The Young Forester

by Zane Grey

  II. THE MAN ON THE TRAIN

  Travelling was a new experience to me, and on the first night after Ileft home I lay awake until we reached Altoona. We rolled out of smokyPittsburg at dawn, and from then on the only bitter drop in my cup ofbliss was that the train went so fast I could not see everything out ofmy window.

  Four days to ride! The great Mississippi to cross, the plains, the RockyMountains, then the Arizona plateaus-a long, long journey with a wildpine forest at the end! I wondered what more any young fellow could havewished. With my face glued to the car window I watched the level countryspeed by.

  There appeared to be one continuous procession of well-cultivatedfarms, little hamlets, and prosperous towns. What interested me most, ofcourse, were the farms, for all of them had some kind of wood. We passeda zone of maple forests which looked to be more carefully kept than theothers. Then I recognized that they were maple-sugar trees. The farmershad cleaned out the other species, and this primitive method of forestryhad produced the finest maples it had ever been my good-fortune to see.Indiana was flatter than Ohio, not so well watered, and therefore lessheavily timbered. I saw, with regret, that the woodland was being cutregularly, tree after tree, and stacked in cords for firewood.

  At Chicago I was to change for Santa Fe, and finding my train inthe station I climbed aboard. My car was a tourist coach. Father hadinsisted on buying a ticket for the California Limited, but I had arguedthat a luxurious Pullman was not exactly the thing for a prospectiveforester. Still I pocketed the extra money which I had assured him heneed not spend for the first-class ticket.

  The huge station, with its glaring lights and clanging bells, and theoutspreading city, soon gave place to prairie land.

  That night I slept little, but the very time I wanted to be awake--whenwe crossed the Mississippi--I was slumbering soundly, and so missed it.

  "I'll bet I don't miss it coming back," I vowed.

  The sight of the Missouri, however, somewhat repaid me for the loss.What a muddy, wide river! And I thought of the thousands of miles ofcountry it drained, and of the forests there must be at its source. Thencame the never-ending Kansas corn-fields. I do not know whether it wastheir length or their treeless monotony, but I grew tired looking atthem.

  From then on I began to take some notice of my fellow-travelers. Theconductor proved to be an agreeable old fellow; and the train-boy,though I mistrusted his advances because he tried to sell me everythingfrom chewing-gum to mining stock, turned out to be pretty good company.The Negro porter had such a jolly voice and laugh that I talked to himwhenever I got the chance. Then occasional passengers occupied the seatopposite me from town to town. They were much alike, all sunburned andloud-voiced, and it looked as though they had all bought their highboots and wide hats at the same shop.

  The last traveller to face me was a very heavy man with a great bullethead and a shock of light hair. His blue eyes had a bold flash, his longmustache drooped, and there was something about him that I did not like.He wore a huge diamond in the bosom of his flannel shirt, and aleather watch-chain that was thick and strong enough to have held up atown-clock.

  "Hot," he said, as he mopped his moist brow.

  "Not so hot as it was," I replied.

  "Sure not. We're climbin' a little. He's whistlin' for Dodge City now."

  "Dodge City?" I echoed, with interest. The name brought back vividscenes from certain yellow-backed volumes, and certain uncomfortablememories of my father's displeasure. "Isn't this the old cattle townwhere there used to be so many fights?"

  "Sure. An' not so very long ago. Here, look out the window." He clappedhis big hand on my knee; then pointed. "See that hill there. Dead Man'sHill it was once, where they buried the fellers as died with their bootson."

  I stared, and even stretched my neck out of the window.

  "Yes, old Dodge was sure lively," he continued, as our train passedon. "I seen a little mix-up there myself in the early eighties. Fivecow-punchers, friends they was, had been visitin' town. One feller,playful-like, takes another feller's quirt--that's a whip. An' the otherfeller, playful-like, says, 'Give it back.' Then they tussles forit, an' rolls on the ground. I was laughin', as was everybody, when,suddenly, the owner of the quirt thumps his friend. Both cowboys got up,slow, an' watchin' of each other. Then the first feller, who had startedthe play, pulls his gun. He'd hardly flashed it when they all pullsguns, an' it was some noisy an' smoky. In about five seconds there wasfive dead cowpunchers. Killed themselves, as you might say, just forfun. That's what life was worth in old Dodge." After this story I feltmore kindly disposed ward my travelling companion, and would haveasked for more romances but the conductor came along and engaged him inconversation. Then my neighbor across the aisle, a young fellow not mucholder than myself, asked me to talk to him.

  "Why, yes, if you like," I replied, in surprise. He was pale; there werered spots in his cheeks, and dark lines under his weary eyes.

  "You look so strong and eager that it's done me good to watch you," heexplained, with a sad smile. "You see--I'm sick."

  I told him I was very sorry, and hoped he would get well soon.

  "I ought to have come West sooner," he replied, "but I couldn't get themoney."

  He looked up at me and then out of the window at the sun settingred across the plains. I tried to make him think of something besidehimself, but I made a mess of it. The meeting with him was a shock tome. Long after dark, when I had stretched out for the night, I keptthinking of him and contrasting what I had to look forward to with hisdismal future. Somehow it did not seem fair, and I could not get rid ofthe idea that I was selfish.

  Next day I had my first sight of real mountains. And the Pennsylvaniahills, that all my life had appeared so high, dwindled to nothing. AtTrinidad, where we stopped for breakfast, I walked out on the platformsniffing at the keen thin air. When we crossed the Raton Mountainsinto New Mexico the sick boy got off at the first station, and I wavedgood-bye to him as the train pulled out. Then the mountains and thefunny little adobe huts and the Pueblo Indians along the line made meforget everything else.

  The big man with the heavy watch-chain was still on the train, and afterhe had read his newspaper he began to talk to me.

  "This road follows the old trail that the goldseekers took inforty-nine," he said. "We're comin' soon to a place, Apache Pass, wherethe Apaches used to ambush the wagon-trains, It's somewheres alonghere."

  Presently the train wound into a narrow yellow ravine, the walls ofwhich grew higher and higher.

  "Them Apaches was the worst redskins ever in the West. They used to hideon top of this pass an' shoot down on the wagon-trains."

  Later in the day he drew my attention to a mountain standing all byitself. It was shaped like a cone, green with trees almost to thesummit, and ending in a bare stone peak that had a flat top.

  "Starvation Peak," he said. "That name's three hundred years old, datesback to the time the Spaniards owned this land. There's a story about itthat's likely true enough. Some Spaniards were attacked by Indians an'climbed to the peak, expectin' to be better able to defend themselvesup there. The Indians camped below the peak an' starved the Spaniards.Stuck there till they starved to death! That's where it got its name."

  "Those times you tell of must have been great," I said, regretfully."I'd like to have been here then. But isn't the country all settled now?Aren't the Indians dead? There's no more fighting?"

  "It's not like it used to be, but there's still warm places in the West.Not that the Indians break out often any more. But bad men are almost asbad, if not so plentiful, as when Billy the Kid run these parts. I sawtwo men shot an' another knifed jest before I went East to St. Louis."

  "Where?"

  "In Arizona. Holston is the station where I get off, an' it happenednear there."

  "Holston is where I'm going."

  "You don't say. Well, I'm glad to meet you, young man. My name's Buell,an' I'm some known in Holston. What's your name?"

  He eyed me in a sh
arp but not unfriendly manner, and seemed pleased tolearn of my destination.

  "Ward. Kenneth Ward. I'm from Pennsylvania."

  "You haven't got the bugs. Any one can see that," he said, and as Ilooked puzzled he went on with a smile, and a sounding rap on his chest:"Most young fellers as come out here have consumption. They call itbugs. I reckon you're seekin' your fortune."'

  "Yes, in a way."

  "There's opportunities for husky youngsters out here. What're you goin'to rustle for, if I may ask?"

  "I'm going in for forestry."

  "Forestry? Do you mean lumberin'?"

  "No. Forestry is rather the opposite of lumbering. I'm going in forGovernment forestry--to save the timber, not cut it."

  It seemed to me he gave a little start of surprise; he certainlystraightened up and looked at me hard.

  "What's Government forestry?"

  I told him to the best of my ability. He listened attentively enough,but thereafter he had not another word for me, and presently he wentinto the next car. I took his manner to be the Western abruptness that Ihad heard of, and presently forgot him in the scenery along the line.At Albuquerque I got off for a trip to a lunch-counter, and happened totake a seat next to him.

  "Know anybody in Holston?" he asked.

  As I could not speak because of a mouthful of sandwich I shook my head.For the moment I had forgotten about Dick Leslie, and when it did occurto me some Indians offering to sell me beads straightway drove it out ofmy mind again.

  When I awoke the next day, it was to see the sage ridges and red buttesof Arizona. We were due at Holston at eight o'clock, but owing to acrippled engine the train was hours late. At last I fell asleep to beawakened by a vigorous shake.

  "Holston. Your stop. Holston," the conductor was saying.

  "All right," I said, sitting up and then making a grab for my grip."We're pretty late, aren't we?"

  "Six hours. It's two o'clock."

  "Hope I can get a room," I said, as I followed him out on the platform.He held up his lantern so that the light would shine in my face."There's a hotel down the street a block or so. Better hurry and looksharp. Holston's not a safe place for a stranger at night."

  I stepped off into a windy darkness. A lamp glimmered in the stationwindow. By its light I made out several men, the foremost of whom hada dark, pointed face and glittering eyes. He wore a strange hat, and Iknew from pictures I had seen that he was a Mexican. Then the bulky formof Buell loomed up. I called, but evidently he did not hear me. The mentook his grips, and they moved away to disappear in the darkness. WhileI paused, hoping to see some one to direct me, the train puffed out,leaving me alone on the platform.

  When I turned the corner I saw two dim lights, one far to the left,the other to the right, and the black outline of buildings under whatappeared to be the shadow of a mountain. It was the quietest and darkesttown I had ever struck.

  I decided to turn toward the right-hand light, for the conductor hadsaid "down the street." I set forth at a brisk pace, but the lonelinessand strangeness of the place were rather depressing.

  Before I had gone many steps, however, the sound of running water haltedme, and just in the nick of time, for I was walking straight into aditch. By peering hard into the darkness and feeling my way I founda bridge. Then it did not take long to reach the light. But it was asaloon, and not the hotel. One peep into it served to make me face aboutin double-quick time, and hurry in the opposite direction.

  Hearing a soft footfall, I glanced over my shoulder, to see the Mexicanthat I had noticed at the station. He was coming from across the street.I wondered if he were watching me. He might be. My heart began to beatviolently. Turning once again, I discovered that the fellow could not beseen in the pitchy blackness. Then I broke into a run.