Buffalo Roost Part 10

They turned aside to examine the great dead trees.

"Hold on, there," said Ham in a whisper, as he held up his finger.

"There's my stew for to-night. Great Caesar's ghost! I'll bet these dead trees are full of squirrels. Still, now, a moment."

The squirrel sat for an instant in plain view on a dead limb of a spruce; then he barked and scampered around in great excitement, his tail bobbing up and down in time to his movements. He would run, hide behind the great tree trunk, then out again to jeer and scold and jerk his tail. As they came nearer, a second one, perhaps his mate, joined him on the limb and seconded everything he had to say. The barrel of Ham's gun was making strange movements in the air. "Hey, there, sit still, you jumping jack,"

called Ham. The squirrels sat up and listened to his voice in such a way that it appeared they perfectly understood the order to sit still. Fat laughed a hearty laugh; the squirrels took it as a danger signal and were gone. Ham lowered his gun.

"Fat, you stole my supper right out of my mouth," said Ham, gloomily.

"Oho," said Willis. "How do you suppose this happened? All of these big trees are girdled. See, the bark has been cut clear around the trunk with an ax, so as to cut off the supply of sap. Mr. Allen, what is your explanation?"

"Well, I'm not just sure about it, Willis. Some one may have killed them for timber or some one may have girdled them so as to be able to start a big fire. It might have been the work of timber pirates. A man would get a mighty severe punishment for that, if he were caught."

A little farther up the canyon they found traces of an old placer sluice, and what remained of some of the old, homemade cradles for panning out the gold.

"Gold, gold, gold; you find traces of it everywhere, and traces of the men who sought it. A sight like that always makes me sorry for some old, forlorn, disappointed miner," said Mr. Allen. "Of all the dilapidated, blue-producing sights that I have ever seen, it's one of these old, deserted mining camps, for they come as near representing a forlorn hope as anything you can find.

"One time I was with a crowd of boys, and we made a detour to look over a deserted mining camp. They called it Old North Cripple Creek. Years before, shrewd individuals had salted prospect holes at that point, then discovered their own gold. Of course there was a grand rush, and a boom town resulted. Crude houses were built, stores and saloons erected, and mining operations begun. A real, substantial log hotel was erected, and I've heard that their charge was upwards of ten dollars a night, payable in advance.

"But the camp died as quickly as it had been born, and the people, mostly men, pushed on to other fields.

"It was a good many years after the place was deserted that I was there, but it made a tremendous impression upon me. I had the blues for days afterward. Old, tumbled-down houses, the windows knocked out and the doors hanging on leather hinges. I remember one building that had been a saloon. The great mirrors back of the bar had never been removed, and the rains of many seasons had peeled the mercury from the plate gla.s.s and the gilt frames were faded. We entered the old hotel, and were surprised to find some of the fittings still there. In the attic we found an old chest of letters--and, speaking of strange coincidences, a large number of those letters were written and signed by Daddy Wright. Away up in the back corner of the attic sat an old owl. He looked down on us from his perch in a reproving manner, to think we would disturb the haunts of the past in that crude way. He was a weird looking old fellow as he sat there, blinking his big yellow eyes, and I couldn't help thinking that the owl of wisdom perhaps a good many times might be found perched in the dark attics of the past, instead of spending his time in the sunlight of the great and active present."

The afternoon pa.s.sed, and soon the sun began to settle behind the western peaks. It was just six o'clock when the party came to the Little Fountain and chose their camping spot on a little green knoll of high ground, right by the water's edge. Some one suggested a dip, and so, in the quiet coolness of a perfect summer twilight, with a cheerful fire burning on the bank, clothes were stripped and a bath taken. Then came the evening meal, the usual round of stories, the message from the letter of the Great Spirit, then to sleep.

As Willis and Mr. Allen lay watching the firelight and listening to the thousand sounds of the night, the night breeze began to rise and to sing to them through the balsam boughs overhead.

"Do you know what I think of when I lie out in the woods on such a night and listen to the gentle sighing of the night wind?" asked Mr. Allen.

"No," replied Willis. "What do you think of?"

"It is kind of fanciful, I suppose, but I like to believe that it is G.o.d blowing His breath down on us just to let us know that He is very near and cares for us." Willis did not answer; he was thinking.

CHAPTER IX

The Third Day Out

The first gray streaks of dawn were just creeping over the ridge of old Cheyenne as Mr. Allen awoke. Up through the green leaves the bluest of blue skies showed in tiny spots. It was an autumn morning, for a light frost had settled during the night, and here and there lay the ghost of an aspen leaf that had flitted down. Everywhere the birds were chirping and hustling about their morning duties. Here and there industrious spiders were at work removing the drops of silver dew from their s.h.i.+ning cables of silk, and the bees were already gathering the last of the summer's sweets. The squirrels scolded and chattered to each other from the big trees. All the wild life of the woodland seemed at high tide. The b.u.t.terflies were already at play in the cool, dewy nooks, and all nature was rosy in the freshness of a new day.

Mr. Allen dressed quietly but quickly, unbuckled his fis.h.i.+ng rod from his pack, glanced through his fly book, selected one here and there, then prepared to slip out of camp without waking any one. The little stream had been whispering strange tales of big fish to him all the night, and it was trout for breakfast that he was after. A saucy squirrel, observing him from a limb overhead, asked many foolish questions. Mr. Allen sat on an old moss-covered stump joining his rod and arranging his long, white leader, to which he had attached a royal coachman and a gray hackle. He paused to listen, for it seemed to him that every wild thing in that vast, rocky gorge had suddenly raised its voice to welcome the coming day.

Willis awoke and saw Mr. Allen as he sat there in the sunlight. In a soft undertone he called, "I'm going, too, just to watch. May I?" Mr. Allen nodded, and in a few moments the two were quietly sneaking off through the bushes, headed up stream.

"My, O my! isn't this a perfectly gorgeous morning. Just look off there toward Mount Rosa and Baldy. It's a perfect splendor of clouds and mist and sun; then look behind you, there, down through the big trees. It's just the morning to catch a fine big trout."

"I never caught a trout in all my life," softly called Willis, as he trailed along behind. "I don't believe I've ever even seen one."

"Many and many are the days I've fished in these old hills for a dozen; but a prouder fisherman never cast a fly than myself, when I could come home to camp, spread out my little catch of speckled beauties on the gra.s.s, and tell just how I caught each one."

"Is it more fun than casting for big black ba.s.s on a clear, warm, summer night? Lots of times I've seen the big fellows leap out of the water, then in again with a splash, making big rings of ripples on the smooth water. O, it's great! Can your trout fis.h.i.+ng beat that?"

"Every man after his own heart," replied the "Chief," "but for me, give me the trout. You rise early on such a morning as this and slip off into the canyon. Far away on all sides rise the mountain peaks, their snow caps jauntily adjusted and their cloaks of ice drawn close about their shoulders. Then the balsam-scented air, and the dew-laden bushes along the chattering little stream as it flows over a chaos of broken granite or works itself into a boiling froth, only to jump headlong into a quiet green pool. Can you beat it?"

"Isn't that a good pool just ahead of us?" questioned Willis.

"I'm going to try it," replied Mr. Allen. "Now, be sure to keep that big boulder just ahead between you and the water, for if they see us first there's no use wasting our time here, we'll never get a strike to-day."

Slowly they crept to the great, bare rock. Here the line and flies were adjusted, and the fis.h.i.+ng began. Willis watched every motion as for a brief second the fly was allowed to drift down the stream, "to be floated here and there by idle little eddies, to be sucked down, then suddenly spat out by tiny suction holes;" then it fell quietly into the current and floated out to the end of the line, bringing up sharply just at the edge of a bleak old granite boulder in midstream. Again the flies were cast, and again; then--both hearts stood still; there was a splash, a little line of bubbles, a tail, a silver streak tinged with red and black, then ripples, and nothing more.

"He's there, anyway," softly whispered Willis in great excitement.

The line was drawn in and inspected; the hackle was removed from the leader, and again the coachman spatted the water just above where the trout had disappeared. It floated down and down until it touched the swirl at the edge of the jagged rock. There was a short, sharp tug; the fly disappeared into the water; a plunge, a dash of spray, then everything kept time to the singing of the reel. Both jumped to their feet just in time to see the big trout clear the water, shake his head vigorously, then dive into the deep pool. It was to be a fight to the finish, and the trout had settled to the cool bottom to lay out his campaign.

After ten minutes of maneuvering in the water, up and down, out to the bank, then in again, knee deep, waist deep, the line slacked a little, then a little more. Then there was a series of quick jerks and a long singing of the reel as it unwound, only to slacken again, and this time for good. There was a silvery streak in the water, then a dark, moving shadow, a gentle pull of the winding line, and the trout slipped out of the water onto the bank, exhausted.

There was an exclamation of joy and wonder from Willis as the fish was carefully unhooked and placed in the cotton bag, brought for the purpose.

"Just eighteen inches, and a beauty," cried Mr. Allen. "You'll never get me away from this stream this morning if there are more fish like this to be had. We have just time to catch another like him, then we can all have a taste for breakfast. What will those fellows think when they wake up and find us gone?"

They clambered over a rough crag and down to a second green pool. It was not a big fish this time, but several small ones in quick succession, till there was a taste for all in camp.

"I hope the fellows will have a fire going, so we won't have to wait so long for a bed of coals, don't you?" asked Willis. "I can taste them already. Is the meat pink or white?"

"O, surely Ham will have a fire; he's enough of a camper for that, and they are expecting us to bring fish. I'll tell you, let's leave the bag in the bushes and tell them a sad tale of woe. I'm still wet, and we'll let on a big one pulled me in and I lost all the others. What do you say?"

"That's a go. You get up the story and I'll swear to it. Make it a big one."

Soon the smell of smoke came drifting through the bushes, and they knew that their return was being patiently awaited. Fat spied them coming first.

"Well, old sea-dogs, where's your catch?" he shouted.

"Hard luck," started in Mr. Allen. "Just plain hard luck; caught a few minnows, but slow as far as real fis.h.i.+ng goes. There's nothing in it here. Where's Ham?"

"O Ham!" snorted Phil from his place by the fire. "Crazy, lunatic Ham.

I'd like to see you get him into any kind of a fix he couldn't get out of. When we woke up and found you gone, Ham declared you'd played a trick on him, and he's gone off to get even."

"How do you mean, get even?"

"He wanted to go with you this morning, so he went out and found your track going up stream. He came back to camp, got your fly book, cut him a willow pole, and started off down stream to beat you fis.h.i.+ng. He's been gone most an hour and a half now."

"Well, he won't have to fish much to beat me, that's sure; but he ought to be getting back soon, so we can get started."

"Fis.h.i.+e, fis.h.i.+e, in the brook, Hammie caught him with a hook,"

came drifting into camp from somewhere on the trail. Soon Ham came into view, a cotton flour sack thrown over his shoulder and a broad grin on his face. He had left his pole in the thicket.