Buffalo Roost Part 7

The guns were stacked in a handy place and supper operations gotten under way.

"It sure does smell awfully good up here," began Phil. "I wish we had gotten here before dark--I'd like to have had a little look around before I went to sleep. Who knows but we may be sleeping ten yards from a bear's den. We are up in a real wilderness, now!"

"Bears, your grandmother!" snorted Ham, as he deftly opened a can of baked beans with his pocket knife. "A lot of great big bare spots is about all you could find. Say, Phil, on the dead square, what would you do, now, if a black bear would sneak down here to-night and crawl into bed with you?" "I'd say, 'Mr. Bear, if you want a real sweet, tender morsel that's easily digested, just help yourself to that little imported Ham over there.'" A roar of laughter went up from the others.

Chuck was philosophizing about the value of gathering food while it was yet day, as he sat stowing away his quart of fresh raspberries.

"You can have all you want of them," retorted Mr. Allen. "I'm seedy enough now, without eating those things."

"What's the matter, Willis? Did we walk you too hard?" inquired Fat.

"No, I could walk a hundred miles yet to-night," replied Willis, as he sliced up his bacon preparatory to frying it. "But this has been a very wonderful day for me. It's all so new, you know, and I'm green, too.

Besides, it all has a very special significance to me, some way. I love it. I like it better than anything in the world. I could live this way forever. I'm sure I could write poetry to-night, or paint a great picture, or even sing. It's a wonderful feeling. Did you ever feel that way? It's the charm of the great out-of-doors."

"I think we had better picket Willis to-night," dryly remarked Ham. "He's liable to be floating off in his enthusiasm. But if he happens to be fortunate enough to lie on a friendly pine knot all night, he'll feel differently in the morning."

So the merry talk went on. After supper bigger logs were laid on the fire. A collapsible canvas bucket, filled with drinking water, was hung on a low limb of the tree, and the supply of night wood was conveniently placed near Mr. Allen's end of the bed.

Then Ham got a long, cotton bag, from which he produced several handfuls of pinion nuts. They were always the introduction to the camp-fire stories. He seated himself, drew his knees up close to his body, leaned back against the great tree trunk, and shouted: "All aboard, let her flicker. What's first? Mr. Allen, let's have that promised story you didn't get out of Dad. I believe you just side-tracked him on purpose, so you could tell it yourself. Come, now, wasn't that it?" He began to whistle in a low tone as he waited for the story. Fat stretched himself at full length before the fire, his head resting on his blanket roll.

Phil had backed up on one side of Mr. Allen and Willis on the other. Everybody was waiting.

"Well, once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a little fairy,"

began Mr. Allen.

"You don't say so," interrupted Ham, as he tossed a stick into the fire in a disgusted manner. "Was it fairy long ago? I can recite Mother Goose rhymes myself. You'll have to do better than that."

Phil nudged Mr. Allen in the ribs and chuckled to himself.

"Well, then, how's this: Not many years ago, in a wonderful little village, there--"

"Was a wooden wedding at which two Poles were married," interrupted Ham, with a mischievous grin on his face.

"You're kind of hard to please, Ham," suggested Fat, as he rolled over to warm his other side.

"How's this? The night was dark and stormy," started in Mr. Allen. Ham settled back contentedly. "That's something like it. 'The night was dark and stormy,' and what else?"

"Well, if you must have it. I have heard a good many stories of how the Old Road House was burned, but they are all different. Which one shall I tell you? I'll tell you the one that Daddy tells himself, because it probably comes nearest the truth. As a matter of fact, though, I don't believe any one knows just how it burned down.

"You know Dad spent his boyhood on a great southwestern cattle ranch, and knew at first hand a great many things about Indians and tramping and mining and 'explorin',' as he calls it. Just why he left this ranch life he never told me exactly, but I know he had his first case of real gold fever in forty-nine, and has never gotten over it. His father was a United States marshal, and was instrumental in gathering in a number of the most notorious criminals of his day. One of Dad's favorite stories is of the capture of a gang of Mississippi River pirates.

"It was Dad's father that finally cleaned out this great nuisance when he captured Mason, their leader, through the treachery of his fellows. When the final raid was made, Dad, who was then a young man, was one of the party. It seems that there was a certain boy in this pirate gang who escaped, after having been arrested with the others. Several years later Dad had occasion to remember the threats this boy had made to him at the time of the raid.

"Dad was out on a trapping trip with a group of professional trappers, and, as was the custom, each man had taken with him two good horses, one to carry his share of the hides and his food supply, the other to be used in case of emergency. They were trapping in the Arkansas valley, and after a few weeks out they began to suspect that their camp was being watched by a large band of hostile Indians. They understood the situation perfectly. The Indians were not following them for murder or for a mere fight, but for their horses and furs. They would not attack, however, until they were reasonably sure of getting away with the desired booty without loss of life to their own party.

"The trappers' hunt had been a very successful one, and a large amount of money was already represented in the heavy packs of fur. Each night these packs of fur were carefully arranged in a big circle, forming a crude rampart for the party. The furs gave the men reasonable safety as they slept, for no arrow, however swift, could penetrate a roll of green hides. The horses were always securely fastened not far from the camp, and guards posted at night.

"Finally the ideal night for attack came. It was dark as pitch, not even a star showing in the cloudy sky. As night fell, it was so stormy that the usual night guard was not deemed necessary. Instead, every man went to sleep. Sometime in the night Dad was suddenly awakened by the pounding of many hoofs on the hard gravel of the valley. In less than a second the entire camp was awake, and every man gripped his rifle in readiness. No one dared to leave the rampart. Safety lay in being all together. The pounding of hoofs grew louder and louder, the picketed horses whinnied, then there was a wild gallop past the little camp, accompanied by fiendish yells. Not a man dared to investigate, for fear of ambush. All that they could do was to patiently await the coming of morning.

"With the first rays of light all looked anxiously toward where the horses had been picketed so carelessly. They were gone, every one of them. A hasty examination told the tale. Under the cover of the intense darkness, the hobbles and the picket ropes had been cut at the pins, so as not to disturb the horses or waken the sleeping trappers. After the ropes were cut, the Indians had ridden pell-mell past the free animals, and they, finding their fastenings gone, had joined the stampede. It was a clever game, and the trappers had lost. What were they to do--fifteen days' journey from any a.s.sistance, and not a horse within a hundred miles?

"As they climbed a hill on the far side of the river, to take a look at the surrounding country, they heard a faint whinny, and there, in the bottom of the gulch, lay one of their horses, stretched at full length.

His feet had become entangled in the long picket rope, and he had fallen at the edge of the washout with a badly-broken leg. The party gathered about the unfortunate animal, lamenting the fact that he must be shot to relieve him of his suffering.

"As they stood talking, Dad noticed a movement in a nearby clump of bushes. Was he mistaken? He quietly told his partner what he had seen, and, with rifles leveled, the two cautiously approached the spot. There was, however, no need of fear, for it turned out to be only a young Indian boy, and he badly injured. He had probably been riding the horse before its fall. Everybody was for instantly shooting the lad except Dad, who protested, explaining that the boy might be able to give them valuable information as to the number of Indians in the war party, and something of their future plans. This seemed to be reasonably wise, so the wounded Indian was taken back to the trappers' camp.

"For many days he kept silence, never once speaking to any one, growing weaker and weaker every day from his injuries. Finally he was taken with an awful fever, and every man in the party knew that nothing could possibly save him. Dad nursed him and cared for him as patiently as if he had been one of their own party. When the Indian learned that he was to be treated kindly for the present, at least, he called for Dad, making feeble signs that he wanted to talk to him secretly. After a long and painful effort he made Dad understand who was with the band of Indians, and why they had watched the trappers so long and so closely. There was a certain pale face with them who was their leader and who had been a 'heap big robber' on the big river. He had offered a reward for Dad's life to every Indian in the party. He had invented the stampede, and when the men were faint with hunger and watching, they would be back to kill them all.

Dad was to be hung in honor of the occasion, to celebrate the day the pirate had made his escape from Dad's father. In a few hours the Indian died. Dad kept his secret to himself, although he was greatly disturbed over it. He was being hunted--hunted by a savage worse than any red man that ever shot a bow or took a scalp. He remembered, now, that many of his comrades of that memorable raid had since mysteriously disappeared.

The truth flashed upon him in an instant. Shorty Thunder, the river pirate, was taking his revenge. Slowly but surely he was hounding down every man that had sought his life that day.

"In a few days the trapping party was picked up by another hunting party.

"What's the matter, Ham? Are you getting sleepy?" called Mr. Allen as he arose to replenish the fire. Ham had sprawled out on the ground and was looking off into the dark woods, all alert.

"Sh-h-, you," he whispered as he motioned them not to move. "I saw something move out there in those bushes just now; I'll bet my hat on it."

"O sugar," said Phil. "Something moved, did it? What do you suppose it was, an elephant?"

Just then Fat raised his finger cautiously. "Quiet, there, a second, you rubes. Use your eyes more instead of your mouths, and you'll see more.

Can't you see that light spot right over there?" pointing into the darkness with a very crooked stick he had been fooling with. All sat quietly listening and watching, but to no avail. They could see nothing.

"Go on with your story, Mr. Allen," urged Ham. "What's river pirates got to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that's what I'd like to know." The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.

"Well, it's like this, Ham," continued Mr. Allen. "Every great story has a preface, and I've been telling you the preface so far." Ham let out a few long, extra well-developed snores. "Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to the beginning of the first chapter, will you?"

"Finally Dad came to Colorado--just why, I don't know; but he prospected hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in Cripple Creek he was right on hand. In 1873, I think it was, the county built the Cripple Creek Stage Road. Dad was a pretty old man then, but not too old to see his opportunity. With a little outside capital, he constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House. In a short time after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon producing a nice little revenue for Dad.

"The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and stormy. It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full blast. The thunder and lightning were terrific. When the down stage pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the night, fearing a possible cloudburst. It happened that the stage was full of pa.s.sengers that night. There was a little Irishman who had just discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch.

Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his business all to himself. As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little incidents that gave evidence to his own theory. For instance, several times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out into the night. He seemed very nervous about something. He did not mingle with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself. When it became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch near the fireplace. Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.

"The storm was at its worst. Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad's dog let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls. Dad shouted down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat outside. He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and scratched at the door. There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in a peal of thunder, then the cry of 'Fire!' The smoke of the burning logs was already streaming up the open stairway. The outside door opened and shut, yet the dog was left inside. Almost before the sleeping guests could grab their clothes, the whole house was a sheet of flame. There was a wild scramble for the back stairway. Dad hurried down the front way, stumbling through the smoke to the door. The dog gave a joyous bark and sprang toward him. As he opened the door, he stumbled over a large oil-can that always stood just under the stairway. He didn't think of it at the time because of his excitement, but later, as he puzzled over the real cause of the fire, he remembered with startling distinctness his stumbling over the empty oil-can, which he knew had been full the day before. As months went by he put this with other little bits of information, and he believed he understood, yet he had no proof. The old man who had slept downstairs had oiled the entire first floor, then set it afire. But why? That was the question.

"He remembered how the old man had insisted that the house had been struck by lightning. Dad never saw him again after that night, but a few months afterwards he recognized him in a description of one of the robbers of a stage coach, held up at Duffield's. Then, like a flash, it came to Dad. The old-timer was his enemy of the river pirates, old Shorty Thunder. He had accidently stumbled onto Dad here in these mountains, and had determined to settle scores once for all. He had meant by setting fire to the cabin to burn Dad alive, and if it hadn't been for the dog he probably would have succeeded."

"Great old tale," sighed Phil, as he arose and stretched himself.

"Let's turn in," suggested Fat, "for you know we have some walking ahead of us to-morrow." "Second the motion," joined in Ham. "Me for a good, big drink, though, to wash that fairy tale down. How about it?"

The little party gathered close about the fire after all final arrangements had been made for the night. Boots were pulled off and set away from the fire. Watches were wound and trousers unbuckled. They had all instinctively looked toward the "Chief." He had drawn close to the fire, and was turning over the leaves of a pocket Testament.

"What will you have to-night, fellows, from the Great Spirit's Message before we sleep?"

"The one about the lilies," said Ham thoughtfully. "There are several big ones in bloom just at the head of my bed." The "Chief" began to read in low, reverent tones.

"And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." So he went on reading till he came to the end of the chapter, after which there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for bed.

"They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of G.o.d," snorted Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, "but they aren't in it with a night like this spent in the open in such a country."

"There's a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham," said Mr.

Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.