"How do you make that out?" asked Ham.

"Well, you're just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously; but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create such a Nature." "Too deep for me, too deep for me; I'm no philosopher,"

grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night's sleep.

Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.

"Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say," he remarked half-aloud, as he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. "He's the very spit'n image of Bill, now that's dead sure, and there's one thing more that's certain." He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling in the sky far above them.

"That mine belongs to the boy, but how's he going to get it?"

He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came down the trail, the smell of Dad's simple supper came floating up to him.

He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him.

He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be something.

"Howdy, Tad, strike it rich to-day? S'pose ye jist been a shovelin' out nuggets all day long, till yer tired o' seein' 'em, hain't ye? Tad, I seed the beatenest bunch o' young'uns to-day ye ever seed in yer life, all on a explorin' trip o' some kind."

"That so?" replied Tad, "must have been the same party I saw. Did you see that tall, slender lad with the brown eyes and dark hair?"

"Yep, b'lieve I did, come t' think on it, only I didn't pay much pertic'lar 'tention to none of 'em."

Tad helped himself to an old chair, and, leaning back against the wall, lighted his pipe. He was quiet for a long time, then he spoke in a slow, thoughtful manner, his pipe held firmly between his teeth, his eyes fixed on a spot far away down the mountain.

"Dad, the boy has come. He's come to me, and he's just like his father--tall and straight and clean-cut. Dad, he needs a father, and perhaps I'll have to act in that capacity yet, who knows, for that uncle of his is a rascal and will bear a good deal of watching."

"What? Ye don't mean the young feller ye was a tellin' me about the other evenin'? Bill's boy really come to the mountains?" asked Dad, becoming interested at once.

"Yes, he's here, Dad, as sure as I'm a living man. He went up this trail this afternoon, and I talked with him. He asked about his father the first thing; said his father owned a mine up here somewhere, and asked me if I knew Tad Kieser."

"Shoot me fer a pole-cat. Well, I'll be dum-swizzled, course ye told him Yep, ye knowed him a little, didn't ye?"

"No, Dad, I didn't, and that's just what I've come down to talk to you about this evening. You see, it's like this: If I had told him who I was, that would have been the end of it, but if he doesn't really find out who I am for a while yet, perhaps I can locate a paying gold mine for him.

I always have felt that I owed him at least that much."

"So ye didn't tell him?" pondered Dad. "Well, Tad, yer head is a sight longer'n mine is, an' I s'pose ye know what's best; but, my boy, let me give ye a little advice: If ye wait till ye find a real gold mine in these here parts, the boy's likely as not to die o' old age 'fore ye find it."

"Perhaps so, Dad. Perhaps you're right; but then, if I don't ever find it, I won't tell him who I am, because he'd be disappointed. He thinks his father owned a real mine in these mountains somewhere, and he's looking for it. Do you know, I've been wondering--no, it can't be, though; I suppose I'm foolish, but someway, I've always felt that I ought to have been man enough to have worked the old tunnel just a little farther. Bill was so certain that things looked better, and--"

"Tad, hain't ye ever been in the old hole sence that day, honest Injun? I used t' think that's where ye went when ye'd go off fer a week er ten days in the hills all by yerself."

"No, Dad, I give you my word, I've never been in that hole since the day I carried poor Bill's broken body out. I've never been near since I put that great, heavy lock on the door, and then I dropped the only key into the old shaft. I thought that perhaps some time the temptation to go back in might be too strong, and I'd do it."

Both smoked silently for a long time, then Dad spoke:

"S'posin' somebody would jump ye over yonder, Tad. What's to hinder 'em a breakin' in an' startin' operations? I've heerd tell that old Williams claimed that property, but course it's a dern lie--"

"He couldn't jump it, Dad, because I hold the deed to it. We proved up on that, you know, the summer before; but I believe Williams does hold a placer claim on the property. You know placers can run into regular lode claims. He could claim the tunnel, all right, too, I suppose, if the owner couldn't be found. Especially since he seems to be the only relative Bill had, except his wife."

"What do ye s'pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer claim jest there, 'stead o' somewhere else? The dirt won't pan color, will it?" asked Dad. "That's just what has bothered me, Dad. The only way that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill's papers or letters. It wasn't two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there and staked that placer claim. He's worked a.s.sessments on it every year since. One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an a.s.sessment hole or two--most anything to get in the required hundred dollars' worth of working. It's that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested.

Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said. It's taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is something I don't know about the deal."

"Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we're a sittin' on a pile o' gold nuggets this minute; but we'll never see 'em; mark my words, boy, we'll never see 'em. G.o.d Almighty's a savin' 'em fer somethin', if there is any, an' if we ain't to have 'em, we'll never git 'em, that's sure."

After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad arose to go.

"Good-night, Dad, good-night," he said in an absent-minded way, as he started through the old door and up the trail.

Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and shining. A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens. The night was absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers. Far, far away a turtle dove was calling--calling so softly that it almost seemed to be imagination. Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few seconds.

Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him. He placed his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness. What was that? He shut his eyes that he might hear the better. He could not be mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap--one, two, three little dry, rasping sounds. Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel. Again he raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the shadows. There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct. The night breeze gently fanned the dying embers. Suddenly there was a series of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of light. Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself. Hardly had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.

"What is it, Mr. Allen?" softly whispered Willis. Mr. Allen jumped a trifle. "O, I don't know; I heard it a couple of hours ago. I'd like to see a wild animal, wouldn't you? I think it must be the fire that attracts it. I'd like to light my dark lantern, but I hate to strike a match." He leaned over to the fire, picked up a dry pine needle, and lighted it in the fire, applying the tiny flame to his opened lantern.

Quietly Mr. Allen opened the shield, and a long, bright gleam swept noiselessly out into the darkness, revealing with almost painful distinctness the outlines of every stem of gra.s.s and flower. Then, far at the end of the path of light, something moved. There were two small, luminous spots, then in an instant two more, a little larger. Slowly the shifting lights and shadows took shape, and there, before them, stood two deer--a doe and a tiny fawn.

"O, aren't they beautiful?" whispered Willis. Just then the fawn left its mother's side and came fearlessly down the path of light--one, two, six steps--staring into the wonderful, dazzling beam. There was a gentle call from the mother, and in an instant they had disappeared into the shadows from whence they had come. There was a bound, a broken twig, a rustle of dead leaves, and all was quiet again.

For a long time Willis and Mr. Allen waited, watching for them to return; but they did not come. The fire slowly died out and turned into a pile of ghostly ashes, while the party slept on until morning.

CHAPTER VIII

The Second Day Out

Ham was the first to awaken in the morning. A pair of saucy jays had been gossiping about the little party for nearly an hour. At first they just exchanged ideas, making their observations from a reasonable distance. One perched on the topmost limb of a dead pine, the other bobbing up and down on the slender twigs of a neighboring aspen.

"Those crazy jabberers would dispute the ident.i.ty of their own mates,"

exclaimed Ham, as he pulled on his trousers and got into his high boots.

"They talk about some folks always having too much to say, but--O, shut up, you noisy robbers!" He reached for a heavy stick, and sent it flying into the air toward the aspen. There was a flapping of wings, a harsh, scolding threat, and the jays retreated to talk it over.

Very soon the camp was all astir, and there was a general call for a fire.

"You don't want to forget that we have the most important ceremony of this entire trip to go through with here yet this morning before any of us can eat breakfast. What's your hurry, anyway? Get busy here, Fat, and get another armful of wood like this that I have. In about three shakes we'll have an altar built and we'll have our oracle fire burning in less than a jiffy. Be quick, now, but don't disturb the Spirit," cried Ham.

"Oracle fire, your grandmother," interrupted Phil. "I'm as hungry as a pet lion, and it's breakfast for me, and that right soon; oatmeal, a boiled egg, and some rye bread sounds about right!"

"Me, too," chimed in Fat, reaching for his haversack. "Hungry's no name, and I don't believe I brought enough grub, either."

"Stop!" shouted Ham. "Now, Mr. Philip Dennis, Jr., hear your humble servant, the Spook Doctor, for just about a second. Long, long ago, even before our friend, Zebulon Pike, took his first peek at Pike's Peak, there was a custom common to all the Indian tribes about us," making a gesture to include all the surrounding country, "and it was believed absolutely necessary to the happiness and well-being of their mighty warriors to indulge in this orgy at stated seasons." Ham was making wild gestures as he went on with his mock oratory. "Never was a hunt started, never was a journey undertaken, never a distant quest sought after, until the tribe had first slept, then gathered around the mystic altar of the Spook Doctor."

"Ham, you're a regular heathen," called Mr. Allen from his blanket. "What has the altar got to do with it, anyway?"

"Well, it's just like this," continued Ham. "After the first night's slumbers we build an Indian signal fire just like this, then in bare feet and empty stomachs we dance around the fire and implore the Mighty Night Wind to interpret the dreams we have had during our first night out.

They never fail to disclose the outcome of the journey, whether it will be a success or a failure." As he bent over and lighted the fire, he said, "You may be seated."

The childishness of it all appealed to every one of them, and they did as they were commanded. Then Ham solemnly and weirdly called, "Fat, you're first. Hurry, while the smoke is curling, curling upward."

Fat arose and made mock obeisance to the fire.