The Discovery of the Mine

Two weeks later another crowd was organized to do a day’s work on the cabin, and it seemed every boy in the Department wanted to go. “Unless you feel as husky as a steam elevator, you better stay home,” was Ham’s advice to one small boy, for Ham had been chairman of the committee that had been so busy since the last trip, purchasing all manner of supplies, equipment, and building material for the cabin, all of which would have to be packed over from Fairview on donkeys, and there was nearly a carload of it. Ham was under the impression that the donkeys would fall dead when they saw the “pile of junk,” and that every single fellow in the crowd would have to “wiggle his ears, bray once or twice, and get busy,” if the cabin ever became the possessor of the new equipment.

Twenty fellows besides the “Chief” and Mr. Dean were on hand at the appointed time. At the mouth of the canyon two very faithful old donkeys, that had years before belonged to a prospector, were rented for the trip. Under their former master they had been trained to carry heavy loads of ore from the little mine far back in the mountains out to the city, and to return again heavily laden with the provisions for another winter in camp. They had learned their lessons well, so were perfectly trustworthy.

Peanuts was the oldest, and therefore came in for the most consideration and the lightest load. As he raised his tired, patient old head, his long gray ears pointed forward at the sight of the pack saddles. One glance and he was satisfied. He perfectly understood what was coming, and visions of the long, zigzag paths through shaded valleys all fresh from the summer showers flashed through his brain. Peanuts loved the trail, the deep, long, grassy trail, that crept along close to the little stream, then up and up into the great Silent Places. Tradition told that Peanuts had been the first donkey to carry a pack up Pike’s Peak, as well as the first to bring real “high grade” out of the Cripple Creek; but of course tradition might have been mistaken. At any rate, Peanuts was a gentle, slow, patient toiler of the trail, and it was largely due to his good judgment that the cabin was ever equipped.

Many were the trips he made after that first journey. There were summer trips in the hot sun of July days; autumn trips in the cool, sweet-scented evenings when the mountain twilight lingers on the treetops and the rocky crests. There were trips in the winter when the trail was hidden underneath heavy blankets of snow or lost in the deep white drifts. Once he had gone in beyond his depth and had settled down and down into the fluffy snow until just his head and big ears were visible above the snowbank.

His companion, Tuberculosis, was a little different type of beast. His legs were long and his spirits high. He was in the prime of life and was not as trustworthy as his partner. Certainly Tuberculosis had his idiosyncrasies, and that fact often spelled trouble for both himself and his masters. Now, Peanuts had learned that his driver was always boss, and acted accordingly; but not so with Tuberculosis. He believed that his own judgment in certain matters of conduct was best. For instance, it was absolutely against his principles to ever cross a stream, no matter how well it was bridged or how insignificant its size. Yet, after many experiences, seasoned with a little strenuous persuasion from the end of an alder limb, he began slowly to change his views. However, he positively had no use for burned stumps, and when it came to passing a campfire, Tuberculosis absolutely declined. There was just one thing that both donkeys very firmly believed, and that was that each was to lead and the other follow when on the trail. This was the only point upon which they really ever quarreled, and most every time Peanuts, because of his mature judgment and statesmanship, won out.

When the pack saddles were on, and the pack bags of food adjusted on either side, the blanket rolls piled high on top, they were ready to begin the journey, “Donkeys are a good deal like some men,” observed Ham as the little column came to the base of the hogsback, “they always have to travel by freight.”

“How is that?” questioned Willis, who had appointed himself guardian to Peanuts and was just ahead of Ham.

“Why, because they can’t express themselves,” was the reply.

“Not verbally, perhaps,” suggested Fat, “but they do have a signal code, of which their hind legs are the main features. I’ve had them signal at me more than once.”

“And if you ever receive the completed message,” added Ham, “it usually says, ‘Six weeks in the hospital.’”

At the top of the hogsback the party separated into two groups. The one under Mr. Allen continued on up the trail with the two donkeys, while the other, under Mr. Dean, took the railroad, walking around by Fairview, to see if their equipment had arrived.

It was decided the boys would sleep around a rousing fire rather than on the cold floor of the cabin. The shakedown was too dry to be comfortable, and Ham’s aerial bunk had not yet been completed. They therefore chose a spot for the night’s camp across the stream from the cabin on a piece of high level ground covered with a thick brown carpet of pine needles. Very soon a bright fire was burning and the night’s wood gathered. From the bulging packsacks a real camp supper was gotten under way. Every fellow cooked his own piece of meat and baked his potato in the coals, while Mr. Allen made the coffee and opened the cans of beans. Each fellow fashioned himself a spoon from a dry stick, and the new cabin tincups were initiated into service. Ham, who had had some previous experience with donkeys, warned everybody to be sure to save all the scraps, for beans, rye bread, or beefsteak were all dainties to the faithful animals.

One of the fellows had brought his mouth-organ, and under his leadership they sang every song from “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” to “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” When the fire had had time to work its wonders on the hearts and spirits of the campers, Mr. Allen suggested a few stories. Of course, he just voiced what was in the minds of many others, for who ever heard of a campfire, a grand night, a happy crowd, and no stories? Such a situation was inconceivable. Every fellow looked forward to the campfire because of the stories, and remembered the stories because of the campfire. They were inseparable. Mr. Dean opened the program. One story suggested another, and that one another, until nearly every one in the circle had told a story except Ham. Willis told Indian legends of the great Kankakee Swamp and of the disappearance of the Pottawattomie Indians. Another told of a wonderful trip through Yellowstone Park; another of a deer hunt in Routt County; and still another of a mountain goat expedition in the Canadian Rockies. All the while Ham lay flat on his back, shading his face from the fire with his hands, and looking up at the stars. He was reveling in the spirit of the fire and of the night.

“What are you dreaming about, Ham?” called Willis from the other side of the fire, to which Ham made no reply.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Fat, as he rolled over, facing Ham, and punched him in the ribs.

“Nothing special,” drawled Ham as he rose to a sitting position and drew his legs up under him. “I’ve just been listening. Your stories have been the words to the music that is in the air to-night. I love to lie still before a fire and listen to its music. I never realized before how many out-of-door noises are liberated when a pile of dry sticks are burned. That old fire has just been singing all the imprisoned songs of the forest wild to-night, and giving out again in its little flames a hundred thousand tons of absorbed sunshine.”

“Ham, let’s have the Pike’s Peak story,” urged Mr. Dean; but Ham only laughed.

“Yes, let’s do,” begged Willis.

“What’s the Pike’s Peak story?” inquired Sleepy from his place against an old stump.

“Well, if every one of you fellows will promise to never mention it again to me,” said Ham hesitatingly; “but I’m not going to tell you all the details just the plot remember that!” He settled himself comfortably and began:

“The three of us had been in the habit of taking long Sunday afternoon tramps in the mountains, but because of the cold weather we had been pretty well shut in all winter. The snowfall for the season had been heavy and the cold, especially in the mountains, had been intense. It was the eighth of March, I think, and the very first signs of spring had just put in their appearance. We decided that we would walk to the Half-Way House on the Cog Road, or at least as far as we could. We didn’t know how much snow there was, or where it began, but we were all feeling good and anxious for another real hike. We were all three dressed in our Sunday clothes, and I was the proud possessor of a new spring suit and a pair of low shoes. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when we started up the track from Manitou; by five o’clock we reached the Half-Way House, and much to our surprise found the keeper there. We had encountered very little or no snow that far on the track, and, as the days were getting longer, we knew we had two good hours yet before dark. We inquired of the inn keeper how far the track was open, and he informed us that it was clear as far as Windy Point, that there the great ice sheets began. There is always more snow on the great south shoulder of the Peak than anywhere else. You remember Son-of-a-Gun Hill? Well, we decided that we would push on to the top of Son-of-a-Gun, then come back. We left the Half-Way House and started up the track. The walking was fine on that flat stretch just after you leave the inn, and we covered space very rapidly. At the bottom of the great hill, in a grove of young aspens, we stopped and cut us some walking sticks.

“If it had been summer, and the snow and ice gone, we would probably have noticed that there was a terrible storm gathering in the valley back of Cameron’s Cone; but with the range all white and dreary we did not notice it. You fellows who have lived here near the mountain know that a storm often rises up there as if by magic. They come so quickly you often wonder where they came from. Of course, being directly in the shadow of Pike’s Peak, the sun went down very early, and our twilight was not as long as we anticipated. I was the first to notice the cold breeze that had sprung up, and I remarked about it; but we were walking fast and were really too much interested in reaching the edge of the snow to pay much attention to anything. Suddenly it grew dark and the wind increased. In less than ten minutes we were in the midst of a howling mountain blizzard and the snow was being driven before the wind at a terrific speed. John suggested turning back, but Al and I were for pushing on, thinking it was just a squall, and, as it seemed to be headed straight down the canyon, we thought we would soon get above it. John insisted that we were crazy, but we made all manner of fun of him, so on we went.

“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ sometimes. That is just what we did. We walked on in silence as fast as we could for half an hour. Then we stopped and held a parley. We suddenly awoke from our little dream of foolishness and began to realize that instead of getting out of that storm, we had gotten into it. Up there on that great mountain side we could not see ten feet in any direction. Above us and around us was a raging sea of frozen pellets. The snow was drifting along the track, and in some places it was already completely hidden. Night was coming, and there was no shelter from the swirling winds. In number of miles we were a good deal nearer the summit of the Peak than we were home, and somewhere ahead of us was the old printing station. We would make for it and its shelter it would be foolish to expose ourselves to the storm by returning in the open valley. Then, too, we might lose our way and slip into the canyon below. We fought on bravely in the dark until finally the wind went down a little and the snow grew soft and wet. Our shoes were wet through and our bodies completely chilled, yet we could not find the printing station. Had we passed it, or was it still ahead. We differed in our opinions.

“Finally the snow ceased, and we could see about us a little by the reflected light. We spied a few straggly trees and made for them, for we were just at timber line. We found a great tree that had blown over, and, breaking limbs from its prostrate trunk, we built a large fire and sat on the log to dry our feet. We were now very keenly alive to our situation, and knew it was becoming serious. We suddenly realized that our only safety depended on the locating of that old printing station. Our shoes were so wet and our feet so cold that the leather burned before we knew it; but, as a real matter of fact, we didn’t realize how badly they were burned until an hour later, when the shoes began to crack away in bits and the uppers to rip open along the seams.

“We reached the great snowbanks. The track and roadbed was buried deep. The last straggling trees were far behind. We stood on a great white waste of snow, thirty feet in depth, not a landmark to be seen. If the station was ahead, it was buried; if it was behind, we had missed it. With that realization our spirits fell, for to turn back now meant certain death. Then, to add to our danger, it had begun to turn fearfully cold that kind of a clear, steady cold that comes only in the mountains, when the thermometer drops twenty-five degrees below zero and the air cuts like a knife, while your nostrils freeze together when you breathe. At the fire we had tied handkerchiefs over our ears and tied strings around our trouser legs to keep the wind and snow out.

“Every little while we sat down and pounded our feet with our walking sticks to keep up the circulation. At last we came to about two feet of a telephone pole sticking up through the snowbank. We knew then that we were off the road and were high up on the mountain. Luckily for us, the snowbanks were so heavily crusted that they held us up without breaking through. John suggested a plan: We would follow the post ends to the Summit House; in that way we could not get lost. Two of us would stop at the tip of one post, while the other, usually John, would push on to find the next one. When it was located he would call and we would go to him. Just how long we traveled in that manner I do not know. It seemed days, but, of course, it was only a brief time. Often I was positive that the posts were at least a half a mile apart. My shoes were so badly cracked at the seams that my feet grew very numb with the cold, and before long I knew I was freezing.

“Time and again we thought we heard something coming over the snow behind us. The air was clear as a bell, and, as we pushed on, this sound frightened us more and more. Our imaginations began to play strange pranks. I remember that I was too frightened to even move, so sometimes I would just stand shivering and listening. We hardly spoke a word. By and by the time came when I was too cold to leave my post for the next one. I just put my arms about it and begged the fellows not to wait for me, but to go on and save themselves; to dig a hole in the snow and leave me in it. But John, dear old John, refused and, putting his arm about me, he dragged me on and on. He tried to make me angry by striking me, and warned me not to go to sleep or I would freeze. But I told him I must sleep, for my feet and legs were numb and my arms and shoulders ached with sharp pains; then I cried like a baby. Soon Al began to play out also, and John plead with him not to give up. Al took me by one arm and John the other, and together they fairly dragged me over the snow.

“When we least expected it, we stumbled over the steps that led to the Summit House. In a few moments we were at the door, but I was helpless. The summit was completely buried, except at one end, where the wind had kept it clear. John hastily examined the windows, only to find that every opening was securely covered with an iron shutter. We were lost! I heard John muttering to himself; then he slipped his fingers under the bottom of the shutter, braced his feet, and pulled with a superhuman strength the strength of a last hope. With a creak the shutter gave at its fastenings, then bent in the middle, and slipped out. He then knocked out the double window with his elbow and soon had me inside.

“We found candles in a jar, and there was a great wood stove in the room, but no fuel. He didn’t hesitate, but went to the counter, removed the shelves from it, and, with a meat cleaver which lay on the table, he cut the shelves, and we soon had a fire. We heard sounds outside, and realized that the something we had heard behind us on the snow was at the window. We were conscious of a presence without being able to see it. John went to the broken window and looked out, but he could see nothing. Soon we heard stealthy steps back and forth on the flat roof above. He barricaded the window, brought snow on the end of a board, and rubbed my face, feet, and legs with it, then wrapped me in tablecloths which he found in the cupboard. Several times he brought a great armful of shelves from the storeroom and cut them up for the stove.

“As soon as the fire was started, Al lay down on the floor and fell into a heavy sleep. We could not waken him, and it frightened us badly. John began to cry, and I think if it had not been for the constant pacing back and forth of the strange animal on the roof we would all have given up. Soon the first streaks of dawn began to show themselves, and with the light the pacing on the roof stopped. John climbed up the tower steps and peered out just in time to see the animal jump from the roof and disappear.

“The house was fairly overrun with rats that scampered in every direction. I thought I had seen rats, mountain rats, but I had never seen any like those. They were so bold we were afraid to sleep, for they were large enough to be dangerous.

“When Al awoke he was very sick and weak. John found a big tin box in the kitchen, and in it were coffee, grapenuts, and the remains of a ham. He melted snow for water, and got us a little breakfast. We were three pretty serious fellows, for we knew only too well how the folks at home would be worrying about us and how near we had come to freezing to death on that great mountain of snow and ice.

“After we had had breakfast, we made us crude snowshoes from the ends of grocery boxes, which we fastened to our feet with strings. Our shoes became hard when they dried, and it was only after painful effort that we got them on at all. We took the piece of ham, cooked the grease from it, and with this oiled our shoes as best we could. Traveling was very slow, for we were weak and sick, so it was nearly evening before we reached Manitou. There we met several rescue parties just starting to find us. I can shut my eyes and see them now. Some carried blankets and some food. Mr. Allen had a big red sweater on his arm and a coil of heavy rope hung from his shoulder. Old Ben was there, too, for they had sent word to him at Bruin Inn, inquiring if we were there, and when he found out we were lost he insisted on joining the rescue party. In fact, it was he that suggested that we had probably gone up Pike’s Peak. Ben and I have always been great friends ever since.

“We held out some way till we reached home, then we all three gave up. O, the awful sickness that followed and the pain of frozen feet! I was in bed nearly a month, and every time I slept I dreamed of that awful night. I came very near slipping off this earth then. Of course the newspapers made fools of us and all the fellows teased us nearly beyond endurance. It was only a few weeks later that an immense mountain lion was shot near the cabin on the carriage road. There you are, you have my story, now let’s forget it.”

Not a fellow moved. They all sat looking intently into the dying fire. After a few minutes Mr. Allen suggested a sleep, and before long the camp was quiet, each camper wrapped in his blanket and stretched full length on the ground.

Very early the next morning the transportation of equipment was begun. The entire party went over to Fairview to bring the first load of tin dishes, plates, cups, knives, forks and spoons, kettles, pots, frying-pans, sugar cans and so the list went on. The old shelves were removed from the blind end of the cabin and placed near the window in the other end. These were to serve as pantry shelves in the kitchen corner.

After breakfast was over one group returned to the car for another load, while Ham, with a helper, pushed forward the construction of the aerial bunk. The queer old shakedown was torn to pieces and the poles used for Ham’s bed, the rest of it was shoved out of the back door and set afire. On this load the stove came, two fellows supporting it on the pack-saddle of old Peanuts. It was set up near the window and a work table built at the end of it. Another set of shelves was made for the pantry, and soon all was in readiness at that end of the house. The old grub box was converted into a bread box, and the little old stove was set back in an out-of-the-way corner. It was, indeed, the passing of the old to give place to the new.

Tuberculosis seemed to enter completely into the spirit of the new, for he had walked calmly back and forth over the shaky old bridge which crossed the stream with load after load of shingles and sacks of cement and a thousand other things that were to have a place in the cabin. There were windows and a heavy pine door for the new room. There were axes and saws and hammers. There were buckets and lanterns and iron bars to put over the windows, and stove-pipe for the kitchen stove. Then, too, there was a grand old crane for the fireplace and the frame for a wire screen to keep the flying brands on the hearth. Not a thing that would be needed had been forgotten. It was a weary crowd of fellows that came slowly along the trail at noon with the last load of boards, hung on the sides of Peanuts’ saddle, the nails and hardware, packed in heavy canvas bags, loaded on Tuberculosis.

The aerial bunk was all completed before dinner time, except thatching it with balsam boughs, and all hands would help at that after the noon meal. Mr. Allen prepared the meal, and it was a real camp dinner. Could fellows ever have been so hungry before?

In the afternoon the rest of the old back veranda was demolished and cleared away. A large number of great, tall aspens, the choice of the grove, were cut, trimmed, and dragged in, in readiness for the new structure. It seemed that all the jays for miles around and all the squirrels in the valley came to investigate when they heard the crashing of the big trees and the merry sound of the axes. Great piles of balsam boughs were dragged down from the mountain side opposite the cabin. These were carefully trimmed before they were handed up to Ham, who was in the bunk doing the thatching. The early afternoon saw the completion of the fine, big bed big enough for five people; and as the fellows became too tired to work, the bunk became more and more popular. Every one was anxious to try it.

A heavy hasp was spiked to its place, and the cabin was put under lock and key for the first time. They had really taken possession of it it was theirs.

“It beats the Dutch how much that yard of stovepipe sticking out there adds to her looks,” observed Mr. Dean when the stove had been set up.

“It isn’t the stovepipe so much,” replied Chuck, “as it is the smoke coming out of it.”

“What pipe are you talking about?” inquired Sleepy as he dropped down out of the new bunk to inspect the work the others had been doing since noon. “Who’s smoking a pipe?” he persisted, not understanding the conversation.

“The cabin,” tersely remarked Chuck. “But it has to get warm before it can smoke, and it has to work before it can get warm. The cabin might teach you a lesson.”

Later in the afternoon there was a great commotion a little distance up the trail, and Mr. Allen hastened to investigate the shouting and sounds of chopping. To his great disgust he found Sleepy dealing heavy blows to an old pine tree with an ax while the perspiration was running down his face. He was prancing about in great excitement.

“What on earth?” questioned Mr. Allen.

“I’m trying to get a squirrel. I saw him up in this tree just a moment ago,” cried Sleepy.

“Is that all you can find to do to use up your energy?” asked Mr. Allen dryly. Sleepy looked at him sheepishly, then hung his head and slowly returned to the cabin, brought a pail of water from the stream, then crawled up into the bunk, out of sight.

By the time things were straightened around in the cabin so that the mason could build the fireplace it was time to be starting home, but every one was too tired from the day’s work. They decided they would rest in the cool shade for an hour before beginning the tramp down. It would then be twilight.

Willis took this occasion to do a little exploring on his own account. He had worked faithfully all day and was very tired, but he did so want to find his father’s mine before he went home this time. He slipped away unobserved and took the lower trail, which followed up to the remains of the second bridge, then climbed to the tumbled-down cabin they had found the first day. Here he took the trail that led far up into the timber. Finally he saw far up above him what appeared to be an old mine dump. Quickly he clambered up over rocks and rotting logs toward it, and in a few moments he stood on the dump itself, which was of hard black stone, with the exception of just a little quartz. He was sure it was the same kind of stone he had seen on the old mantle at his grandfather’s. The quartz was apparently the last stone dumped.

At one side stood an old mine shaft, perhaps fifty feet deep, with an ancient hand-made windlass still at the top. Then just to one side and entering the mountain was a great log door, put together with bolts. The lock was a strong powder-house lock, made of heavy brass. The place gave no appearance of having seen a man in many years. The hinges and hasp on the great door were heavily corroded, and an old metal wheelbarrow lay on the dump, rusted red. A tin sign fastened to a tree at the side of the tunnel had become a target for expert gunners. Willis tried the door, but could not force it a particle. Turning, he stood looking off into the canyon toward Cheyenne. “So this is the spot,” he mused; “and it has never been touched in these ten years. Poor old daddy, poor old daddy!” He leaned heavily against the log door, and his thoughts came thick and fast, only to conclude, as they always did, with, “Where is Tad Kieser and why does my uncle try to keep me away from this spot?”

He was standing where his father had stood many times, and the boy seemed to be very conscious of his presence just then. He wondered if, perhaps, there had not been something of just love for the place itself, as well as for the gold, which had drawn his father there so irresistibly. Such a spot for a long, quiet visit with one’s self! Below him the stream and the little cabin; to one side, and a little farther up, the beautiful falls, with Cookstove in the background; to the other side the park, all resplendent in yellow leaves, with here and there a tall pine standing like a green island in a sea of gently-moving gold. Far away over the ridge was the blue outline of Cheyenne with its stage road creeping round the base. He sat down to rest and to think. He was suddenly awakened from his dream by seeing Mr. Allen closing and locking the cabin door below him. He rose and hastened down the trail. In a few moments he had joined the party, but he kept silent about where he had been and what he had seen.

“You’ll have to let me in the cabin a moment, Mr. Allen,” he called; “I left my coat up in the bunk I forgot it.” The door was unlocked and Willis entered, hastily climbing the little ladder up the side of the wall to the bunk. It was dark in the cabin, for the sun had set. As he stepped into the bunk he touched something, then jumped back with an exclamation. Sleepy raised up on his elbow and looked about him. In a terror-stricken voice he called out, “Who are you?” Willis laughed so heartily that the fellows came hurrying into the cabin to see what occasioned it. Then followed a great deal of fun at Sleepy’s expense. Sleepy only hung his head and tried to act as if his feelings had been badly hurt.

“Dirty trick, after a fellow’s worked hard all day, to go and lock him in and start for home without him. I’d have starved in there, I suppose,” he said gloomily, “and no one would have cared.”

“I suppose you would,” laughed Ham, “for you would be too lazy to cook you a meal after you found the food. We’ll have to keep guard all the way home on Sleepy, fellows, or he’ll fall into some ravine and go to sleep. He worked so hard to-day, poor boy. I never did believe in this child labor business, anyway.”

The fellows took turn about riding the donkeys home, and a unique experience it was, for pack saddles are not the most comfortable seats in the world, especially for a tired boy. Ham gave practical demonstration until the others caught on, then he walked. They were all too tired to chat much, so just jogged along homeward, happy that another day’s work was done on the cabin.

“A few more like this trip and we will be ready to entertain,” called Mr. Dean.