell him who I am, because he’d be disappointed. He thinks his father owned a real mine in these mountains somewhere, and he’s looking for it. Do you know, I’ve been wondering no, it can’t be, though; I suppose I’m foolish, but someway, I’ve always felt that I ought to have been man enough to have worked the old tunnel just a little farther. Bill was so certain that things looked better, and

“Tad, hain’t ye ever been in the old hole sence that day, honest Injun? I used t’ think that’s where ye went when ye’d go off fer a week er ten days in the hills all by yerself.”

“No, Dad, I give you my word, I’ve never been in that hole since the day I carried poor Bill’s broken body out. I’ve never been near since I put that great, heavy lock on the door, and then I dropped the only key into the old shaft. I thought that perhaps some time the temptation to go back in might be too strong, and I’d do it.”

Both smoked silently for a long time, then Dad spoke:

“S’posin’ somebody would jump ye over yonder, Tad. What’s to hinder ’em a breakin’ in an’ startin’ operations? I’ve heerd tell that old Williams claimed that property, but course it’s a dern lie

“He couldn’t jump it, Dad, because I hold the deed to it. We proved up on that, you know, the summer before; but I believe Williams does hold a placer claim on the property. You know placers can run into regular lode claims. He could claim the tunnel, all right, too, I suppose, if the owner couldn’t be found. Especially since he seems to be the only relative Bill had, except his wife.”

“What do ye s’pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer claim jest there, ‘stead o’ somewhere else? The dirt won’t pan color, will it?” asked Dad. “That’s just what has bothered me, Dad. The only way that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill’s papers or letters. It wasn’t two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there and staked that placer claim. He’s worked assessments on it every year since. One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an assessment hole or two most anything to get in the required hundred dollars’ worth of working. It’s that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested. Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said. It’s taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is something I don’t know about the deal.”

“Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we’re a sittin’ on a pile o’ gold nuggets this minute; but we’ll never see ’em; mark my words, boy, we’ll never see ’em. God Almighty’s a savin’ ’em fer somethin’, if there is any, an’ if we ain’t to have ’em, we’ll never git ’em, that’s sure.” After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad arose to go.

“Good-night, Dad, good-night,” he said in an absent-minded way, as he started through the old door and up the trail.

Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and shining. A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens. The night was absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers. Far, far away a turtle dove was calling calling so softly that it almost seemed to be imagination. Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few seconds.

Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him. He placed his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness. What was that? He shut his eyes that he might hear the better. He could not be mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap one, two, three little dry, rasping sounds. Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel. Again he raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the shadows. There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct. The night breeze gently fanned the dying embers. Suddenly there was a series of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of light. Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself. Hardly had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.

“What is it, Mr. Allen?” softly whispered Willis. Mr. Allen jumped a trifle. “O, I don’t know; I heard it a couple of hours ago. I’d like to see a wild animal, wouldn’t you? I think it must be the fire that attracts it. I’d like to light my dark lantern, but I hate to strike a match.” He leaned over to the fire, picked up a dry pine needle, and lighted it in the fire, applying the tiny flame to his opened lantern. Quietly Mr. Allen opened the shield, and a long, bright gleam swept noiselessly out into the darkness, revealing with almost painful distinctness the outlines of every stem of grass and flower. Then, far at the end of the path of light, something moved. There were two small, luminous spots, then in an instant two more, a little larger. Slowly the shifting lights and shadows took shape, and there, before them, stood two deer a doe and a tiny fawn.

“O, aren’t they beautiful?” whispered Willis. Just then the fawn left its mother’s side and came fearlessly down the path of light one, two, six steps staring into the wonderful, dazzling beam. There was a gentle call from the mother, and in an instant they had disappeared into the shadows from whence they had come. There was a bound, a broken twig, a rustle of dead leaves, and all was quiet again.

For a long time Willis and Mr. Allen waited, watching for them to return; but they did not come. The fire slowly died out and turned into a pile of ghostly ashes, while the party slept on until morning.