The Boys of Crawford's Basin Part 7

The labor of cutting, hauling and housing the ice fell to Joe and me, my father having generally plenty of other work to do. He had taken in a number of young cattle for a neighboring cattleman for the winter, and having sold him the bulk of our hay crop and at the same time undertaken to feed the stock, this daily duty alone took up a large part of his time. Besides this, "the forty rods" having become pa.s.sable, the freighters and others now came our way instead of taking the longer hill-road, and their frequent demands for a sack, or a load, of oats, and now and then for hay or potatoes, added to the work of stock-feeding, kept my father pretty well occupied.

Joe and I, therefore, went to work by ourselves, beginning operations on that part of the pool nearest the point where the water used to pour in.

We had taken out ten or a dozen loads of beautiful, clear ice, when, one day, Yetmore, who was riding down to San Remo, seeing us at work, stopped to watch us.

He was a queer fellow. Though he must have been perfectly well aware that we distrusted him; and though, after the late affair of the lead-boulder--a miscarriage of his schemes which was doubtless extremely galling to him--one would think he would have rather avoided us than not, he appeared to feel no embarra.s.sment whatever, but with a greeting of well-simulated cordiality he dismounted and walked over to the pool to see what we were doing. Perhaps--and this, I think, is probably the right explanation--if he did entertain the idea of some day "getting even" with us, he had decided to postpone any such attempt until he saw an opportunity of doing so at a profit.

"Fine lot of ice," he remarked, after standing for a moment watching Joe as he plied the saw. "Does this creek always freeze up like this?"

"Yes," I replied. "It heads in Mount Lincoln, and is made up of a number of small streams which always freeze up about the first of November.

That reduces the flow to about one-third its usual size; and when the little streams which come down from three or four of the 'bubbles'

freeze up too, the creek stops entirely; which makes it mighty convenient for us to cut ice, as you see."

"I see. Is the pool the same depth all over?"

"No," I answered. "Just here, under the fall, it is deepest, but round the edges it is so shallow that we can't take a stroke with the saw, the sand comes so close up to the ice. In fact, in some places, the ice rests right upon the sand."

"How deep is it here?"

"Four or five feet, I think. Try it, Joe."

Joe, who had just laid down the saw and had taken up the long ice-hook we used for drawing the blocks of ice within reach, lowered the hook, point downward, into the water. Then, pulling it out again, he stood it up beside him, finding that the wet mark on the staff came up to his chin.

"Five feet and three or four inches," said he.

"Is the bottom solid or sandy?" asked Yetmore.

"I didn't notice. I'll try it."

With that Joe lowered the pole once more.

"Seems solid," he remarked, giving two or three hard prods. But he had scarcely said so, when, to our surprise, several bits of rough ice about as big as my hand bobbed up from the bottom.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Yetmore. "Ground ice!"

"What's ground ice?" I asked.

"Why, ice formed at the bottom of the pool. It is not uncommon, I believe, though I don't remember to have seen any before. Pretty dirty stuff, isn't it? Must be a sandy bottom."

So saying, he stooped down, and picking up the only bit of ice which happened to be within reach, he examined its under side. As he did so, I saw him give a little start, as though there were something about it to cause him surprise, but just as I reached out my hand to ask him to let me see it, he threw it back into the water out of reach--an action which struck me as being hardly polite.

"I must be off," said he, in apparent haste, "so, good-bye. Hope you will get your crop in before it snows. Looks threatening to me; you'll have to hurry, I think."

This prediction seemed to me rather absurd, with the thermometer at zero and the sky as clear as crystal; but Yetmore was an indoor man and could not be expected to judge as can one whose daily work depends so much upon what the weather is doing or is going to do. It did not occur to me then--though it did later--that he only wanted us to get to work again at once, and so divert our minds from the subject of the ground ice.

As I made no comment on his remark, Yetmore walked away, remounted his horse and rode off; while Joe and I went briskly to work again.

We had been at it some time, when Joe stopped sawing, and straightening up, said:

"It's queer about those bits of ground ice, Phil. Do you notice how they all float clean side up? Wait a bit and I'll show you."

Taking the ice-hook, he turned over one of the bits with its point, showing its soiled side, but the moment he released it, the bit of ice "turned turtle" again.

"Do you see?" said he. "The sand acts like ballast. It must be heavy stuff."

"Yes," said I. "Hook a bit of it out and let's look at it."

This was soon done, when, on examining it, we found the under side to be crusted with very black sand, which, whatever might be its nature, was evidently heavy enough to upset the balance of a small fragment of ice.

"What is it made of, I wonder?" said Joe.

"I don't know," I replied, "but perhaps it is that black sand which the prospectors are always complaining of as getting in their way when they are panning for gold."

"That's what it is, Phil, I expect," cried Joe. "And what's more, that's what Yetmore thought, too, or else why should he throw that bit of ice back into the water so quickly when you held out your hand for it? He didn't want you to see it."

"It does look like it," I a.s.sented. "Poke up a few more, Joe, and we will take them home and show them to my father: perhaps he'll know what the stuff is."

Joe took the ice-hook and prodded about on the bottom, every prod bringing up one or two bits of ice, each one as it bobbed to the surface showing its sandy side for a moment and then turning over, clean side up. Drawing these to the edge of the ice, we picked them out, laying them on a gunny-sack we had with us, and when, towards sunset, we had carried home and housed our last load, and had stabled and fed the mules, we took our sc.r.a.ps over to the blacksmith-shop, where the tinkle of a hammer proclaimed that my father was at work doing some mending of something.

He was much interested in hearing of the ground ice and of the way it brought up the black sand with it, and still more so in our description of Yetmore's action.

"Let me look at it," said he; and taking one of our specimens, he stepped to the door to examine it, the light in the shop being too dim.

He came back smiling.

"Queer fellow, Yetmore!" said he. "One would think that the lesson of the lead-boulder might have taught him that a man may sometimes be too crafty. I think this is likely to prove another case of the same kind. I believe he has made a genuine discovery here--though what it may lead to there is no telling--and if he had had the sense to let you look at that piece of dirty ice, instead of throwing it back into the water, thus arousing your curiosity, he would probably have kept his discovery to himself. As it is, he is likely to have Tom Connor interfering with him again--that is to say, if this sand is what I think it is. I don't think it is the 'black sand' of the prospectors--it is too s.h.i.+ny, and it has a bluish tinge besides--I think it is something of far more value. We'll soon find out. Give me that piece of an iron pot, Phil; it will do to melt the ice in."

Having broken up some of our ice into small pieces, we placed it in a large fragment of a broken iron pot, and this being set upon the forge, Joe took the bellows-handle and soon had the fire roaring under it. It did not take long to melt the ice, when, pouring off the water, we added some more, repeating the process until there was no ice left. The last of the water being then poured away, there remained nothing but about a spoonful of very fine, black, s.h.i.+ny sand.

The receptacle was once more placed upon the fire, and while my father kept the contents stirred up with a stick, Joe seized the bellows-handle again and pumped away. Presently he began to cough.

"What's the matter, Joe?" asked my father, laughing.

"Sulphur!" gasped Joe.

"Sulphur!" cried I. "I don't smell any sulphur."

"Come over here, then, and blow the bellows," replied Joe.

I took his place, but no sooner had I done so than I, too, began to cough. The smell of sulphur evidently came from our spoonful of sand, and as I was standing between the door and the window the draft blew the fumes straight into my face. On discovering this, I pulled the bellows-handle over to one side, when I was no more troubled.

The iron pot, being set right down on the "duck's nest" and heaped all around with glowing coals, had become red-hot, when my father, peering into it, held up his hand.

"That'll do, Phil. That's enough," he cried. "Give me the tongs, Joe."

My father removed the melting-pot, and making a hole with his heel in the sandy floor of the shop, he poured the contents into it.

"Lead!" we both cried, with one voice.

"Yes, lead," my father replied. "Galena ore, ground fine by the action of water."