Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER XXV

  A PREHISTORIC HEARTH

  When Stephens took his way through the moonlight, carrying the spadebefore him on the saddle, his heart was lighter than it had been fordays. He was so used to living alone that this novel experience of beingconstantly in the company of others, night and day, withoutinterruption, ever since the hour when he had rescued Josefa from thecacique, had tired him out. Also he disliked the sense of having othersdependent on him, and during the whole of that time he had been burdenedwith responsibility, first for Josefa and then for the Mexican girl. Atlast, thank goodness, that was all over and done with. Josefa was securein Reyna's keeping, and Manuelita was safe at home, while Mahletonkwahad been paid his money and dismissed; now John Stephens was his own managain, and not bound to see after other people's affairs any longer. Hecould go about his proper business by himself in his own independentway, and that was precisely what he liked better than anything else inthe world. As for this matter of finding and burying the dead man'sbones, it was one for which he was answerable to nobody but himself. Ofhis own free will and pleasure he had decided that it should be done,and, accordingly, here he was doing it. And what a useful pretext ithad supplied him with for getting away from the fuss and flummery at SanRemo. When he thought of those two stout, elderly dames falling upon himlike a pair of animated feather-beds, and giving him their blessing, hefelt weak; what a mercy he had this excuse of the burial to help himescape from it all! And then his mind reverted to Manuelita sittingthere in the midst of the fuss, her eyes bright as ever in spite offatigue and of the tears of joy she had shed at getting home, her cheekspink with excitement, and her lively tongue going sixteen to the dozen.Was he, after all, so particularly glad to be off by himself once more?He hated a mob of people on principle, but was he so particularly gladto get away from her? Well, come to think of it, in a manner he was, andyet, again, he wasn't. Looking at it in one way, he wouldn't care muchto be planted down there again in that crowded room with those cousinsand aunts all round her, but suppose, now, that he had her once againwith him up here in the sierra, alone together the two of them. Hethought of how they had watched over one another, turn about, in thecamp, and how she had mocked at his simple cookery, and the fun they hadreally had with one another. What a good time it had been; and yet whenhe was having it, so it seemed to him now, he had not been aware of thefact. Perhaps he had been too anxious about her then to realise it, butit was God's truth all the same, and they had had a good time. What wasmore, he knew it now and no mistake, and he wondered how it had comeabout that it was so good. By George! but he did wish he had her alongright here and now, she riding on the horse, with him running alongsidejust as he had done that afternoon. She was good to talk to, and nomistake, and when he pointed things out to her and told her about them,everything seemed to have an unwonted zest which was lacking now in herabsence, although he was riding over the very same ground he hadtraversed with her only a few hours ago. Every turn in the trailrecalled to his mind something he had said to her or she had said tohim. And how they had laughed, to be sure! He sighed at the recollectionwithout having the least idea that he sighed, but he did not shake offthe idea of how good it would be to have her with him. Strange to say hebegan to discover that he did not seem to quite care for his own companyas he used to do. Unconsciously he lost himself in a reverie, until hishorse stumbled over a stone, and he jerked the rein and struck himindignantly with the spur.

  And all the time Felipe, with the revolver in his belt, was tracking himlike a sleuth-hound.

  Stephens reached the camp where they had passed the night in the littlepark, and the recollection of it all came back vividly; he rememberedhow startled he had been when she woke him, and he had sprung up withhis rifle cocked, ready to shoot; he remembered his surprise andpleasure at seeing how neat and trim she had made herself while heslept, in spite of all the rough and discomposing experiences herinvoluntary journey had involved. "Grit! Yes, by George! she had lots ofit, sure; and endurance too. She was just about as brave as they make'em."

  Through the little park he passed, and out of it again on the otherside. Now he must begin to think about his destination; somewhere alonghere he meant to turn off to the left in order to cut in upon the headof that little canyon where he had killed the deer. That would savequite a lot of travelling. There was a good moon, and there was no needto retrace the whole trail back to the exact spot where he had fired theshot. "If I only had Faro along now," he said, "he could take me to theplace where I killed the deer, blindfold, if I wanted him to." But Farowas far away at Don Nepomuceno's; he was a little footsore after thelong journey he had made, so his master left him behind under the careof Manuelita. After a time Stephens noticed a favourable place forturning off among the pines, at what he judged would be about the rightdistance to strike the canyon. He wheeled his horse sharp to the left,and pushed steadily on over the carpet of pine-needles in the newdirection.

  And Felipe, following ever like a sleuth-hound, here overran the trackjust as did Backus half an hour later. But, unlike Backus, the acuterIndian boy had not overrun it many minutes before his quick instinctstold him what he had done; he at once retraced his steps, and quicklysucceeded in finding the place where Stephens had wheeled so sharp. Hefollowed this new direction through the pines for a little way, but thehorse-tracks on the dry pine-needles were practically invisible atnight, and he soon became conscious that he had lost them, and that itwas doubtful whether he could succeed in recovering them again.Nevertheless, with the tireless determination of his race, hepersevered, more like a hound than ever as he quested now to right andnow to left and now making a bold cast forward, in the hope that by alucky chance he might stumble upon them. He passed thus through the beltof pine timber and out into the open park country beyond it. But castingabout for a lost trail at night is a slow business, and the moon wasalready low in the west when his eye ranging around caught the light ofa fire against a distant cliff. "That must be he," cried the boy,grasping the pistol with his left hand; "I'll get him now."

  * * * * *

  Stephens had a good eye for country; he had judged his distancecorrectly, and he hit the head of the little canyon he was searching forwith singular accuracy. The country that he had here got into wasbeautifully open and park-like, only with some rough, rocky ridgesintersecting it here and there, and he searched around freely andeasily, keeping the moon on his left hand. Through the mountain gladeshe wandered, in the bright, mysterious light which seems so clear andyet which shows nothing as it really is.

  "Rather a fool trick of mine, this night-work," said he, as his eyeshunted in vain for any sign of what he had come to seek. "I reckonlikely I'll have to camp till morning, and then, maybe, if his bones arelying anywhere round here, I'll manage to find them." He drew reinirresolutely on the margin of a park-like expanse of undulating meadowlarger than any he had seen yet.

  "Hullo! what's that under the Lone Pine in the middle of the meadow?" Amagnificent solitary pine-tree stood there in the moonlight, toweringaloft, and at its foot a dark, square object appeared.

  "Why, it looks like a house in this light," he said; "but it can'thardly be one neither." He turned his horse's head towards it and rodenearer. "It's a house, by George! A house up here! No, I'm blessed if itis. It is only a rock, but it's mighty like one all the same. Hullo!here's a queer thing lying close to the foot of it; looks like an oldcarcass of some sort or other. By George! but it's a dead horse." Hereined up and the animal he bestrode snorted at the strange object. Itwas the dried shell of a horse, so to speak; the wolves and theeagle-hawks had taken the flesh and the inside portions, but theskeleton had remained intact, and so, too, had the hide. In that pure,dry air the skin, instead of decaying, had become hard and stiff, andclung to the ribs and bony framework still. He could see now that hismistake in taking the rock for a house was a very pardonable one in thatdeceptive light, for it was much the size of an ordinary adobe cottage,and it rose square and
abrupt from the level, grassy ground. He threwhis head back, and his eyes sought the top of the noble pine whosetowering head seemed to strike against the stars.

  "Well, that's the finest tree I ever saw outside of California," saidthe prospector.

  He undid the lariat and dismounted, spade in hand.

  "Dead horses aint exactly common objects hereabouts," said he. "If thisone owned such a thing as a boss when he was alive, perhaps his bossmight be lying hereabouts, too."

  It was a shrewd guess, and as he stepped round the corner of the rock itwas instantly verified. The body of the man lay there, stiff and driedlike that of his beast. The clothing seemed to have partly protected thetrunk and limbs from the birds of prey, but the white skull shone bareand ghastly. The long boots proclaimed him an American.

  "Here's my man, sure enough," said Stephens, as he leaned on the spadeand looked down at the remains. "Think of him getting rubbed out likethis all alone up here in the mountains. No one's ever been near himsince, I guess. I wonder who he was?"

  He went back to the dead horse and looked over it once more. There wereiron shoes on the forehoofs. "That's another proof, if one were wanted,of his owner being an American," he said. "Perhaps I could find hisbrand." He struck a match and held it close to the animal's quarter, butthe skin there had been rent and frayed by the wild things that haddevoured the meat, and he could not distinguish it.

  "Saddle's gone, I see," he added, "and bridle and saddle blanket, andhobbles, if he had them round his neck, and every mortal thing. It's awonder they left the horseshoes. These accursed Navajos haven't anyscruple about stripping a dead horse. It's only a dead man that they'reso scared about touching."

  He went back to the corpse and looked at it a second time. "Gun's gone,"he said, "but that's of course. And they didn't need to touch him whenhe was dead to get it, for, according to the way Mahletonkwa told it,they got his gun from him when he was alive. Pistol's gone, too, I see.Likely they got that off him living, before they shot him with his owngun. They couldn't take the clothes off him till he was dead, and sothey preferred to leave them on him. Wish I knew who he was." He casthis eyes around. "Here's where he stood 'em off," he went on, looking ata tiny, stone-built enclosure, barely big enough to hold three people atonce, that nestled against one side of the high rock, where it overhung."That's the place he chose, sure. That's one of those cubby-holes thoseold cliff-dwellers used to put up under the rocks all about the country;I guess they used them to shelter in when they were out on guard. Itwasn't a bad notion of this poor chap to get in there, but thoseinfernal Navajos got away with him all the same--cunning devils thatthey are! Well, I might as well dig his grave right here."

  He passed his horse's lariat round the enormous bole of the great LonePine and made him fast. Then choosing a place between the mighty roots,that anchored it like cables to the ground, he set to work with a will,and soon had the narrow last resting-place sunk in the soft black earth.He threw down the spade, and went to lift the light burden of theremains. "Perhaps I'd better look in his pockets first and see ifthere's anything to identify him by," he said. The weather-worn clothes,threadbare from summer rains and winter snows, lay light over the hollowbreast, as he felt in the pocket and drew out a small book. He openedit; it was weather-stained, but not rotten. The moonlight was so brighthe could almost have read the writing by it, but he struck a match tomake sure. A name was inscribed on the first page. "Holly K. Fearmaker,1869." There was no address. "Never heard of him before. I wonder wherehe was from?" He tried the other pockets; there was nothing save somebits of string. "If he owned a purse I reckon some Navajo scoundrel hasgot it now," said Stephens. "There's nothing, I don't believe, thatMahletonkwa would stick at for cash."

  He lifted the remains tenderly, and placed them in the grave, gatheringup all that he could find; then he shovelled the rich black mould of themountain meadow on them, and heaped a little mound, and replaced thegrassy sods on top. He leaned on the spade and looked down at hishandiwork.

  "What was it I seem to remember it saying, in the book that youngEnglishman had along in the San Juan district last summer, and loaned meto copy a piece out of? There was a verse that I liked, about the bodyof a man being like a tent. Yes, I've got it now--

  "'T is but a tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes--and prepares it for another guest.'

  This grass will send its roots down to where you lie, pard; and it'llgrow stronger as your bones grow rotten; and then the blacktail deer andthe elk will graze over your head and fatten on the grass; and then,maybe I myself, or maybe some other lone prospector just like you or me,will happen along and shoot the elk or the deer, and the wheel comesfull circle. Well, so long, old man, and sleep sound."

  He went to the tree and unfastened the lariat from the hole. Then hestooped to pick up the spade which lay beside the new-made mound. As hedid so his eye was caught by a little fragment of rock that lay by it,which had been thrown out in sinking the grave. Mechanically he pickedit up, and its weight at once revealed to his practised experience thatit was a mineral of some kind. He slipped it into his pocket and led hishorse over to the big rock. "It does look rather like an outcrop," hesaid, as he carelessly knocked off a few small specimens with the angleof the spade. He had done this so many hundred times before, that hepocketed them almost without interest, as a matter of habit, and set offin the direction of the trail. Before very long he came to a stop.

  The meadow was bounded by a low cliff, which, farther down, became thewall of the canyon where he had killed the deer. It was not more thanabout twenty or thirty feet high, but it was perpendicular, in placeseven overhanging, and blocked his way absolutely. He turned to the rightalong it in order to find where he might cross it. The cliff faced southand west, and the bright light of the moon made every detail distinct.Before he had gone far the opening of another little cubby-hole showeddark on a ledge of the moonlit cliff, which was overhung by theprojecting brow above. Then there came half a dozen of them closetogether. Then the ledge broadened and ran inwards in a softer stratumof the cliff face, so that a whole row of little houses were built alongit. The ledge was ten or twelve feet up the cliff face, so that thehouses could only have been approached by ladders, while the overhangingcliff brow afforded them absolute protection from above.

  "By George!" he said, "this must be the old pueblo I've heard of asbeing up here in the mountain; they say the Aztecs used to live herebefore the days of Montezuma."

  The ledge ceased presently, and here there were rooms absolutely carvedout of the living rock itself. Nor were these aloft in air like theformer ones; it seemed as if the people who had evolved the idea ofbuilding their houses like swallows' nests under the eaves, forsecurity, had gained confidence and come boldly down to the level of theground. He looked into one, and struck a match; it was just a littlesquare room with a doorway, all cut out of solid rock. The floor wasbare rock too. "Lots of cheap labour going when they made houses likethat," he said. "There must have been a whole heap of folks living hereonce."

  Farther on there were the remains of stone houses built on the ground,close to, or against, the cliff face. "Thick as bees they must havebeen," he said; "I'd no sort of idea there had been such a vast numberof them. It must have been a regular swarmery of Indians."

  He went on half a mile or more, and the buildings were continuous eitheron the ground or upon the ledge, which ran right along. They were almostall square or oblong in plan, but here and there at intervals appearedone that was round and of a sort of beehive form. These were oldestufas. "I've a good mind to camp here," he said, "and see what thisplace looks like by daylight. I never had the least notion there was somuch of it. Some of those scientific chaps at the Smithsonian ought tobe told about this. I bet it's the oldest thing in the United States."

  He stopped before one of the ancient cave-dwellings. It was not one ofthose excavated entirely out of the rock, for her
e there was a naturalcave on the ground level. Across the front of this a wall had beenbuilt, enclosing the space behind it as a dwelling-room, but the wallhad been partly broken down by time. In the angle where the wall joinedthe rock there was a fireplace. Close by, an external house had beenbuilt as a sort of lean-to against the rock face, with a roof supportedby beams that had now fallen in.

  "I guess I'll just move in and take possession," he said as he looked atthe cave-dwelling, and, suiting the action to the word, he stripped thesaddle from his horse and put it inside, and then led him out in themeadow to picket him.

  He returned to where he had left his saddle; he could see by themoonlight the fallen roof-beams of the outside house lying confusedlyhere and there. The roof had been of clay, but this had all washed downand now was indistinguishable from the floor, while the layers ofbrushwood that had supported it had crumbled into dust. But the primevalrafters of enduring pitch-pine were still mostly sound.

  Entering the cave-dwelling, where he had put his saddle, his eye wascaught by the old fireplace; it was still blackened with the flame ofthe fire that had so long ago been quenched, and still there lay visibleon the hearth, cold and black, the dead embers that had once been liveand glowing coals of fire.

  "I wonder how many centuries it is since those were live coals?" hesaid. "I've heard say the old, old Aztecs used to live up north here inthese deserted mountain pueblos and cliff-dwellings before ever theywent south and built the City of Mexico. And they'd been living downthere, so I've heard, for ages and ages before Cortes came along andslaughtered Montezuma. Why, it might be a thousand years since thisplace was inhabited."

  He looked at the dead embers with a fascinated gaze. To him, whoconsidered a mining camp of two years' duration quite old, who washimself one of the restless spirits who were busy making history, thehistory of the New West, the prehistoric hearth came with a strangeappeal.

  "I'll rekindle it," he said; "I will so; I'd like to warm my hands at afire that's a thousand years old maybe. Those old rafters out there willdo well to burn." He stepped round to the ruined house. "I wonder ifthere's any snakes hiding among those fallen stones?" He struck a matchonce more, and looked round in likely corners and crevices, but no signof any reptile appeared; he dragged out a couple of rafters and carriedthem in and placed their ends in the fireplace; he broke with a heavystone another one that had partly rotted, and got some splinters out ofthe sounder part and soon had a fire going. He watched the dead emberscatch and glow red from the blaze.

  "Who'd have thought in all those hundreds of years," he said, "as theylay dead, that they'd ever jump to life again in one moment like this."His words pointed to the glowing coals, but he was thinking of the poorshell of a body that an hour before he had committed to the ground. Whocould believe that it might ever live again? and yet--some folks saidso.

  The fate of that lonely man had moved him deeply, more deeply by farthan he was conscious of, for it was the type of what his own was liketo be, to fall unfriended and alone in some remote ravine of a namelessrange. He thought of the pocket-book he had rescued, and drew it out.The fire blazed brightly now, and he could read by it easily. The noteswere casual jottings--entries of cash expended--notes of an arrangementwith another man to meet and mine together--the brand of a horsepurchased, and the price set down, eighty-five dollars--Winchestercartridges, two and a half dollars.

  "That's clear enough evidence that he had a Winchester," commentedStephens; "all right, then; practically that settles it. He's the man,sure, those cursed Navajos joked about killing with his own gun. Hullo!what's this? Mahletonkwa's name, as I'm alive!" He rapidly ran his eyeover a page of close writing. "Why, he's got it all down thatMahletonkwa brought him up here to show him a silver mine, and thentreacherously left him, and that then he was attacked by Indians; hedoesn't say what Indians, poor beggar; but you bet I know who theywere. Here's his last entry. 'I've stood them off now for six hours,and if they don't get me before night, maybe I'll make the riffle andget away.' It was after he'd written that that they wounded him and hesurrendered to them, and they had their little game with him, the sonsof guns! But that's their way; cruelty and cunning are bred in theirbones. They've been doing things like that for a good deal more than athousand years, I guess, and they've kind of got into the habit of it.But I'd like to pay them out all the same. It's that Mahletonkwa's bandare the guilty ones, and I dare swear to it. Well, we'll see. I've giventhem no amnesty for this. We'll see."

  He sat there, quite still, in a fierce and moody silence. He was sostill that a rattlesnake in the stones behind him pushed his flat,venomous head out of a crevice, and looked at him for quite a long time,and then drew it in again and retired. "Leave me alone and I'll leaveyou alone," was the snake's motto. He had no wrongs to avenge.

  Unconscious of this silent observer of his reverie, the American allowedhimself to indulge for a while in wild, fanciful dreams of revenge forthe murder of his fellow-countryman; then he pulled himself up short.

  "I'm not really called upon to punish them," he said, "and I won't thinkabout it. It only makes me angry, and I hate to be angry and donothing." He raised himself up, moved the ends of the burning raftersfarther into the fireplace, and the flames blazed up freshly.

  "Kit Carson used to be mighty careful about looking into the camp-fireat night," he said. "He always used to sit well away from the blaze,with his eyes towards the darkness, so that if anything happened hecould see with them at once, without having to wait till they had gotaccustomed to it. But then there was always war going on, and alwaysdanger, when he used to be around in this part of the country. I'venever felt shy about sitting by a camp-fire up in this sierra, and thereaint no reason that I know of why I should."

  He rose and straightened himself up to his full height, and stretchedout his arms as a relief after sitting so still. "I might as well take alook round, though," he said, "and see if that horse is all right. Idon't know his tricks, and he might tangle himself up in hispicket-rope." He strolled out to where he had fastened him, and madesure that he was all right. As he turned to come back again, he sawsomething on the ground that caught the fire-light and shone like ajewel. He stooped to pick it up. It was an obsidian arrowhead.

  "Volcanic glass," said the miner,--expert as he was inminerals,--critically turning it over and over in his fingers, "and mostbeautifully chipped. This is a piece of real high-class ancient Indianwork. Now, I wonder if that arrow belonged to one of those old Aztecpueblo folks, or if it was one shot at them by some wild Indian. Thewild Indians were enemies of the house-people then, same as now."

  His imagination took fire as he looked at this relic of ancient strife.The long procession of the centuries unrolled itself before his mind'seye, and he beheld the secular struggle for life of tribe against tribe.Those old pueblo builders, cultivators of corn, house-folk, had alwaysbeen at odds with their nomad brethren, the hunters of the wild wood andthe plains; yet generation after generation, they had gone on beingborn, growing up, marrying, and begetting a new generation to succeedthem, and passing away either in battle for their little community orpeacefully by their own hearth. This fire-blackened, clay-plasteredangle of the wall, to what unending succession of house-mothers andhouse-fathers did it not speak? He looked at it with a sort ofreverence. The flickering light of the flames, rekindled by him, aliensuccessor as he was of those ancient folk, lit up every detail of thesurface. In places the clay daubed on there so many centuries ago lookedas fresh as if it had been done last year. Here and there he could seethe very finger-marks of the woman who had plastered it; for among theIndians this was ever the task of the women, as he knew very well. Yes,and, by George! there in one spot, low down, was the handprint of a tinychild in the plaster; the little one had been playing beside its mother,and had stuck its hand against the wall while the clay was wet. Astrange emotion struck through him at the sight. It was as if the littlehand had reached out to him across the years and touched his own. Thefire he had kindled on this cold hearth
seemed like a sort of altarflame, in memory of the love that had once made this little abode asacred place.

  Like a flash it came across his mind that this was what he had blindlysacrificed during all these long years of his wanderings--the joys ofhome; the sweet domesticities of wife and child. He knew them not;aloof, solitary, self-contained, he had coldly held himself outside thecircle of all that was best in life. Why? To what end? For the sake ofphantom gold; for the sake of a visionary fortune which he might nevertouch; for the sake of being able to build, some distant day, a fanciedhome away back there in the States. It was all a dream. Ten of the bestyears of his life had gone in the vain effort. Ten more might go aseasily and as futilely. And then! OLD AGE! He saw it all now; and now itwas no imaginary shadow-wife--dim, vague, and unsubstantial--that hisheart went out to; it was she, the real, living, breathing creature offlesh and blood that he had played with and talked to; that he hadrescued in her trouble, and restored to her parents; she whose sweeteyes met his with a certain demand. With a rush it came over him thatshe was what he needed; that he wanted to make her happy, and that hemust do it by making her his own. He was amazed at his own blindness andhardness of heart. Was he too late? Could he have missed his chance? No,no; not that! But he would lose no time. He knew now what he must say toher, and the quicker he did it the better. With a joyful sense ofanticipation he saw himself already at her side, pouring into her earthe tale of his loneliness and his love. He sprang to his feet at thethought, eager to start. As he rose to his full height there was adeafening bang close to his right ear, a blinding flash, and the burningbreath of gunpowder scorched his cheek. Some murderer had fired at himfrom a yard off!