by Anonymous
CHAPTER I
DICK STANLEY
"Look out! Look out! Behind you, man! Behind you! Jump quick, or he'llget you!"
It was a boy, a tall, spare, wiry young fellow of sixteen, who shoutedthis warning, his voice, in its frantic urgency, rising almost to ashriek at the end; and it was another boy, also tall, spare and wiry, towhom the warning was shouted. The latter turned to look behind him, andfor one brief instant his whole body stiffened with fear--his very hairstood on end. Nor is this a mere figure of speech: the boy's hair didactually stand on end: he could feel it "creep" against the crown of hishat. _I know_--for I was the boy!
That I had good reason to be "scared stiff" I think any other boy willadmit, for, not thirty feet below me, coming quickly and silently upthe rocks, his little gleaming eyes fixed intently upon me, was a grimold cinnamon bear, an animal which, though less dangerous than his bigcousin, the grizzly, is quite dangerous enough when he is thoroughly inearnest.
But for my companion's warning shout the bear would surely have caughtme, and my story would have come to an end at the very beginning of thefirst chapter.
It was certainly an awkward situation, about as awkward, I should think,as any boy ever got himself into; and how I, Frank Preston, lately aschoolboy in St. Louis, happened to find myself on a spur of MescaleroMountain, in Colorado, with a cinnamon bear charging up the rocks withina few feet of me, needs a word of explanation.
I will therefore go back a few steps in order to give myself space for apreliminary run before jumping head-first into my story, and will tellnot only how I came to be there, but will relate also the curiousincident which first brought me into contact with my future friend, DickStanley; an incident which, while it served as an introduction, at thesame time gave me some idea of the resourcefulness and promptness ofaction with which his very peculiar training had endowed him.
It was in the last week of October, 1877, that I was seated one eveningin my room in St. Louis, very busy preparing my studies for next day,when the door opened suddenly and in walked my Uncle Tom.
When, at the age of seven, I had been left an orphan, Uncle Tom, mymother's brother, though himself a bachelor, had taken charge of me, andwith him I had lived ever since. He and I, I am glad to say, were thebest of friends--regular chums--for, though twenty years my senior, heseemed in some respects to be as young as myself, and our relations weremore like those of elder and younger brother than of uncle and nephew.
Uncle Tom was rather short and rather fat, and he was moreover one ofthe jolliest of men, being blessed with a disposition which prompted himalways to see the bright side of things, no matter how dark andthreatening they might look. Having at a very early age been pitched outinto the world to "fend for himself," and having by square dealing andhard work done remarkably well, he had imbibed the idea thatbook-learning as a means of getting on in the world was somewhatoverrated; an idea which, right or wrong--and I think myself that UncleTom carried it rather too far--was to have a decided effect in shapingmy own career.
As it was against the rule, laid down by Uncle Tom himself, for any oneto disturb me at my studies, I naturally looked up from my books toascertain the cause of the intrusion, when, with a cigar in his mouthand his hands in his pockets, he came bulging in, half filling thelittle room.
That there was something unusual in the wind I felt sure, and myguardian's first act went far to confirm my suspicion, for, removing onehand from his pocket, he quietly reached forward and with his fingertilted my book shut.
"Put 'em away," said he. "You won't need them for a month or more."
As the fall term of school was then in full swing, this declaration wasa good deal of a surprise to me, as any one will suppose, and doubtlessI showed as much in my face.
"I have a scheme in my head, Frank," said he, with a knowing wag of thatmember, in reply to my look of inquiry.
"I know _that_," I replied, laughing; for there never was a moment whenUncle Tom had not a scheme in his head of one sort or another.
"You spider-legged young reptile!" cried he, with perfect good humor,but at the same time shaking a threatening finger at me. "Don't you dareto laugh at my schemes; especially this one. For this is a brand-newidea, and a very important one--to you. I'm leaving to-morrow night forColorado."
"Are you?" I cried, a good deal surprised by this sudden announcement."When did you decide upon that?"
"To-day. I got a letter this afternoon from my friend, Sam Warren, theassayer, written from Mosby--if you know where that is."
I shook my head.
"I didn't suppose you did," remarked Uncle Tom. "It is a new mining campon one of the spurs of Mescalero Mountain in Colorado, and in theopinion of Sam Warren--my old schoolmate, you know--it has a greatfuture before it. So he has written me that if I have the time to spareI had better come out and take a look at it."
Uncle Tom's business was that of a mining promoter, the middle manbetween the prospector and the capitalist, a business in which hisability and his honorable methods had gained for him an enviablereputation.
"So you have decided to go out, have you?" said I.
"Yes," he replied. "I leave to-morrow evening--and you are coming withme."
As may be imagined, I opened my eyes pretty widely at this unfolding ofthe "brand-new idea."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Look here, Frank, old chap," said he, seating himself on the edge ofthe table and becoming confidential. "You've stuck to your books verywell--if anything, too well. Now, I've had my eye on you ever since thehot weather last summer, and it strikes me you need a change--you aretoo pale and altogether too thin."
Being fat and "comfortable" himself, Uncle Tom was disposed to regardwith pity any one, like myself, whose framework showed through itscovering.
"But----" I began; when Uncle Tom headed me off.
"Now you be quiet," said he, "and let me finish. I've had some such ideabrewing in my head for some time; it isn't a sudden freak, as youimagine. I've considered the matter carefully, and I've come to theconclusion that you'll lose nothing by the move. In fact, what you willlose by missing a month or so of schooling will be more than made up toyou by the eye-opener you will get in making this expedition."
"How so?" I asked.
"You will make the acquaintance of a young State just learning to walkalone--for, as you know, it was only last year that Colorado came intothe Union; you will see a new mining camp, and rub up against the men,good, bad and indifferent, who go to make up the community of a frontiertown; and more than that, you will get at first hand, what you nevercould get by sitting here and reading about it, a correct idea of thecountry traversed by the explorers--Pike, Fremont and the rest of them.
"I am honestly of opinion, Frank," he went on, seriously, "that this isan opportunity not to be neglected. At the same time, old fellow, as itis your education and not mine that is under discussion, I consider thatyou have a right to a voice in the matter; so I'll leave you to think itover, and to-morrow at breakfast you can tell me whether you are comingor not."
With that, Uncle Tom slipped down from the table, walked out and shutthe door behind him. That was his way: he was always as sudden as a clapof thunder.
Anybody will guess that my books did not receive much more attentionthat evening. For an hour I paced up and down the room, consideringUncle Tom's proposition. It was true that I did feel pulled down by theeffects of the hot weather, combined with a pretty close application tomy books, and I had no doubt that the expedition proposed would do me aworld of good; though whether my education would be benefited in likemanner I was not so sure as Uncle Tom seemed to be.
But though I did my best honestly to consider the question in all itsaspects, there can be little doubt that my inclinations--whether I wasaware of it or not--colored my judgment, so that my final decision wasjust what might have been expected in any active boy of sixteen. As theclock struck ten I ran down-stairs and informed Uncle Tom that I wasgoing with him.
It is not necessary to go into all the details of our journey, though tome, who had never before been a hundred miles from home, everything wasnew and everything was interesting. It is enough to say that, leavingthe train at the foot of the mountains--for the railroad then went nofurther--we engaged places in the mail-carrier's open buckboard, andafter a very rough and very tiring drive of a day and a half we at lastreached our destination and were set down at the door of a house outsidewhich hung a "shingle" bearing the legend, "Samuel Warren, Assayer andU. S. Dep. Min. Surveyor."
It will be remembered that one of Uncle Tom's reasons for breaking intomy school term was that I should rub up against the citizens comprisinga frontier settlement. He could hardly have contemplated, however, thatI should come in contact with quite so many of them quite so early inthe day as I did.
We had hardly sat down to the refreshments spread before us by ourhost--a big, bearded man, clad in a suit of brown canvas--when we, incommon with the rest of the community, were startled by the suddenshriek of a woman in distress. To rush to the door was the work of amoment, when, the first thing we caught sight of was a man, clad only inhis nightshirt, running like a madman up the street, while far behindhim, and losing ground at every step, ran a woman, calling out with allthe breath she had to spare--which was not much--"Stop him! Stop him!"
"It's Tim Donovan!" shouted the assayer. "He's sick with themountain-fever! He's crazy! Head him off! Head him off! The poor chapwill die of exposure!"
Warren's house was near the upper end of the street, and just as wethree jumped down the porch steps, the demented fugitive passed thedoor, going like the wind. At once we set off in pursuit, while behindus came all the rest of the population and most of the dogs, by thistime roused to action by the cries of the sick man's wife.
Nobody knows until he has tried it how hard it is to run up-hill at anelevation of nine thousand feet, especially to one unaccustomed to suchaltitudes. Uncle Tom, who was not built for such exercise, fell out inthe first fifty yards, while, of the others, the short-winded barroomloafers--of whom, as is always the case in a new camp, there were morethan enough--gave out even more quickly, their habits of life being afatal handicap in a foot-race. One by one, nearly all the rest came downto a walk, until presently the only ones left with any run in them wereJake Peters and Oscar Swansen, both timber-cutters from the hills,Aleck Smith, a wiry little teamster, and myself.
As for me, having the advantage of a good start over everybody else,being only sixteen years old, and having a reputation at school as along-distance runner, it seemed as though I ought to be able to catchthe unfortunate fugitive, who, having run a quarter of a mile already,should by this time be out of breath.
Indeed, I believe I should have caught him at the first dash had he notresorted to tactics which made me chary of coming near him. Not morethan thirty yards separated us and I was gaining steadily, when he,barefooted himself and making no noise, hearing the clatter of my shoesbehind him, suddenly stopped, picked up a stone and hurled it at me. Itwould have taken me square in the chest had I not jumped aside; when,finding that the man was really dangerous, and knowing very well that Ishould have no chance whatever in a personal struggle with him--for hewas a stout young Irish miner with a fore-arm like a leg of mutton--Icontented myself with trotting behind and keeping him in sight; trustingto the able-bodied men following me to do the tackling when theopportunity should arise.
The town of Mosby consisted of one steep street about half a mile longand two houses thick; for it was situated in a valley, or, rather, in agorge, so narrow that there was no room for it to spread except at thetwo ends. In truth, there was no room for it to grow except southward,for at the upper, or northern, end the mountains came together, formingan inaccessible canon through which rushed the little stream of ice-coldwater coming down from Mescalero.
From the lower end of this canon the stream fell perpendicularly into agreat hole in the rocks--a sort of natural chimney, or well, about sixtyfeet deep. The down-stream side of this "chimney" was split from top tobottom, and through the narrow crack, only four or five feet wide, thewater leaped foaming down in a series of miniature cascades. The onlyway of getting into this deep pit was by taking to the water, scramblingup the steep, step-like bed of the stream and passing through the crack,when, once inside, a man might defy the world to come and get him out.
This was exactly what Tim Donovan did. Seeing that he could follow thestream no further, I was wondering whether he would take to themountain on the right or the one on the left, when he suddenly jumpedinto the water, ran up the smooth, wet "steps," and disappeared fromsight through the crevice. In ten seconds, however, he showed himselfagain. He had found in the driftwood a ragged branch of a pine treeabout three feet long, and with this in one hand and a ten-pound stonein the other he stood at bay, regardless of the icy water which pouredover his feet, or of the spray from the fall behind him, which in half aminute had wet his thin single garment through and through.
It was an impregnable stronghold. No one could get in from the rear, andthe place could not be rushed from the front--the ascent was too steepand slippery and the entrance too narrow. If Tim were determined to staythere and perish with cold, it appeared to me that nobody could doanything to prevent him.
One by one the pursuers joined me before the entrance, when Mrs.Donovan, who was among the last to arrive, advanced as near as she couldwithout getting into the water, and besought her errant husband to comedown.
But Tim was deaf to entreaty; all the blandishments of his anxious wifewere without effect, and if she could not get him to come down itappeared as though nobody could.
Tim, though, was a popular young fellow, and it was not in the nature ofa Colorado miner, or of an Irishman either--for they hold together likeburrs in a horse's tail--to desert a comrade in distress. So, Mrs.Donovan having failed, there stepped to the front a short, thick-set,red-haired man, Mike O'Brien by name, Tim's partner and particularcrony, who, talking pleasantly and naturally to him, as though hisfriend were quite sane and rational, stepped into the water and wadedcarefully up the steep slope.
"How are ye, Tim, me boy?" said he, with off-hand cordiality. "It's gladI am to see ye out again. It's me birthday to-day, Tim; I'm having a bitof a supper at home an' I come up to ask ye----"
Whack! came the stone from Tim's hand, breaking to pieces against therocky wall within an inch of Mike's head. The invitation was declined.
Mike himself, in his effort to dodge the missile, missed his footing,fell on his back, and in a series of dislocating bumps was swept downthe "steps" to the starting place, wet, as he declared, right through tohis bones.
Up to this time the demented man had kept silence, but on seeing Mikego tumbling down-stream, he shook his fist after him and cried out:
"Come back and try again, ye devouring baste! Come on, the whole pack ofyez! Don't stand there howling, ye cowardly curs; come up and get meout--if ye dare!"
"I believe he thinks we are a pack of wolves," said Mr. Warren.
"That's it, Mr. Warren, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, turning to theassayer. "That's it, entirely. He heard a wolf howl last night, and itwas hard wor-rk I had to kape him from jumping out of his bed andrunning off right thin. He thinks it's a pack of them that's huntinghim."
"Poor fellow! No wonder he refuses to come down. What are we going todo? We _must_ get him out."
Then ensued an eager debate, in which everybody took a share exceptUncle Tom and myself, who, standing a little apart from the rest on thesloping bank of the stream, were listening and looking on, when some onetouched me on my arm, and a boyish voice said:
"What's the matter? What's it all about?"
Turning round, I saw before me a tall young fellow about my own age,with reddish hair, very keen gray eyes and a much-freckled face,carrying in one hand an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, nearly aslong as himself, and in the other three grouse which he appeared to haveshot.
Wondering who the boy might be,
I explained the situation, when hecried:
"What! Tim Donovan! Why he'll die if he's left in there. Poor chap! Wemust get him out."
"Yes," said Uncle Tom. "That's just it. But how? The man won't bepersuaded to come out, and no one can get in to drag him out--so what'sto be done?"
The young fellow stood for a minute thinking, and then, suddenly liftinghis head, he exclaimed, with a half laugh:
"I know! I know what we can do! He can't be persuaded out or draggedout, but he can be driven out."
"How?" asked Uncle Tom.
"If you'll come with me," replied the boy, "I'll show you in twominutes."
So saying, he jumped across the creek and set off straight up the almostperpendicular side of the mountain, we two following. Uncle Tom,however, finding the climb too steep for him, very soon turned backagain, so we two boys went on alone.
About three hundred feet up my companion stopped, and it was well for mehe did, for I could hardly have gone another step, so desperately out ofbreath was I.
"Not used to it, are you?" said the boy, who himself seemed to be quiteunaffected. "Well, we don't have to go any higher, fortunately. Lookover there. Do you see that stubby pine tree growing out of the rocksand overhanging the waterfall?"
"Yes, I see it," I replied. "And what's that big round thing hanging toit?"
"A wasps' nest."
"A wasps' nest?"
"A wasps' nest," repeated my new acquaintance with peculiar emphasis andwith a twinkle in his eye.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. "I see your little game. Good!You propose to knock down the wasps' nest into the 'well,' and then poorTim will just have to vacate."
"That's my idea."
"Great idea, too. But, look here! Are the wasps alive at this time ofyear?"
"They are this year. We've had such a wonderfully warm season that theyare just as brisk as ever."
"Well, but there's another thing: how are you going to do it? You can'tget at it: the rocks are too straight-up-and-down; and you can't comenear enough to knock it off with a stone. How are you going to do it?"
The young fellow smiled and patted the stock of his gun.
"Shoot it down!" I exclaimed. "Do you think you can? It won't be any useplugging it full of holes, you know; you'll have to nip off the littletwig it hangs on. Can you do that?"
"I think I can."
"All right, then, fire away and let's see."
I must confess I felt doubtful. The boy did not look nor talk like abraggart, but nevertheless, to cut with a bullet the slim little branch,no bigger than a lead-pencil, upon which the nest hung suspended lookedto me like a pretty ticklish shot.
My companion, however, seemed confident. Cocking his gun, he kneeleddown, and using a big rock as a rest he took careful aim and fired.
It was a perfect shot. The big ball of gray "paper" dropped like aplumb, struck the rim of the "well," burst open, and emptied upon thehead of the unfortunate Tim about a bucketful of venomous littleyellow-jackets, each and every one of them quivering with rage, and eachand every one bent on taking vengeance on somebody.
The people below were still debating how to get the sick man out of hisfortress, when the sound of the rifle-shot caused them all to look up;but only for an instant, for the echoes had not yet died away, when,with a startling yell, out came Tim, frantically waving his club abovehis head, seemingly more crazy than ever. Supposing that he was making adash for liberty, half a dozen of his particular friends flungthemselves upon him, and down they all went in a heap together.
But this arrangement was of the briefest. In another moment, withshrieks and yells and whirling arms, the whole population went chargingdown the street, Uncle Tom in the lead, running--breath or no breath--ashe had never run before.
Never was there a more complete victory: besiegers and besieged flyingin one general rout before the assaults of the new enemy. And never didI laugh so extravagantly as I did then, to see the enragedyellow-jackets "take it out" on an unoffending community, while the realculprits were all the time sitting safely perched on the mountainsidelooking down on the rumpus.
"Well, we got him out all right," remarked my companion, as he calmlyreloaded his rifle. "I thought we could. You're a newcomer, aren't you?My name's Dick Stanley; I live up-stream, just at the head of the canon.Are you expecting to make a long stay?"
"Two or three weeks, I think," I replied. "My uncle, Mr. Tom Allen, ishere to inspect the mines, and he brought me with him. We come from St.Louis. My name's Frank Preston. We're staying at Mr. Warren's house."
"Well, come up to our house some day. It is in a little clearing just atthe head of the canon--you can't miss it--and we'll go off for a day'sgrouse-shooting up into the mountains if you like."
"All right, I will. That would just suit me. To-morrow?"
"Yes, come up to-morrow, if you like. I'll be on the lookout for you. Isuppose you are going home now," he continued, as we rose to our feet."If I were you, I'd keep up here on the side of the mountain--the streetwill be full of yellow-jackets--and then, when you come opposite theassayer's house, make a bolt for his back door, or some of them may getyou yet."
"That's a good idea. I'll do it. Well, good-bye. I'll come up to-morrowthen, if I can."