The Boys of Crawford's Basin

by Hamp, Sidford F

  “About a mile,”I replied.

  “Then I believe the best way will be for one of you to go down and bring up one of the ponies. I can probably get upon his back with your help, and then, by going carefully, I believe we can get down.”

  “All right,”said Joe, springing to his feet. “We’ll try it. I’ll go down. The little gray is the one, Phil, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,”I answered. “The little gray’s the one; he’s more sober-minded than my pony and very sure-footed. Bring the gray.”

  Without further parley, away went Joe, and in about three-quarters of an hour he appeared again, leading the pony by the bridle.

  “It’s pretty rough going,”said he, “but I think we can make it if we take it slowly. The pony came up very well. Now, Peter let’s see if we can hoist you into the saddle.”

  It was a difficult piece of work, for Peter, though he had not an ounce of fat on his body, was a pretty heavy man, and being almost helpless himself, the feat was not accomplished without one or two involuntary groans on the part of the patient. At last, however, we had him settled into the saddle, when Joe, carrying the rifle, took the lead, while I, with the two shovels over my shoulder, brought up the rear. In this order the procession started, but it had no more than started when Peter called to us to stop.

  In order to avoid going up the hill more than was necessary, we were skirting along the edge of the great snow-bank, when, as we passed just beneath the big tree upon one of whose roots Socrates was perched, Peter, looking up to call to the bird, espied something which at once attracted his attention.

  “Wait a moment, boys, will you?”he requested, checking the pony; and then, turning to me, he continued: “Look up there, Phil. Do you see that black stone stuck among the roots? Poke it out with the shovel, will you? I should like to look at it.”

  Wondering rather at his taking any interest in stones at such a time, I nevertheless obeyed his behest, and with two or three vigorous prods I dislodged the black fragment, catching it in my hand as it fell; though it was so unexpectedly heavy that I nearly let it drop.

  “Ah!”exclaimed Peter, when I had handed it up to him. “Just what I thought! This will interest Tom Connor.”

  “Why?”we both asked. “What is it?”

  “A chunk of galena. Look! Do you see how it is made up of shining cubes of some black mineral? Lead—lead and sulphur. There’s a vein up there somewhere.”

  “And the big tree, pushing its roots down into the vein, has brought away a piece of it, eh?”asked Joe.

  “Yes, that is what I suppose. There are some bits of light-colored rock up there, too, Phil. Pry out one or two of those, will you?”

  I did as requested, and on my passing them to Peter, he said:

  “These are porphyry rocks. The general formation up there is limestone, I know—I’ve noticed it frequently—but I expect it is crossed somewhere—probably on the line of the belt of trees—by a porphyry dike. Put the specimens into your pocket, Joe; we must keep them to show to Connor. It’s a very important find. And now let us get along.”

  The journey down the gulch was very slow and very difficult—we made hardly a mile an hour—though, when we left the mountain and started across the mesa we got along better. When about half way, I left the others and galloped home, where I lighted a fire and heated a lot of water, so that, when at length Peter arrived, I had a steaming hot tubful all ready for him in the spare room on the ground floor.

  Though our friend protested against being treated like an invalid, declaring his belief that he would be about right again by morning, he nevertheless consented to take his hot bath and go to bed; though I think he was persuaded to do so more because he was unwilling to disappoint us after all our preparations, than because he really expected to derive any benefit.

  Be that as it may—and for my part I shall always hold that it was the hot bath that did it—when we went into Peter’s room next morning, what was our surprise to find our cripple up and dressed. Though his right leg was still so stiff as to be of little use to him, he declined our help, and with the aid of a couple of broomsticks propelled himself out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, where Joe was busy getting the breakfast ready. His rapid recovery was astonishing to both of us; though, as Joe remarked later, we need not be so very much surprised, for, with his hardy life and abstemious habits he was as healthy as any wild animal.

  As we sat at our morning meal, we talked over our find of yesterday, and discussed what was the proper course for us to pursue.

  “First, and most important,”said Peter, “Tom Connor must be notified. We must waste no time. The prospectors are beginning to get out, and any one of them, noticing the new scar on the mountain, might go exploring up there. When does Tom quit work on the Pelican?”

  “This evening,”replied Joe. “It was this evening, wasn’t it, Phil?”

  “Yes,”I replied. “He was to quit at five this evening, and his intention then was to come down here next day and make this place his base of operations.”

  “Then the thing to do,”said Joe, “is for me to ride up there this morning—I started to go yesterday, you know, Peter—and catch Tom up at the mine at noon. When he hears of our discovery, I’ve not a doubt but that he will pack up and come back with me this evening, so as to get a start first thing to-morrow.”

  “I expect he will,”said I. “And while you are up there, Joe, you can see Yetmore and give him your information about those cart-tracks.”

  “What do you mean?”asked Peter. “Information about what cart-tracks?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard of it, of course,”said I; and forthwith I explained to him all about the ore-theft, and how we suspected that the thief was in hiding somewhere in the foot-hills. Peter listened attentively, and then asked:

  “Are you sure there was only one of them?”

  “Well, that’s the general supposition,”I replied. “Why?”

  “I thought there might be a pair of them, that’s all. I’ll tell you an odd thing that happened only the day before yesterday, which may or may not have a bearing on the case. When I got home about dusk that evening, I found that some one had broken into my house and had stolen a hind-quarter of elk, a box of matches, a frying-pan, and—of all queer things to select—a bear-trap. What on earth any one can want with a bear-trap at this season of the year, I can’t think, when there is hardly a bear out of his winter-quarters yet; and if he was he’d be as thin as a rail. I found the fellow’s tracks easily enough—tall man—big feet—long stride—and trailed them down the gulch to a point where another man had been sitting on a rock waiting for him. This other man’s track was peculiar: he was lame—stepped short with his right foot, and the foot itself was out of shape. Their trail went on down the hill towards the mesa, but it was then too dark to follow it, and I was going off to take it up again next morning when that slide came down and changed my programme.”

  “Well,”said Joe, who had sat with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands, listening closely, “where the lame man springs from I don’t know, but if they should be the ore-thieves their stealing the meat and the frying-pan was a natural thing to do; for if they are going into hiding they will need provisions.”

  “Yes,”replied Peter; “and whether they knew of my place before or came upon it by accident, they would probably think it safer to steal from me than to raid one of the ranches and thus risk bringing all the ranchmen about their ears like a swarm of hornets.”

  “That’s true,”said Joe. “Yes, I must certainly tell Tom and Yetmore about them: it may be important. And I’ll start at once,”he added, rising from the table as he spoke. “I’ll take the buckboard, Phil, and then I can bring back Tom’s camp-kit and tools for him; otherwise he would have to pack them on his pony and walk himself. I expect you will see us back somewhere about seven this evening.”

  With that he went out, and soon afterwards we heard the rattle of wheels as he drove away.

 
; * * *

  CHAPTER XV

  The Big Reuben Vein

  But it seemed as though Joe were destined never to get to Sulphide. I was still in the kitchen, when, not more than twenty minutes later, I heard the rattle of wheels again, and looking out of the window, there I saw my partner by the stable tying up his horse.

  “Hallo, Joe!”I cried, throwing open the door. “What’s up?”

  Without replying at the moment, Joe came striding in, shut the door, and throwing his hat down upon the table, said:

  “I came back to tell you something. I’ve a notion, Phil, that we’ve got to go hunting for that vein ourselves, and not lose time by going up to tell Tom.”

  “Why? What makes you think that, Joe?”I asked, in surprise.

  “That’s what I came back to tell you. You know that little treeless ‘bubble’ that stands on the edge of the cañon only about half a mile up-stream from here? Well, when I drove up the hill out of our valley just now I turned, naturally, to look at the scar on the mountain, when the first thing to catch my eye was the figure of a man standing on top of the ‘bubble.’”

  “Is that so? What was he doing?”

  “He was looking at the scar, too.”

  “How do you know that, Joe?”I asked, incredulously. “You couldn’t tell at that distance whether he had his back to you or his face.”

  “Ah, but I could, though,”Joe replied; “and I’ll tell you how. After a minute or so the man turned—I could see that motion distinctly enough—caught sight of me, and instantly jumped down behind the rocks.”

  “Didn’t want to be seen, eh?”remarked Peter. “And what did you do next?”

  “I felt sure he was watching me, though I couldn’t see him,”Joe went on, “and so, to make him suppose I hadn’t observed him, I stayed where I was for a minute, and then drove leisurely on again. There’s a dip in the road, you know, Phil, a little further on, and as soon as I had driven down into it, out of sight, I pulled up, jumped out of the buckboard, and running up the hill again I crawled to the top of the rise and looked back. There was the man, going across the mesa at a run, headed straight for Big Reuben’s gorge!”

  Joe paused, and for a moment we all sat looking at each other in silence.

  “Any idea who he was?”I asked presently.

  “Yes,”replied Joe, without hesitation. “It was Long John Butterfield.”

  “You seem very sure,”remarked Peter; “but do you think you could recognize him so far off?”

  “I feel sure it was Long John,”Joe answered. “I have very long sight; and as the man stood there on top of the ‘bubble,’ with the sun shining full upon him, he looked as tall as a telegraph pole. Yes, I feel certain it was Long John.”

  “Then Yetmore has started him out to prospect for that vein!”I cried. “He is probably camped in the neighborhood of Big Reuben’s gorge, following up the stream, and I suppose he heard the roar of the slide yesterday and came down this way the first thing this morning to get a look at the scar.”

  “That’s it, I expect,”Joe answered.

  “And you suppose,”said Peter, “that he went running back to his camp to get his tools and go prospecting up on the scar.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Then, what do you propose to do?”asked the hermit.

  “I’ve been thinking about it as I drove back,”replied Joe, “and my opinion is that Phil and I ought to go up at once, see if we can’t find the spot where that big tree was rooted out, and stake the claim for Tom Connor. If we lose a whole day by going up to Sulphide to notify Tom, it would give Long John a chance to get in ahead of us and perhaps beat us after all.”

  The bare idea of such a catastrophe was too much for me. I sprang out of my chair, crying, “We’ll go, Joe! And we’ll start at once! How are we to get up there, Peter? There must be any amount of snow; and we are neither of us any good on skis, even if we had them.”

  “Yes, there’s plenty of snow,”replied Peter promptly, entering with heartiness into the spirit of the enterprise, “lots of snow, but you can avoid most of it by taking the ridge on the right of the creek and following along its summit to where it connects with the saddle. You’ll find a little cliff up there, barring your way, but by turning to your left and keeping along the foot of the precipice you will come presently to the upper end of the slide, and then, by coming down the slide, you will be able to reach the place where the line of trees used to stand, which is the place you want to reach.”

  “Is it at all dangerous?”asked Joe.

  “Why, yes,”replied Peter, “it is a bit dangerous, especially on the slide itself now that the trees are gone; though if you are ordinarily careful you ought to be able to make it all right, there being two of you. For a man by himself it would be risky—a very small accident might strand him high and dry on the mountain—but where there are two together it is reasonably safe.”

  “Come on, then, Joe,”said I. “Let’s be off.”

  “Wait a bit!”cried our guest, holding up his hand. “You talk of staking a claim for Tom Connor; well, suppose you should find the spot where the big tree was rooted out, and should find a vein there—do you know how to write a location-notice?”

  “No,”said I, blankly. “We don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll write you out the form,”said Peter. “I’ve read hundreds of them and I remember it well enough, and you can just copy the wording when you set up your stake—if you have occasion to set one up at all.”

  He sat down and quickly wrote out the form for us, when, pocketing the paper, we went over to the stable, saddled up, and leaving Peter in charge, away we rode, armed with a pick, a shovel, an ax and a coil of rope.

  According to the hermit’s directions, instead of following up the bed of the creek which led to his house, we took to the spur on the right, the top of which being treeless, had been swept bare of snow by the winds and presented no serious obstacle to our sure-footed ponies. We were able, therefore, to ride up the mountain so far that we presently found ourselves looking down upon Peter’s house, or, rather, upon the mountain of snow which covered it. But here the character of the spur changed, or, to speak more accurately, here the spur ended and another one began. Between the two, half-filled with well-packed snow, lay a deep crevice, which, bearing away down hill to our right, was presently lost among the trees.

  “From the lay of the land,”said Joe, “I should judge that this is the head of the creek which runs through Big Reuben’s gorge—Peter told us it started up here, you remember. And from the look of it,”he continued, “I should suppose that the shortest way of getting over to the slide would be to cut right across here to the left through the trees. But that is out of the question: the snow would be ten feet over our heads; so our only way is to cross this gulch and go on up as far as we can along the top of the next ridge, as Peter said.”

  “Then we shall have to leave the ponies here,”I remarked, “and do the rest on foot: there’s no getting them across this place.”

  Accordingly, we abandoned our ponies at this point, and having with some difficulty scrambled across the gulch ourselves, we ascended to the ridge of the next spur and continued our way upward. This spur was crowned by an outcrop of rock, which being much broken up and the cracks being filled with snow, made the walking not only difficult but dangerous. By taking care, however, we avoided any accident, and, after a pretty stiff climb arrived at the foot of a perpendicular ledge of rocks which cut across our course at right angles—the little cliff Peter had told us we should find barring our way.

  Here, turning to the left, as directed, we skirted along the base of the cliff, sometimes on the rocks and sometimes on the edge of the snow which rested against them, until at last we reached a point whence we could look right down the steep slope of the slide.

  Covered with loose shale, the slope for its whole length appeared to be smooth and of uniform pitch, except that about three-quarters of the way down we could see a line of snow hummocks stretchin
g all across its course, indicating pretty surely that here had grown a strip of trees, which being most of them broken off short had caught and held a little snow against the stumps.

  “There’s where we want to get, Joe!”I cried, eagerly. “Down there to that row of stumps! This is a limestone country—all this shale, you see, is composed of limestone chips—but that tree-root in which we found the chunk of galena held two or three bits of porphyry as well, you remember, and if it did come from down there, there’s a good chance that that line of stumps indicates the course of a porphyry outcrop, as Peter guessed, cutting across the limestone formation.”

  “Well, what of that?”asked Joe. “Is a porphyry outcrop a desirable thing to find? Is it an ‘indication’?”

  “It’s plain you’re no prospector, Joe,”said I, laughing; “and though I don’t set up to know much about it myself, I’ve learned enough from hearing Tom Connor talk of ‘contact veins’ to know that if there’s a vein in the neighborhood the most promising place to look for it is where the limestone and the porphyry come in contact.”

  “Is that so?”cried Joe, beginning to get excited. “Then let us get down there at once; for, ten to one, that’s where our big tree came from.”

  “That’s all very well,”said I. “The row of stumps is our goal, all right, but how are we going to get down there? I don’t feel at all inclined to trust myself on this loose shale. The pitch is so steep that I should be afraid of its starting to slide and carrying us with it, when I don’t see anything to stop us from going down to the bottom and over the precipice at the lower end.”

  “That’s true,”Joe assented. “No, it won’t do to trust ourselves on this treacherous shale; it’s too dangerous. What we must do, Phil, is to get across to that long spur of rocks over there and climb down that. It will bring us close down to the line of stumps.”