"What finally happened to your friend, Dad--did he get over his sorrow after a while?"

"No, no, my boy, he never got over it. He got on top of it. I mind now how he was gone a long spell in the timber; no grub, no duffel, no nothin'--only his ol' gun. He lived off'n the bounty o' these yere wooded hills, an' he let the spell o' G.o.d Almighty's woods an' crags an' streams heal up his broken heart. Then he came back. I remember one mornin' he come to my shanty, and a hungrier, starveder, wild-eyed feller ye never seed in yer born days than him; but shoot me fer a pole-cat if he didn't come back a smilin'. I was skeered he'd lost his mind. I was a pannin'

mud in the gulch up back o' the shanty when he come 'long the trail. I jist looked, then I knowed what had happened. He had licked that awful sorrow. He's ben off down in civilization now fer these ten years, but now he's back agin. The silent company is callin' him, he says, an' he jist has to have a free breath an' a little more pasture, an' this is the only place he can git it."

"He must have had an extraordinary companion, if he had learned to care for him in that way," remarked Mr. Allen.

"Extraordinary, yew say," began Dad in a low, measured tone. "Bet the last b.u.t.ton on your britches, he was that an' more. He was a youngish feller, an' quick as scat. Knowed more 'bout machinery 'n all the other fellers I ever knowed. Seems to me he growed up in Kankakee, or suthin'

like that, an' he was a--"

"Where did you say he came from, Mr. Wright?" asked Willis in a voice that betrayed his excitement. Willis had been thinking very rapidly as Dad told his story. What was there in this strange tale that so fascinated him, and made him want to cry aloud? He had never felt so strange before.

"Why, I don't 'zackly recollect," replied Dad. "It was Kankakee or Kangaroo, er some sech name. Many's the night he's stopped with me in the big cabin an' told me about all kinds o' machinery. The night the big cabin burned he was here a showin' me a lot o' plans of machinery he had got up himself. They were 'bout all he saved out o' the fire, 'cept his hide, an' that was some scorched.

"I never seed a man 'at went so plumb dumb crazy over a few gold nuggets as him. 'T was here at the old cabin he met his pard, an' they made plans fer a great minin' company. Of all the fellers they was settin' up machinery in the mines a dozen years ago, this feller was the best o'

the lot. Why, oncet he rigged up a--"

"O, Mr. Wright, were there lots of different men installing mine machinery here in the early days?" inquired Willis. A note of anxiety had crept into his voice.

"More'n one, do ye mean, lad? Well, I should snicker. I mind oncet they was five o' them at the cabin one night, an' every feller could prove that his machinery was the best. Sech a jamborees o' arguatin' I never heerd. I had to send 'em all t' their bunks t' keep 'em frum fightin'.

Laws, yes, plenty o' 'em, boy; but this one feller, I forgit his name, now--my pard could say it quicker'n scat--was wuth all the rest o' the bunch put together. He was a reg'lar genius with machinery."

Dad had been filling his pipe from the package Mr. Allen had given him.

He now lighted it and began to smoke. Mr. Allen knew that there would be no more stories that day, so, bidding good-bye to the old man, he suggested to the boys that they make a start for the Park. After a last drink from the cool, bubbling spring, they turned up the gulch, and were soon lost from view.

"Well, I hope you'll find explorin' a plenty, young fellers," called Dad.

"Keep yer eye peeled fer pole-cats. They's powerful friendly to strangers in these parts."

CHAPTER VII

A Wilderness Camp

As the little party climbed upward on the gulch trail, they were discussing Dad and what they knew of his life. Each boy telling little stories and incidents that he had heard concerning the old man. Willis lagged behind, and did not seem to be particularly interested in the conversation.

"Well, old man, what are you so glum about?" inquired Ham. "One would think you had been to a funeral instead of chatting with the most humorous of old mountaineers. You aren't getting weak in the knees already, are you?"

Mr. Allen came to the rescue.

"No, Ham, he's just like me--busy thinking of the really admirable qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is gathered into that one life--frontiersman, cattle man, freighter, prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when it comes to good, common horse-sense. I'd rather take Dad's opinion of a man than any one's I know of in this world. It wouldn't be in polished English, but it would be shrewd and just."

From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.

As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man.

He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props.

Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, "h.e.l.lo, there; must be going to build a cabin!" The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.

"Yes, an underground one," he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he continued, "Well, well, aren't you the fellows I saw over at Ben's place the other evening?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Why, yes, there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your systems?"

"Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains," said Willis. "It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are you doing up here, anyway?" He turned and surveyed the valley.

"Well, I'll tell you," replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle.

"It's like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest desire--to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature's storehouse. As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed." He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent. "I've been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It's a funny thing about mines, boys--you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quant.i.ties. I've had the gold fever for twenty years."

"Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?" inquired Willis. "My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine--never developed. I'd love to find it, though, just because it was his. He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy."

The miner's face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, "Just as I thought," then continued, "Well, I--" He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.

"I can't tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one with a dump of black rock," pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, "belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs--Williams and somebody." He never took his eyes from the boy's face as he spoke.

"Williams, why--why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn't know that he--"

The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding, "And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to a young engineer, and was located many years ago. The Williams shaft has been sunk in the last few years. That hole has the very best prospects of being something of any on the mountain. The Williams outfit restaked the claim because the a.s.sessment work had not been kept up by the original owner."

"What was the original owner's name? Do you know? You say he was a young engineer?"

"Yes, his name was Thornton." The man dropped his head and worked the heel of his boot nervously in the dirt. "I used to know him quite well, years ago." Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, "I haven't seen anything of him for nearly a dozen years."

The corners of Willis's mouth twitched nervously. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.

"Would you mind telling me all about him--all you know?" asked Willis.

The miner looked at him curiously a minute, then asked, in a quiet, well-controlled voice, "Did you know the man, lad?"

"Not so well as I would like to have known him, sir; but perhaps I may get better acquainted with him now. He was my father, but I hardly remember him, except for the stories and pictures that mother has told me about. I've always wanted to know more about him."

"I can't tell you much, my boy," returned the miner in a kind, friendly voice, "only that he was the best man that ever set a hoisting plant in this region, and the finest, cleanest young fellow that ever came into these hills. Every man was his friend."

"Did you ever know a Mr. Kieser who was a friend of my father's?" asked Willis, after a moment's thought.

"Seems like I did," replied the miner, "a great many years ago, but he disappeared from this region long since."

"Did you say the mine which once belonged to my father seemed to be the best in the canyon?" broke in Willis.

"Yes, it did, the last I knew of it; but nothing ever came of it, except that there have been two men there to-day, preparing to do this season's a.s.sessment work. You can never tell, you know, about a gold mine, for most of them have just been 'holes full of hope,' and the hope usually leaked out sooner or later."

Chuck halloed from up the trail to get under way, or they would never reach the top by dark.

"Going to camp up in the Park to-night, I presume?" asked the miner.

"Yes, if we can make it," replied Mr. Allen. "Have you been up to the top lately?" "Yes, I was up yesterday, and it's a grand sight at this season of the year. The Maraposa lilies are blooming in great profusion, and the spring is running a fine little stream. I had a very pleasant surprise up there, too. Years ago there was a large herd of deer which lived in that park, but they were supposedly all killed off. Yesterday, about this time, as I sat on a dead log just back from the spring, quietly thinking over some of the memories of old times when I had hunted on that very ground, I heard the dry twigs snap, and, turning, I saw a doe and two tiny, spotted fawns cross the park and enter the timber at the other side. If you build a fire to-night you may get a glimpse of them."

"I'm coming to have a long talk with you some of these days," called Willis as they started off.

At last the entrance to the Park was reached, and they came upon a stretch of level ground. The entire country changed. Instead of the stony tallus of the canyon, there was soft, black soil under foot. Instead of the great spruces and firs scenting the air, there were only tall, stately aspens on every side, their leafy tops lost in the deepening shadows. Instead of the ground cedar and berry bushes, wild gra.s.s grew in rank profusion. The air was tinged with a faint fragrance, and somewhere in the distance came the sound of gently-splashing waters, "Like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows."

The party halted and turned to the right of the trail, where a great, lone pine tree stood on a little rise of ground, directly above the tiny spring. This was to be the camping spot for the night. Packs were quickly removed and unfolded, dry sticks gathered for the fire, and sweet-scented balsam boughs were cut and brought to the tree. One generous bed was made, big enough for all, close in front of the camp-fire. Mr. Allen cleaned and filled his small acetylene lamp--"In case of need," he said.