A Glimpse of Buffalo Roost

The little party gathered about the fire the next morning, cooking the last breakfast of the trip. To-morrow they would be home again. Would they take back a glowing description of a cabin site, situated in some cool forest nook, in the shadow of some mighty crag, or would they be forced to disappoint the anxious crowd of fellows who would be waiting for their return?

By seven o’clock they were jogging down the railroad at a lively gait, keeping their eyes open for a canyon that would lead in back of Cookstove Mountain. They had come down the track at least two miles without finding any encouraging signs when they came upon a trail that seemed to lead from the railroad into an unknown canyon. Perhaps it was one of the many trails from the railroad back to the remains of some of the old construction camps. Perhaps it was a cowpath that led into a fertile meadow where cattle loved to rest by cool springs. Might it not have been the connecting link between some old prospector’s diggings and his point of supplies? Possibly it had been worn by the ever-watchful forest ranger as he rode over the reserve, watching for the fires of careless campers, the trespass of cattle, or, perhaps, to make a timber sale to some mountain ranchman. Perhaps it was one of these, but more likely it was a combination of them all. What strange stories it could tell if it could but speak! Had it been on the southern slope it might have been lost in the cool shadows of the forest, or have disappeared in the leafy molds and decaying twigs of many autumns. But it was on the north slope, from which the hungry flames of a giant forest fire had snatched every tree and bush, leaving only the barren hillside.

It was a very alluring trail, for it led to no one knew just where. Just at the point where it slipped over the rocky ridge and dropped down out of sight into the canyon beyond there rose a group of great, tall pines, which seemed to be guarding the pathway. Just ahead stood Cookstove, its rocky crest bathed in the morning light, while far away to the north the sharper outlines were lost in a great army of evergreens, which seemed to be trooping restlessly up the hill and descending again into the great unknown of the valley. It led straight away down a gently-curving aisle of beautiful large trees that had already begun to carpet the floor with dull pine needles, picked from their shaggy heads by the mischievous dryads of the valley. Away up on the shoulder of Cookstove could be seen a long silver ribbon of water, the lower end of which was lost in the treetops of the canyon. From somewhere down below the trail there came the gentle murmur of jubilant little dashes of mountain spray as they frolicked and chased each other in the happy play of a mountain stream. On the inside of the trail the trees dropped away rapidly until you could look into their topmost branches without raising your eyes, while on the other side they trooped noiselessly upward, like some great, silent army, showing only their weather-beaten bodies.

As the boys hastened down this trail, deeper into the land of enchantment, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.

“I’ve about changed my mind about the location of the Garden of Eden,” Ham sung out.

“That’s the twentieth time,” announced Chuck.

“We’re just on the edge of it yet,” shouted Mr. Allen. “Let’s hurry and get into it.”

The trail began immediately to descend, and before they knew it the party found themselves beside a crystal stream that seemed to be lost in a narrow park of great trees and mighty boulders. The trail crossed the stream by an ancient corduroy bridge, then off it ran again up the opposite side of the canyon, penetrating deeper into the quiet forest.

“This is the forest primeval,
The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,”

quoted Ham. There was a perfume of the forest dampness in the air. Every tree seemed to shelter a bird family or a host of squirrels, to say nothing of the tiny creatures that made chorus together from their hiding places. Softly filtering through the trees came the constant melody of a waterfall, now far away, now just ahead, crying, laughing, sobbing, in a strange intermingling of feeling.

The trail made a sharp turn to the left, the trees suddenly came to an end, and in their place were large piles of mossy, ragged boulders. The canyon ended in a perpendicular, moss-covered wall, hundreds of feet high, and from the top of this wrinkled old cliff leaped the stream into the canyon below. On an old tin sign, fastened to the stump of an immense tree, were the words, “St. Marys.” Directly at the base of the falls, and at their extreme edge, stood a grand old spruce tree, straight and clean as an arrow, its slender top reaching nearly to the top of the falls. They seemed to be happy comrades, for the tree was gently vibrating with the soft, half-wild music of the crystal stream.

After every nook and cranny had been explored, the group began to retrace their steps down the canyon.

“Isn’t it a wonderful little spot?” asked Phil, as they sat down by the bridge to rest. “Who do you suppose ever built this trail away up here? See, it has been dug from the very mountain-side in many places, and this bridge wasn’t built as a mere footbridge it was built to support heavy loads of something.”

“Perhaps somewhere way up in those trees there is an old mine,” suggested Fat.

“I’ve been wondering if there was,” slowly questioned Willis. “I’d like to go and look, for I’m not a bit tired.” His eyes were big with the wonder of the place.

“It surely is a treat to him, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Allen.

“Yes, and to us all,” replied Ham. “I just wonder what some city people would think of it. When I get old, fellows, I’m going to find me some such a little canyon as this and live out my life in it. I don’t believe a fellow could ever think a mean thought out here, could he? He’d be almost afraid to.”

“It’s an ideal place, all right,” returned Mr. Allen.

“Why, I believe I’d be an orator if I just had this valley for a class,” went on Ham.

“It’s a good thing such places can’t be moved,” suggested Phil, “or some of these wealthy fellows would be buying them all up and putting them in their art galleries. This view would create quite a sensation in New York City, don’t you think? Fifty thousand dollars is not much for a few feet of masterpiece, but this can be had for a few dollars an acre. Strange, isn’t it?”

“A man paints a little picture on a canvas and worries over it until his hair gets long and his face sad. He is then a genius. People go wild over a man that can copy a little scene. Yet those same people declare there is no Creator. Account for a valley like this without Him, can you?” declared Fat.

“The man that can deny Him, standing here in this little bit of His handiwork,” solemnly declared Ham, “is blind, deaf, and dumb, besides having marked tendencies toward insanity.”

“Halloo,” came in a clear shout from up on the hillside.

“By gracious, he’s found a mine!” cried Ham, jumping up.

“Halloo,” he shouted back. “What did you find?”

“Two more trails,” came the answer. “Come up and look. One goes down the canyon on this side.” A wild scramble up through the trees followed. Soon they were all traveling down one of the newly-discovered trails. The other one began at an old log cabin, and ran zigzag up the mountain till it was lost in the gravel slopes.

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind where this canyon leads to,” said Mr. Allen. “I’m wondering if it can be Buffalo Park.”

A bridge was visible down the stream, and there was the sound of water splashing. An immense boulder that had rolled from the cliff above obstructed any further view. Ham and Willis were in the lead, the rest following as rapidly as possible. The two ahead disappeared, then came into view beyond the big boulder.

“A house!”

“A cabin!” Every one broke into a run. Just above the bridge a crude dam of logs had been built to back up a supply of water, and it was running over from the little pond behind in a happy, babbling waterfall. Then it turned to the south around the base of a patch of high ground. On this bit of high country, overlooking the stream on one side and the upper canyon on the other, stood the loudly-announced cabin.

It was a typical mountain log-house, except for its roof, which was covered with cedar shingles instead of the customary split poles, thatched over with marsh hay. Its every line suggested age. In some places the mud chinking had dried and dropped out, yet, strange to say, the windows were all there, and even the door, which was of city manufacture, was not past repair. One corner of the roof had been slightly damaged by the falling of a monstrous pine log that was still lying where it had fallen several years before.

The cabin had evidently been used as a summer home only, for there was no fireplace or a chimney of any kind, except a dilapidated old length of stovepipe that stuck through the gable at one end. It was this feature that made it look so completely forlorn and abandoned. Besides the door and two windows that opened on the trail side, there was a window on the up end and a door on the stream side which led out onto a crude back porch, built entirely of aspen poles. The floor was of pine boards, and had once been a marvel of beauty and convenience for a mountain cabin; but time had played strange pranks with it, till now it was uneven and sloped off in a jerky fashion toward the back door. On one wall was fastened a rude set of shelves, on which was perched a motley collection of pickle bottles and tin cans. Stretched along one wall stood a crude, home-made table, and in one corner stood the remains of a little, old-fashioned stove. A wooden chest stood under the shelves, and had probably been used for a grub box. It still contained a few pounds of yellow cornmeal, half a can of baking powder, a badly molded loaf of rye bread, and a surprisingly sturdy sample of butter. Hung on a nail in the corner above the chest was a once-stylish skillet and the battered lower part of a double boiler. A rusty tincup lay on the floor beside a powder can that had been used for a bucket, while just inside the south door stood a comical homemade shakedown. The frame was built of straight young aspen poles, while the springs were just a carefully woven layer of balsam boughs spread over a bottom of limber young saplings. It had once been a wonder of comfort and ease, but its value had passed with the departure of its builder.

The trail ran close in front of the door and then climbed over the sandy base of a great crag, and disappeared over the hill. Just as it left the level of the house and started upward, there stood an immense Douglas spruce like some faithful guard, his proud green helmet stretched up into the sky so that he might be the more able to see any approaching danger. A great smoke-stained rock lay just at the end of the house, before which was built a primitive fireplace. An assortment of tin cans, lying in the little ravine, told the simple tale of bygone campfire suppers and of hunters and explorers and miners.

“Well, this is what I call luck pure, unadulterated luck, with sugar on it,” drawled Ham as he surveyed the house.

“Luck, your grandmother,” said Phil. “Do you call something that you have been searching for for four long days luck?”

“Excuse me,” answered Ham, in mock courtesy. “I forgot when I made that statement that there is no such thing as luck. It was my old friend, ‘William Shakespeare,’ that wrote that famous line about luck, ’Luck is pluck in action,’ or something like that, wasn’t it? That’s what it was here, anyway.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Mr. Allen, as he joined the group after his round of inspection, “the old shanty is chucked full of possibilities.”

“I’m glad something is full,” interrupted Fat. “We certainly aren’t in the same class, that cabin and I. It’s been so long since I’ve fed that my floating ribs have run ashore. The worst of it is that all I have left is a can of condensed milk, about a teaspoon of sugar, and a little butter that’s a second cousin to what’s in that grub box yonder. I’m going to borrow a few possibilities from the cabin and beg for food. Let’s have dinner.”

“Right here by this old rock,” called Willis. “Perhaps we can roast a little information out of these rocks.”

Chuck had gone down stream into a grove of large aspens, and at this moment came panting up the trail.

“Bees peach of a tree honey galore millions of them!” he panted.

“That sounds like something to eat,” cried Fat. “Come along, Chuck, I’m with you. Do you know how to make that ‘milk and honey’ that the Good Book speaks about? I’ve got the milk, let’s get the honey.” Ham, Chuck, and Fat started for the bee tree, Ham singing his favorite, “A Preacher went a Huntin’.”

“Better let up, Ham,” shouted Phil. “The bees will be after the sweetness in that melody of yours.”

Phil stretched out at full length in the sun while Mr. Allen busily made figures and sketches in his note book. Willis rose and started down the trail toward the bee tree. At the edge of the timber he stopped, and a curious smile spread over his face. Then suddenly, as the real significance of what he saw dawned upon him, he doubled up with a howl and laughed till his sides hurt.

The fellows were unable to roll over the great dead tree, so had decided to “smudge the brutes out,” as Ham said. Accordingly, they built a fire at the side where the bees had been seen to enter the tree. Chuck had carried water from the stream in his hat to make the fire smoke, and, as they watched the hole, the bees came swarming out at the end of the log behind them, “with spears sharpened and ready for action,” as Ham afterward said. Such lively gymnastics and hurried departures Willis had never before witnessed. Fat completely forgot that he was hungry, and Ham took occasion to severely chastise himself, using his old felt hat for a paddle, while Chuck went ploughing through the underbrush like a young bull-moose, murmuring strange, inarticulate sentences. Fortunately for them all, the bee tree was nothing but a nest of marsh-wasps, and there were nowhere near as many as Chuck declared there were. The damage was slight to all except Fat, and he had enough signs of battle to warrant a leather medal for bravery. The saddest thing was that the hoped-for “milk and honey” did not materialize.

As the party sat together eating the last of their rations, Ham fell into one of his philosophical moods.

“I like this kind of life,” he began. “Out here you let go your hold on man-made things and shift for yourself.” He looked cautiously over at Fat, who was trying to scratch a particularly itchy sting just out of reach in the middle of his back. “I like the unchanging condition of nature,” he continued. “The wilderness is all yours, and you may take from it all the essentials of primitive living shelter, warmth, and food.”

“Ham, you’re an unmitigated prevaricator,” cried Fat as he scratched and made faces. Ham paid no attention to him. “Here in the open country you can get mighty close to the great wilderness with its myriads of busy lives, and ” Fat picked up a pine cone and threw it, but Ham disappeared around the end of the big rock.

“Ham, you’re just like the loons we have on the Michigan lakes,” taunted Willis. “You can do and say more crazy things than all the rest of us ducks put together; but when any one takes a shot at you, you’re out of sight.”

By this time Fat had managed to make two holes in his can of milk and was drinking the contents. Mr. Allen had returned to his sketching, and Willis had gone over to the little dam to get a drink. Suddenly there was the snort of a horse and the rapid tramping of hoofs. A dog gave two or three barks, then horse, rider, and dog appeared on the trail. In a second another rider, with a pick and shovel thrown over his shoulder, came over the ridge. The first pulled in his horse and, turning in his saddle, looked to see if his companion was coming. Being confident that he was not far behind, he again urged his horse forward, apparently not noticing the group by the big boulder. Ham got to his feet and spoke to the dog. The horseman gave a quick exclamation of surprise, then called out, “Howdy!” Mr. Allen rose.

“Well, well!” called the man. “Seems to me yew fellers are travelin’ some, ain’t ye?”

“O, a little,” returned Mr. Allen.

“You don’t happen to know, do you, whether there are two cabins above here, do you? We was directed to the middle cabin.”

“No, only a very badly decayed one just a pile of tumbled-down logs,” replied Mr. Allen. The second rider had come up and dismounted, and together they studied a sketch which he had taken from his pocket.

“This must be the one, that’s all,” he drawled, as he spat out a great quid of tobacco, “‘cause he said it was by the bridge. We must o’ missed the other cabin in the trees somewhere below here.”

Willis was eyeing the newcomers closely. A stern, hard look crossed his face as he quickened his pace. He reached Mr. Allen’s side, and the first rider nodded to him. He drew nearer and observed the sketch very closely, listening intently to all the strangers had to say. His heart was beating fast, but just why he could not have told.

“Well, Jim, I guess we’d better unsaddle an’ give the nags a drink an’ a rest,” said the stranger as he carefully folded up the sketch and put it in his pocket. “Seems strange as how we’d meet twice in these mountains in nearly as many days, don’t it?” remarked the man, as he began to loosen the saddle girths and to untie the sacks of grub that were fastened on behind.

“How is that?” queried Mr. Allen.

“Why, wasn’t it you that went up the trail to the top of Cheyenne the other day?” questioned the man. Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on: “We was doin’ an assessment up there that day an’ seed you as you stood talkin’ to that crusty old prospector that works that tunnel.”

“O yes,” said Mr. Allen, “so you are the men that were up there by that black dump?”

“Yep, we’re the fellers, Jim an’ me.”

“Are you going to do more assessment work here in this canyon?” questioned Ham.

“Yep, we’ve got two assessments to do here somewhere,” returned the stranger. “This canyon, or at least part of it, belongs to a real estate company in Colorado Springs. I don’t believe there is any gold here, but they are holdin’ the property as an investment. Seems like they expect sometime to open this canyon to tourist trade to see some swell falls that’s up in it somewheres.”

“O, is that so?” returned Mr. Allen. “Then you don’t think there is any gold here at all?”

“Nope, I don’t, an’ I’ll tell ye why. Gold, as it’s found in these parts, runs in a strata of quartz. Now, there ain’t no quartz in this range, except on Cheyenne. The old-timer down at the inn says that there’s gold up here, an’ he knows where it is, but you can’t take no stock in these old fellers. They’re daft on the gold question.”

Mr. Allen looked at his watch, then, turning to the fellows, he suggested that they had better start for home. After a little more conversation the two parties separated, one to camp for the night in the cabin, the other to return to the city.

Willis motioned Mr. Allen to the back of the line as they worked their way down the trail and into the park.

“The plot thickens,” began Willis, with a queer little smile on his face. Then with a slight chuckle he added: “To be more accurate, I suppose I should say ‘The plot thins.’ Those are the two men that were at my uncle’s house the morning we started on this trip, and my uncle drew that sketch I’m sure of it. The heading was torn from the paper, but I feel it in my bones that he was the artist. Those are the men that were doing the assessment on my father’s old claim on Cheyenne for my uncle. He never dreamed of my seeing them here and knowing they were in his employ. I understand now why he didn’t want me to come on this trip. A coward is always suspicious. I never would have put the two together in the wide world if he hadn’t made such a fuss about my coming. One thing is absolutely certain my Uncle Williams is crooked, and that isn’t all, either. My Uncle Williams owns that cabin, and we’ll never get it for our use in this wide world. What will the fellows say when they know it belongs to my uncle and we can’t get it? The cabin is ideal, and it could be repaired with very little cost. It is isolated and in a beautiful spot, and is the only thing we have found. Don’t tell the fellows about it, please, until I see what I can do. I’ll do my very best.”

“Now, look here, my boy; don’t let that bother you,” replied Mr. Allen. “Wait. Don’t trouble trouble till trouble troubles you. He hasn’t troubled you yet, he’s just getting ready to. Let’s beat him at his own game. There are more ways than one to skin a cat.”

“But how?” inquired Willis.

“Well, the first thing to do is to get the exact location of the cabin, then go to the county recorder’s office and see to whom the property belongs. If it ever belonged to your father, as you are now disposed to believe

“Yes, I’d bet my hat, Mr. Allen, that this is the very cabin that my father and Tad Kieser built. O, how I ’d like to have it all for my very own!” Mr. Allen interrupted him. “As I was saying, the records will show very plainly if it was ever transferred or if it was anything but a lode claim. If your father owned it, that settles it. Williams has nothing to say about it. Placer claims can’t be taken on deeded property. However, let’s not worry about it, but let’s count it ours and work toward that end.”

“O my, if Tad were only here, we’d soon know a thing or two!” exclaimed Willis.

“Now, boy, listen! Don’t go home and spoil all this business. Keep still about it until to-morrow, when we can get at the records and find out for certain just what is what. Will you do that?” questioned Mr. Allen.

“I’ll tell my mother,” replied Willis, “and to-morrow I’ll go with you.”

The trail was winding back and forth through a great park of aspens. On every side were prospect holes, remains of old cabins, and places where the wilderness was again reclaiming her own after men had spent their time, money, and energy attempting to force her to give up her gold.

At the top of the hogsback that over-looked Bruin Inn the fellows sat down to rest. They were back in familiar territory, now, and the cabin quest was nearly over.

“Of course, the very first thing to do,” Ham was saying, “is to get in stone and get our fireplace built before the frost comes. It will be a simple matter just throw down stones from the mountain; they are flat slabs and will lay up very easily. We’ll use that big, flat stone at the end as a foundation, and run the chimney up outside the house a real big, life-sized one, too. And we want a grand old-fashioned crane in the grate, and andirons of stone, and a big cement hearth.”

“Going to do all your cooking in the fireplace?” asked Chuck.

“Not on your life,” put in Fat. “We’ll bring up our old camp stove, the one we had on the trip last summer it’s a dandy.”

“I’ve got the only stunt, though,” said Ham. “Let’s build a great big bed on the rafters that run from wall to wall. We’ll just cut a lot of saplings and lay them in close and support the bed from the roof. After it has about two feet of balsam boughs on it, it will be a choice roost, I tell you that. I’m going to be architect and boss carpenter of that job.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Allen gravely, “but it’s not a fireplace, an aerial bunk, or a place to eat that I’m thinking of. There is no use putting our time, effort, and money into this place unless we can take care of at least twenty fellows at a time, and how can we do it?”

“The eating won’t be any trouble,” advised Fat. “They will get enough to eat some way I always do.” “We’ll build an addition,” suggested Phil, “a bunk house addition. That will be easy; we can build it out where that old back porch is, can’t we? And say, talk about great logs, what’s the matter with those aspens right there ready for us?”

“We could buy tin dishes, but where is the money coming from? That is the main question,” said Mr. Allen. “Money,” snorted Ham, “that will come if we’re in earnest, dead earnest. How about that circus? How much money do we need, anyway?”

Mr. Allen drew out his note-book, and made some rapid calculations. “Well, the very least that you can do with, fellows, is two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Good-bye, fond dreams!” cried Fat tragically.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars!” exclaimed Phil and Ham together. “How do you get that?”

“Well, cement and lime for the fireplace, freight to Fairview on boards, shingles, furnishings, and so on; rent on donkeys to do the packing, dishes, and pantry boxes, for everything will have to be kept in tin boxes. Then you’ll have to hire a mason to put in the fireplace. You’ll need axes, saws, and tools. I’ll wager it won’t cost a cent less than two hundred dollars, and great loads of hard work.”

“Hard fun, you mean,” interrupted Phil.

As the evening shadows began to lengthen and the cool breeze to rise from the snow-clad peaks of the Middle Range, the little group of explorers dropped into the canyon and hurried home. All were very full of ideas and suggestions except Willis. He had listened to their talk, but was saying over and over to himself, “If it doesn’t come true, it’s my fault, or my uncle’s, and that’s the same thing.”