The Second Day Out

Ham was the first to awaken in the morning. A pair of saucy jays had been gossiping about the little party for nearly an hour. At first they just exchanged ideas, making their observations from a reasonable distance. One perched on the topmost limb of a dead pine, the other bobbing up and down on the slender twigs of a neighboring aspen.

“Those crazy jabberers would dispute the identity of their own mates,” exclaimed Ham, as he pulled on his trousers and got into his high boots. “They talk about some folks always having too much to say, but O, shut up, you noisy robbers!” He reached for a heavy stick, and sent it flying into the air toward the aspen. There was a flapping of wings, a harsh, scolding threat, and the jays retreated to talk it over.

Very soon the camp was all astir, and there was a general call for a fire.

“You don’t want to forget that we have the most important ceremony of this entire trip to go through with here yet this morning before any of us can eat breakfast. What’s your hurry, anyway? Get busy here, Fat, and get another armful of wood like this that I have. In about three shakes we’ll have an altar built and we’ll have our oracle fire burning in less than a jiffy. Be quick, now, but don’t disturb the Spirit,” cried Ham.

“Oracle fire, your grandmother,” interrupted Phil. “I’m as hungry as a pet lion, and it’s breakfast for me, and that right soon; oatmeal, a boiled egg, and some rye bread sounds about right!”

“Me, too,” chimed in Fat, reaching for his haversack. “Hungry’s no name, and I don’t believe I brought enough grub, either.”

“Stop!” shouted Ham. “Now, Mr. Philip Dennis, Jr., hear your humble servant, the Spook Doctor, for just about a second. Long, long ago, even before our friend, Zebulon Pike, took his first peek at Pike’s Peak, there was a custom common to all the Indian tribes about us,” making a gesture to include all the surrounding country, “and it was believed absolutely necessary to the happiness and well-being of their mighty warriors to indulge in this orgy at stated seasons.” Ham was making wild gestures as he went on with his mock oratory. “Never was a hunt started, never was a journey undertaken, never a distant quest sought after, until the tribe had first slept, then gathered around the mystic altar of the Spook Doctor.”

“Ham, you’re a regular heathen,” called Mr. Allen from his blanket. “What has the altar got to do with it, anyway?”

“Well, it’s just like this,” continued Ham. “After the first night’s slumbers we build an Indian signal fire just like this, then in bare feet and empty stomachs we dance around the fire and implore the Mighty Night Wind to interpret the dreams we have had during our first night out. They never fail to disclose the outcome of the journey, whether it will be a success or a failure.” As he bent over and lighted the fire, he said, “You may be seated.”

The childishness of it all appealed to every one of them, and they did as they were commanded. Then Ham solemnly and weirdly called, “Fat, you’re first. Hurry, while the smoke is curling, curling upward.”

Fat arose and made mock obeisance to the fire.

“My dream was a very queer one, but most too short to have a real meaning. I dreamed I was in a big barnyard and all I could see was pigs little pigs, big pigs, and all kinds of pigs and they were all standing around an empty trough. Now, Mr. Wise Man, tell me what that has to do with a quest for a cabin site, will you?”

Phil rolled over and chuckled to himself. “Oho, Fat, you will eat bacon for supper, will you? while your poor fellow-travelers sup on a rare and expensive can of beans. Ha-ha-ha! Eat pork and you dream of pigs.”

Ham looked long into the fire, then, turning, cried out:

“I have it, I have it, the Spirit speaks. Fat, you will run out of provisions long before this journey is over. You will eat all you have by to-morrow, and never think of the days to follow. Beware, for so the Spirit tells me.”

A roar of laughter went up from the others.

“Mr. Allen, your dream next,” called Ham, mystically.

“Well, I dreamed of beautiful autumn days, spent in a splendid grove of trees, cutting choice timbers for a cabin; and then I dreamed of a crowd of old men, sitting before an open fire-place, telling about how they had built a cabin long years before, when they were boys.”

“That needs no interpreter. Phil, your dream is now demanded. Tell it truly, lie and you will live to suffer. Careful, now, and do not hurry.”

“Well, I dreamed a dandy,” cried Phil. “I saw a crazy loon standing in front of a fire, gazing into fiery embers, and ” There was a crackling in the fire, a shower of sparks went up, and one of the altar stones turned over.

“O, how sad,” groaned Ham, “that such a man should lie so to the great Spook Doctor. In wrath he tears down the altar hisses forth his disapproval in clouds of tiny spark-thoughts. Willis, you are next. Now, do not rile the mighty Master.” “Well,” said Willis, “my dream was not so strange. I just dreamed over and over the thoughts I took to bed with me. I saw cabins and mines and tunnels and miners of all descriptions, only that there was one that looked very familiar, and it was a very hard one to find and get to.” Ham had failed to replenish the fire, and it had burned to a tiny, smoldering heap of ashes.

“I can not answer that one,” said Ham, “for the Great Spirit has now left me. Let’s eat our breakfast, and I hope it will be more substantial than these dreams.”

Soon breakfast was under way. It was a simple meal and soon over with. Cooking utensils were washed and packs rolled, ready for the day’s journey.

“What time of day?” asked Chuck.

“Seven-ten,” promptly replied Willis, “and just the time to be starting through the Park, if we want to see it before the dew is gone.” At the spring they stopped to drink and to examine the deer tracks in the soft, black muck. From there the trail led off, zigzaging down the gentle slope. On either side of the path the wild grasses and ferns grew in rank profusion, while scattered here and there on the soft, green carpet were great numbers of dainty Maraposa lilies. Now and then a tall, green stalk of the columbine could be seen, and occasionally a wooly circle of bracts on the stem of a late anemone. At intervals tall ferns bent over the woodland pathway, as if to hide and protect it for the private use of the many tiny wild feet that scampered over it daily.

“Isn’t this great,” cried Ham. “Just take a peek at that grove of trees. I’ll bet that grass is full of snakes and rabbits. I’d like to take a shot at a big ‘jack’ this morning.”

“It’s an old swamp,” replied Willis. “Perhaps there was once a little lake here. Wouldn’t it be a swell place for a shanty? I’ll bet it’s full of grouse.”

“I suppose it was once an Indian camping ground,” suggested Mr. Allen. “Just a little flat oasis on the summit of a granite mountain. Remember where we came up last night? Now, look away off there,” pointing his finger. “We are ten thousand feet above the sea up here; up where we can see how the world is made, and how beautiful it is.”

Soon the little park came to an abrupt end, and great boulders began to loom up on every side. They came to the edge of the cliff, and could look far down into the valley below. Away to the west stood Black Mountain, a rounded bluff, so densely covered with young timber that it seemed at a distance to be a mountain of black dirt. Far below them could be seen the silver thread of a tiny stream as it followed the canyon toward the sandy plains. They had climbed out onto a great boulder, now, that overlooked the canyon far below on one side and the level plains on the other. Here they sat down to rest and talk.

“Do you see that hollow spot in the plain there, just at the foot of the mountain?” Mr. Allen was saying. “It is what has been known for many years as the Big Hollow Ranch. It was homesteaded in the early days, before the war, by our friend, Daddy Wright. There is a story that tells of how, in those days, the Indians would lie in wait and steal cattle from the great Texas roundups as they passed, enroute to Kansas City, and would drive large numbers of the cattle into that great hollow. After the cattle were driven inside, a few men could guard the opening while the other Indians drove the cattle off into lonely ravines.”

“My! what a fire there must have been here sometime,” exclaimed Willis, noting the dead trees. “I have always wanted to see a forest fire; it must be a grand sight.”

“Yes, if you’re far enough away to be safe,” joined in Chuck. “I saw one once, but it was several miles away. It looked fine from there. It was the year we camped at the old hatcheries up in the Middle Park. Mount Deception was very much like Black Mountain, then very heavily timbered with fine, large trees. As the years went by a very large slab pile began to accumulate back of the mill. Some way, no one ever knew just how, those slab piles got afire. It was on a very windy summer night, when everything was as dry as chips and the hills were covered with heaps of dry toppings and pine slash. Well, the fire got into a few piles of toppings, and before the men at the mill realized that there was a fire, it was running over the hills like a wild thing. The dry pine needles are just like turpentine to burn, so in less than two hours there were several square miles of timber land afire. The mill and hundreds of thousands of feet of sawed lumber were burned, and an area of many square miles stripped of every stick of wood, so far as value was concerned.”

“Did you see them fight it?” asked Phil.

“No, I didn’t see them, but I’ve heard them tell how they did it.”

“I was in a forest fire once,” said Mr. Allen. “It wasn’t such an awfully big one, but there was plenty of excitement while it did last, I tell you that.”

“Tell us about it,” came in a chorus.

“It’s pretty hard to describe a forest fire, but it was a very exciting experience. It was up not many miles from Mount Deception, while I was stopping with a friend at Manitou Park. We were eating our Sunday dinner, when suddenly the door opened and in rushed the man from the adjoining farm.

“‘Fire, boys,’ he called. ’I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need you, and you know the law. I’ll have the buggy ready in a shake, and you be ready.’ As he left, my friend cried, ’Come quick, Allen, into your old clothes.’ ‘Why,’ I said, ‘we don’t have to fight the forest fire, do we?’ He laughed aloud. ‘Well, you just bet we do!’ he cried. ’The law says that every able-bodied man in reach of a forest fire must give his services. If a fire starts on Government land and burns onto private land, Uncle Sam has to pay for all the private loss. But if it starts on private land and burns onto Government land, the land owner is responsible.’

“I jumped into some old clothes, and was ready just as the buggy drove up to the door. The man handed me a big brown jug and told me to fill it with drinking water. Off to the north we saw a great cloud of gray smoke rising from the forest, but no flame. The farmer handed my friend the lines, told us to take the shortest route, and not to stop for anything, that he would follow on horseback in a few moments. I never shall forget how the little mare did go that day. We drove north on a county road until we got even with the smoke, then we turned in directly toward it through a very large potato field. After an hour’s hard driving, we came to the entrance of a narrow canyon. We tied the horse, and, with as many shovels as I could carry on my shoulder, and with the jug, I followed my friend, who had taken a couple of shovels and two heavy axes. It was a sultry midsummer day, and how I did sweat!

“We hurried on, the smoke getting thicker and thicker, and still we could see no flames. We went up a long, narrow canyon in which there was a tiny stream, and about every hundred yards we stopped to drink. By and by we came to the top of a low ridge, and the farmer met us.

“‘Hurry, fellows, hurry!’ he shouted. ’Give me a couple of those axes. Report to the first man you meet, and come home in the buggy when you can.’ He swung his horse round, and in a moment was gone. I was tired out already, and the jug of water was very heavy to carry by so small a handle. As we got near the top of the ridge, we came to an old prospect hole. An idea struck me. I would leave the jug there by the hole, and it would be easy to find when I wanted it, and I would hurry on with the shovels. As we reached the top of the ridge, the fire came into full view. My, what a sight! A great sea of burning, crackling trees below, and above an ocean of heavy smoke, floating upward in great billows. Far away, at least it seemed so to me, I heard chopping, chopping. I don’t know how long I stood there wondering at the sight, but presently an old man he looked to me like a wild man, came toward me, eyeing me with a scornful look.

“‘Well, ye goin’ to stand there all day with them implements, son?’ He mopped away the great beads of perspiration from his forehead with a big blue bandanna handkerchief. A large Russian hound stood, panting, by his side. Nearly a year afterwards I learned that the old man was no other than Old Ben himself.

“‘Where’s that jug of water that Jim said ye was a bringin’,’ he howled as he snatched the best shovel from my hands. I don’t know what I said, but I know that he cursed me roundly and I started for the prospect hole to get the jug. I was excited to the limit. I came to the prospect hole, and the jug was gone. I was starting back when I came to another hole, then a third, then a fourth. I raised my eyes and surveyed the hillside. There were at least a hundred prospect holes. Which one did I leave the jug by? Was it lost, that precious jug of water? Would I ever find it? The great clouds of smoke drifted past me and darkened the landscape; then I began to hunt for the jug, one hole at a time. But I could find no jug. While I was searching all over the hill, up rode the farmer. He called for me to follow him. I tried to explain to him that I was looking for the water, but I couldn’t make him understand. When we got back to the east of the fire, he handed me an ax and showed me what to do. They were cutting an aisle down the south ridge. There were great trees cracking and crashing to the ground all along the line and all around me. I could not see more than a hundred feet ahead, but I worked like a Turk. O, but I thought my ax was dull and the tree hard! It seemed that I could never cut it through. I struck a heavy blow; there was a singing noise in the air, and the head of my ax went flying somewhere into the brush. I heard the farmer, chopping near me, yell something about a fool and a greenhorn.

“‘Go, bring the water,’ he yelled. I asked what water, and he yelled back, ‘The jug, the brown jug.’

“I started again to find it. I don’t know how long I looked, but by accident I stumbled onto it. I raised it to my lips to drink, but the water was warm and insipid. It made me feel faint. My head began to get dizzy and everything looked burned. I straightened up and went back toward the fire. When I reached the farmer, he gave me his ax and started off with the jug. I chose my tree, and began to work. I had cut but one, and was started on another, when a dozen rugged, sweating men passed me on the run and shouted, ‘Look out for the blast!’ I dropped my ax and followed them. The earth shook under my feet, as one after the other I saw mighty pine trees rise into the air a few feet, then crash headlong down the mountain into the flames. The fire was coming nearer. O, such a sight! The heat was intense, but the coloring was beautiful. I followed the men, but one man tripped and fell; the others hurriedly picked him up, and we went onto a safe place. Then a hurried conference was held, and orders given to cut the underbrush in a great circle around the fire. By and by the wind changed, and soon the smoke cleared away from where we were working. To my surprise, there were at least fifty sturdy men mountain ranchmen, most of them cutting the underbrush ahead of me, and just next to me worked Ben.

“We worked on until dark. My friend found me, and we started for the buggy. We got home some way he drove. I was exhausted. That was my only forest fire experience, but I don’t care for another. I was stiff and sore for a week.”

The little party worked its way into the gulch, and then proceeded up the canyon on an old cattle trail in the second range. Every now and then they would pass a prospect hole, which showed that they were not, by any means, the first to tramp up the gulches and drink at the crystal streams. On a great, flat stone, close by a tiny spring, they stopped to eat their dinner and rest.

“Let’s get as far as we can by night,” suggested Phil, “for we’ll never find a cabin site here in this canyon. It’s too far away. We’ll have to get in closer, near St. Peter’s Dome.”

“Let’s make the Little Fountain by night. It must cross this canyon, and perhaps it will yield us a trout for breakfast. What do you say?” inquired Mr. Allen.

“Little Fountain, or bust,” called Ham. “I’m in for it. Say, we ought to find a few squirrels this afternoon up in this lonesome canyon. A squirrel would taste pretty fine, stewed in a little rice, for supper. I’ll bet I get the first one.”

“Got some salt in your pocket?” asked Willis.

“Salt, what do I want with salt? Just keep your eye on me. I’m dead-shot at squirrels.”

“Hello, here, what’s this?” called out Mr. Allen about the middle of the afternoon. “This looks interesting to me. See here, I’ve found a few small pieces of aspen that have been cut by beaver.” He held them up for inspection. Sure enough, on the ends were the marks of the tiny chisel teeth of the little water workmen. “I’d certainly like to see a real beaver dam. I’ve seen pieces of dams and old, wrecked dams, but never a real good one. Keep your eyes open for more sticks like this, and for stumps along the stream. This ought to be good beaver country, because it’s wild and quiet.”

“What do you suppose killed all those fine big trees in that valley?” asked Willis.

They turned aside to examine the great dead trees.

“Hold on, there,” said Ham in a whisper, as he held up his finger. “There’s my stew for to-night. Great Caesar’s ghost! I’ll bet these dead trees are full of squirrels. Still, now, a moment.”

The squirrel sat for an instant in plain view on a dead limb of a spruce; then he barked and scampered around in great excitement, his tail bobbing up and down in time to his movements. He would run, hide behind the great tree trunk, then out again to jeer and scold and jerk his tail. As they came nearer, a second one, perhaps his mate, joined him on the limb and seconded everything he had to say. The barrel of Ham’s gun was making strange movements in the air. “Hey, there, sit still, you jumping jack,” called Ham. The squirrels sat up and listened to his voice in such a way that it appeared they perfectly understood the order to sit still. Fat laughed a hearty laugh; the squirrels took it as a danger signal and were gone. Ham lowered his gun.

“Fat, you stole my supper right out of my mouth,” said Ham, gloomily.

“Oho,” said Willis. “How do you suppose this happened? All of these big trees are girdled. See, the bark has been cut clear around the trunk with an ax, so as to cut off the supply of sap. Mr. Allen, what is your explanation?”

“Well, I’m not just sure about it, Willis. Some one may have killed them for timber or some one may have girdled them so as to be able to start a big fire. It might have been the work of timber pirates. A man would get a mighty severe punishment for that, if he were caught.”

A little farther up the canyon they found traces of an old placer sluice, and what remained of some of the old, homemade cradles for panning out the gold.

“Gold, gold, gold; you find traces of it everywhere, and traces of the men who sought it. A sight like that always makes me sorry for some old, forlorn, disappointed miner,” said Mr. Allen. “Of all the dilapidated, blue-producing sights that I have ever seen, it’s one of these old, deserted mining camps, for they come as near representing a forlorn hope as anything you can find.

“One time I was with a crowd of boys, and we made a detour to look over a deserted mining camp. They called it Old North Cripple Creek. Years before, shrewd individuals had salted prospect holes at that point, then discovered their own gold. Of course there was a grand rush, and a boom town resulted. Crude houses were built, stores and saloons erected, and mining operations begun. A real, substantial log hotel was erected, and I’ve heard that their charge was upwards of ten dollars a night, payable in advance.

“But the camp died as quickly as it had been born, and the people, mostly men, pushed on to other fields.

“It was a good many years after the place was deserted that I was there, but it made a tremendous impression upon me. I had the blues for days afterward. Old, tumbled-down houses, the windows knocked out and the doors hanging on leather hinges. I remember one building that had been a saloon. The great mirrors back of the bar had never been removed, and the rains of many seasons had peeled the mercury from the plate glass and the gilt frames were faded. We entered the old hotel, and were surprised to find some of the fittings still there. In the attic we found an old chest of letters and, speaking of strange coincidences, a large number of those letters were written and signed by Daddy Wright. Away up in the back corner of the attic sat an old owl. He looked down on us from his perch in a reproving manner, to think we would disturb the haunts of the past in that crude way. He was a weird looking old fellow as he sat there, blinking his big yellow eyes, and I couldn’t help thinking that the owl of wisdom perhaps a good many times might be found perched in the dark attics of the past, instead of spending his time in the sunlight of the great and active present.”

The afternoon passed, and soon the sun began to settle behind the western peaks. It was just six o’clock when the party came to the Little Fountain and chose their camping spot on a little green knoll of high ground, right by the water’s edge. Some one suggested a dip, and so, in the quiet coolness of a perfect summer twilight, with a cheerful fire burning on the bank, clothes were stripped and a bath taken. Then came the evening meal, the usual round of stories, the message from the letter of the Great Spirit, then to sleep.

As Willis and Mr. Allen lay watching the firelight and listening to the thousand sounds of the night, the night breeze began to rise and to sing to them through the balsam boughs overhead.

“Do you know what I think of when I lie out in the woods on such a night and listen to the gentle sighing of the night wind?” asked Mr. Allen.

“No,” replied Willis. “What do you think of?”

“It is kind of fanciful, I suppose, but I like to believe that it is God blowing His breath down on us just to let us know that He is very near and cares for us.” Willis did not answer; he was thinking.