Boys of Crawford's Basin

by John Henry Goldfrap

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE DRAINING OF THE "FORTY RODS"

  As soon as Yetmore was out of sight, Joe and I turned into the house,where we found that Peter, wise man, had gone to bed; an example wespeedily followed. But, tired though we were, we could neither of us goto sleep. For a long time we lay talking over the exciting events of theday, and going over the probable consequences, if, as now seemedcertain, we had indeed discovered the source of our underground stream.First and foremost, by diverting it we should dry up the "forty rods"and render productive a large piece of land which at present was morebane than benefit; we should bring the county road past our door; weshould more than double our supply of water for irrigation purposes--afact which, by itself, would be of immense advantage to us.

  At present we had no more than enough water--sometimes hardly enough--toirrigate our crops, but by doubling the supply we could bring into useanother hundred acres or more. On either side of our present cultivatedarea, and only three feet above it, spread the first of the oldlake-benches, a fine, level tract of land, capable of growing any crop,but which, for lack of water, we had hitherto utilized only as a drypasture for our stock. By a test we had once made of a little patch ofit, we had found that it was well adapted to the cultivation of wheat;and as I lay there thinking--Joe having by this time departed to theland of dreams--I pictured in my mind the whole area converted into oneflourishing wheat-field; I built a castle in the air in the shape of aflour-mill which I ran by power derived from our waterfall; and with atwo-ton load of flour I was in imagination driving down to San Remo overthe splendid road which traversed the now solid "forty rods," when alight shining in my face disturbed me.

  It was the sun pouring in at our east window!

  Half-past seven! And we still in bed! Such a thing had not happened tome since that time when, a rebellious infant, I had been kept in bedperforce with a light attack of the measles.

  Needless to say, we were up and dressed in next to no time, when, ondescending to the kitchen, we found another surprise in store for us.Peter was gone! He must have been gone some hours, too, for the fire inthe range had burned out. He had not deserted us, however, for on thetable was a bit of paper upon which he had written, "Back pretty soon.Wait for me"--a behest we duly obeyed, not knowing what else to do.

  About an hour later I heard the trampling of horses outside the frontdoor, and going out, there I saw Peter stiffly descending from the backof our gray pony; while beside him, with a broad grin on his jolly face,stood Tom Connor.

  "Why, Tom!" I cried. "What brings you here?"

  Tom laughed. "Didn't expect to see me, eh, Phil," said he. "It's Peter'sdoing. While you two lazy young rascals were snoring away in bed, hestarted out at four-thirty this morning and rode all the way up to mycamp to borrow my tools for you. And when he told me what you wanted 'emfor, I decided to come down, too. You did me a good turn in finding theBig Reuben for me--and 'big' is the word for it, Phil, I can tellyou--and so I thought I couldn't do less than come down here for a dayor two and give you a hand. It's probable I can help you a good bitwith your trench-cutting."

  "There's no doubt about that, Tom," I replied. "We shall be mighty gladof your help. You can give us a starter, anyhow. But you, Peter, wecouldn't think what had become of you. Don't you think it was a bitrisky to go galloping about the country with that game leg of yours?"

  "I couldn't very well go without it," replied our guest, laughing. "No,I don't think so," he added, more seriously. "It was easy enough, allexcept the mounting and dismounting. In fact, Phil, I'm so nearly allright again that I should have no excuse to be hanging around here anylonger if it were not that I can be of use to you by taking all thechores off your hands, thus leaving you and Joe free to get about yourwork in the crater."

  "That will be a great help," I replied. "Though as to letting you go,Peter, we don't intend to do that, at least till my father and motherget home."

  "When _do_ they get home?" asked Tom. "Have you heard from them sincethey left?"

  "Why!" I cried, suddenly remembering the letter Yetmore had brought upfrom San Remo the previous evening. "I have a letter from my father inmy pocket now. I'd forgotten all about it."

  Quickly tearing it open, I read it through. It was very short, beingwritten mainly with the object of informing me that he was delayed andwould not be home until the afternoon of the following Wednesday. Thiswas Friday.

  "Joe!" I shouted; and Joe, who was in the stable, came running at thecall. "Joe," I cried, "we have till Wednesday afternoon to turn thatstream. Four full days. Tom is going to help us. Peter will take thechores. Can we make it?"

  "Good!" cried Joe. "Great! Make it? I should think so. We'll do it if wehave to work night and day. My! But this is fine!"

  He rubbed his hands in anticipation of the task ahead of him. I neverdid know a fellow who took such delight in tackling a job which hadevery appearance of being just a little too big for him.

  We did not waste any time, you may be sure. Having picked out thenecessary tools, we went off at once, taking our dinners with us, andarriving at the foot of the "bubble," we carried up into the crater thedrills, hammers and other munitions of war we had brought with us.

  "I thought you said there was a driblet of water running out at thecrevice," remarked Tom. "I don't see it."

  "There was yesterday," I replied, "but it seems to have stopped. Iwonder why."

  "That's easily accounted for," said Joe. "It was those sacks lying inthe channel which backed up the water and made it overflow, and whenLong John cleared the course by pulling out the sacks it didn't overflowany more."

  "Then it's to Long John you owe this discovery!" cried Tom. "If 'TheWolf' hadn't blocked that channel the water would not have run down tothe canyon, and the other wolf would not have got his feet wet; and ifthe other wolf had not got his feet wet, you would never have thought ofcoming up here."

  "That's all true," I assented. "In fact, you may go further than thatand say that if John had not stolen the ore he would not have blockedthe channel with it, and we should not have found the spring; if Yetmorehad not given John leave to blow up your house, John would not havestolen the ore; if you had not bored a hole in Yetmore's oil-barrel,Yetmore would not have given John leave--it's like the story of 'TheHouse that Jack Built.' And so, after all, it is to you we owe thisdiscovery, Tom."

  "Well, that's one way of getting at it," said Tom, laughing. "But, comeon! Let's pick out our line and get to work."

  "This won't be so much of a job," he remarked, when we had gone over theground. "You ought to make quick work of it. We'll follow the wet markleft by the overflow, throw all these rocks out of the way, and thenpitch in and cut our trench. Come on, now; let's begin at once. Phil,you throw aside all the rocks you can lift; Joe, take the sledge andcrack all those too heavy to handle; I'll take the single-hand drill andhammer and put some shots into the big ones. Now, boys, blaze away, andlet's see how much of a mark we can make before sunset."

  Blaze away we did! Never before had Joe and I worked so hard for so longa stretch; not a minute did we lose, except on those four or fiveoccasions when Tom, having put down a hole into one of the largepieces, called out to us to get to cover, when, running for shelter, wecrouched behind some friendly rock until a sharp, cracking explosiontold us that another of the big obstructions was out of the way.

  So hard did we work, in fact, and so systematically, that by sunset wehad cleared a path six feet wide. There remained only one more of thebig rocks to break up, and into this Tom put a three-foot hole, which hecharged and tamped, when, sending us ahead to hitch up the horse, hetouched off the fuse, the explosion following just as we startedhomeward.

  "A great day's work, boys!" cried Tom. "If it wasn't for the trainingyou've had all winter handling rocks, you never could have done it.There is a good chance now, I think, of getting the trench cut beforeWednesday evening. I'll work with you all day to-morrow--I must get backto my camp then--and that will leave you two days and a
half to finishup the job. You ought to do it if you keep hard at it."

  By sunrise next morning we were at it again, working under Tom'sdirection, in the same systematic manner.

  "Take the sledge, Joe," said he, "and crack up the fragments of thatbig rock we shot to pieces last night. Phil, you and I will put down ourfirst hole, beginning here at the crevice and working upward. Now! Let'sget to work!"

  Tom and I, therefore, went to work with drill and hammer, Tom taking thelarger share of the striking; for though the swinging of the seven-poundhammer is the harder part of the work, the turning of the drill is themore particular, and as our instructor justly remarked, it was as well Ishould have all the practice I could get while he was on hand tosuperintend.

  The hole being deep enough, Tom made me load and tamp it with my ownhands, using black powder, which, though perhaps less effective for thisparticular kind of work than giant powder would have been, he regardedas safer for novices like ourselves to handle.

  Our first shot broke out the rock in very good style, and then, while Ibusied myself cracking up the big pieces and throwing them aside, Joetook my place.

  The second hole was loaded and tamped by Joe, under Tom's supervision;after which my partner once more took the sledge, while I turned drillagain.

  In this order we worked all day, making, before quitting time, suchencouraging progress that we felt very hopeful of getting the taskcompleted before my father's return.

  Tom having fairly started us, went back to his camp on Lincoln, leavingJoe and me to continue the work by ourselves; and sorely did we miss ourexpert miner when, on the Monday morning, we returned to the crater.Though we kept steadily at it all day, our progress was noticeablyslower than it had been the first day, for, besides the fact that therewere only two of us, and those the least skilful, as we ascended towardsthe stream each hole was a little deeper than the last, each charge alittle stronger, and each shot blew out a greater amount of rock to bebroken up and cast aside.

  Nevertheless, we made very satisfactory headway, and continuing our workthe next two days with unabated energy and some increase of skill withevery hole we put down, we made such progress that by two o'clock on theWednesday afternoon there remained but three feet of rock to be shot outto make connection with the channel.

  I was for blasting this out forthwith, but Joe on the other handsuggested that we trim up our trench a little before turning in thewater; for, hitherto, we had merely thrown out the loose pieces, andthere were in consequence many projections and jagged corners both inthe sides and bottom of our proposed water-course. These we attackedwith sledge and crowbar, and in two hours or so had them pretty wellcleared out of the way, when we went to work putting down our last hole.

  As we wanted to make a sure thing of it, we sank this hole ratherdeeper than any of the others, charging it with an extra allowanceof powder. Then, the tools having been removed, I touched off the fuseand ran for shelter behind the big rock where Joe was already crouching,making himself as small as possible. Presently there was a tremendousbang! Rocks of every size and shape were flung broadcast all overthe crater--some of them coming down uncomfortably close to ourhiding-place--but as soon as the clatter ceased, up we both jumped andran to see the result.

  Nothing could have been better. Our last shot had torn a great hole,extending across almost the whole width of the old channel, and ourtrench being six inches or more below the original level, the wholestream at once rushed into it, leaving its former bed high and dry.

  "Hooray, for us!" shouted Joe. "Come on, Phil! Let us run down and seeit go into the canyon."

  Away we went; but as the crater-side was pretty steep we had to descendwith some caution; whereas the water, having no neck to break, went downheadlong. The consequence was that the stream beat us to the canyon by ahundred yards, and by the time we arrived it was pouring over the edgein a sixty-foot cascade.

  We were in time, however, to see a wall of foam flying down the canyon; asight which, while it delighted us, at the same time gave us somethingof a start.

  "Joe!" I cried. "How about our bridge?"

  "Pht!" Joe whistled. "I never thought of it. It will go out, I'm afraid.Let us get down there at once."

  Off we ran to where our horse was standing, eating hay out of the backof the buckboard, threw on the harness, hitched him up, and scramblingin, one on either side, away we went as fast as we dared over theuneven, rocky stretch of the mesa which lay between us and home.

  The course of the stream being more circuitous than the one we tookacross country, we beat the water down to the ranch; but only by a fewseconds. We had hardly reached the bridge when the swollen stream leapedinto the pool in such volume that I felt convinced it would sweep itclear of all the sand in it whether black or yellow; rushed under thebridge, and went tearing down the valley--a sight to see! Luckily thecreek-bed was fairly wide and straight, so that the banks did not suffermuch.

  As to the bridge, the stringers being very long and well set, and thefloor being composed of stout poles roughly squared and firmly spikeddown, it did not go out, though the water came squirting up between thepoles in a way which made us fear it might tear them loose at anymoment.

  To prevent this, we ran quickly to the stable, harnessed up the mules tothe wood-sled, loaded the sled with some of our big flat lava-rocks, anddriving back to the bridge, we laid these rocks upon the ends of thepoles, leaving a causeway between them wide enough for the passage of awagon.

  We had just finished this piece of work, when we heard a rattle ofwheels, and looking up the road we saw coming down the hill anexpress-wagon, driven by Sam Tobin, a San Remo liveryman, and in thewagon sat my father and mother.

  "Why, what's all this?" cried the former, as the driver pulled up on thefar side of the bridge. "Where does all this water come from?"

  Then did the pent-up excitement of the past week burst forth. The floodof water going under the bridge was a trifle compared with the flood ofwords we poured out upon my bewildered parents; both of us talking atthe same time, interrupting each other at every turn, explaining eachother's explanations, and tumbling over each other, as it were, in oureagerness. All the details of the strenuous days since the snow-slidecame down--the discovery of the Big Reuben, the recovery of the stolenore, and above all the heading-off of the underground stream--were setforth with breathless volubility; so that if the hearers were a littledazed by the recital and a trifle confused as to the particulars, itwas not to be wondered at. One thing, at least, was clear to them: wehad found and turned the underground stream; and when he understoodthat, my father leaped from the wagon, and shaking hands with both of usat once, he cried:

  "Boys, you certainly _have_ done a stroke of work! If it had taken you ayear instead of a week it would have been more than worth the labor. Asto its actual money value, it is hard to judge yet; but whether thatshall turn out to be much or little, there is one thing sure:--we haveour work cut out for us for years to come--a grand thing by itself forall of us. And now, let us go on up to the house: Sam Tobin wants to getback home as soon as possible."

  This the driver was able to do at once, for the livery horses,frightened by the water which came spurting up through the floor of thebridge, declined to cross, so Joe and I, taking out the trunk, placed iton the wood-sled and thus drew it up to the house.

  As we walked along, my mother said:

  "So the hermit has been staying with you, has he? And what sort of a man_is_ your wild man now you've caught him?"

  "He isn't a wild man at all," cried Joe, somewhat indignantly. "He's afine fellow--isn't he, Phil? He has been of great help to us these lastfew days. We could never have finished our trench in time if he hadn'ttaken the chores off our hands. He is in the kitchen now, getting thesupper ready. I'll run and bring him out."

  So saying, Joe ran forward--we others walking on more leisurely--and aswe approached the house the pair came out of the front door side byside.

  In spite of Joe's assurance to the contrary,
my parents still had intheir minds the idea that any one going by the name of "Peter, theHermit" must be a rough, hirsute, unkempt specimen of humanity. Greatwas their surprise, therefore, when Peter, always clean and tidy, hishair and beard neatly trimmed in honor of their return, issued from thedoorway, looking, with his clear gray eyes, his ruddy complexion and hisspare, erect figure, remarkably young and alert.

  There was an added heartiness in their welcome, therefore, when Joeproudly introduced him; and though Peter threw out hints about sleepingin the hay-loft that night and taking himself off the first thing in themorning, my mother scouted the idea, telling him how she had longdesired to make his acquaintance, and intimating that she should take itas a very poor compliment to herself if he should run off the moment shegot home.

  So Peter, set quite at his ease, said no more about it, but went backinto the kitchen, whence he presently issued again to announce thatsupper was ready.

  A very hearty and a very merry supper it was, too, and long and animatedwas the talk which followed, as we sat before the open fire thatevening.

  "I feel almost bewildered," said my father, "when I think of the amountand the variety of the work we have before us; it is astonishing thatthe turning of that stream should carry with it so many consequences, asI foresee it will--that and Tom Connor's strike."

  "There's no end to it!" cried Joe, jumping out of his chair, striding upand down the room, and, for the last time in this history, rumpling hishair in his excitement. "There's no end to it! There's the hay-corral toenlarge--rock hauling all winter for you and me, Phil! We shall need anew ice-pond; for this new water-supply won't freeze up in winter likethe old one did! Then, when the 'forty rods' dries up, there will be theextension of our ditches down there; besides making a first-class roadto bring all the travel our way--plenty of work in that, too! Then, whenwe bring the old lake-benches under cultivation, there will be newheadgates needed and two new ditches to lay out, besides breaking theground! Then----Oh, what's the use? There's no end to it--just no end toit!"

  Joe was quite right. There was, and there still seems to be, no end toit.

  * * * * *

  The effect of Tom Connor's strike on Mount Lincoln was just what myfather had predicted: our whole district took a great stride forward;the mountains swarmed with prospectors; the town of Sulphide hummed withbusiness; our new friend, Yetmore, doing a thriving trade, while our oldfriend, Mrs. Appleby, followed close behind, a good second.

  As for Tom, himself, he is one of our local capitalists now, but he isthe same old Tom for all that. Just as he used to do when he was poor,so he continues to do now he is rich: any tale of distress will emptyhis pocket on the spot. Though my father remonstrates with himsometimes, Tom only laughs and remarks that it is no use trying to teachold dogs new tricks; and moreover he does not see why he should notspend his money to suit himself. And so he goes his own way, more thansatisfied with the knowledge that every man, woman and child in thedistrict counts Tom Connor as a friend.

  The fate of those two poor ore-thieves was so horrible that I hesitateto mention it. It was six months later that a prospector on one of thenorthern spurs of Lincoln came upon two dead bodies. One, a club-footedman, had been shot through the head; the other, unmistakably Long John,was lying on his back, an empty revolver beside him, and one foot caughtin a bear-trap. Though the truth will never be known, the presumption isthat, setting the stolen trap in a deer run in the hope of catching adeer, they had got into a quarrel; Clubfoot, striking at his companion,had caused him to step backward into the trap, when, in his pain andrage, Long John had whipped out his revolver and shot the other. Whathis own fate must have been is too dreadful to contemplate.

  And the Crawford ranch? Well, the Crawford ranch is the busiest place inthe county.

  Peter, for whom my parents, like ourselves, took a great liking, quicklythawed out under my mother's influence, and related to us briefly thereason for his having taken to his solitary life. He had been aschool-teacher in Denver, but losing his wife and two children in anaccident, he had fled from the place and had hidden himself up in ourmountains, where for several years he had spent a lonely existence withno company but old Socrates. Now, however, his house destroyed and hismountain overrun with prospectors, he needed little inducement toabandon his old hermit-life; and accepting gladly my father's suggestionthat he stay and work on the ranch, he built for himself a good logcabin up near the waterfall, and there he and Socrates took up theirresidence.

  There was plenty of work for him and for all of us--indeed, for thefirst two years there was almost more than we could do. It took thatlength of time for the "forty rods" to drain off thoroughly, but by themiddle of the third summer we were cutting hay upon it; the ore wagonsfrom Sulphide and from the Big Reuben were passing through in acontinuous stream; the stage-coach was coming our way; the old hill roadwas abandoned.

  In fact, everybody is busy, and more than busy--with one singleexception.

  The only loafer on the place is old Sox--tolerated on account of hisadvanced age. That veteran, whose love of mischief and whose unfailingimpudence would lead any stranger to suppose he had but just come out ofthe egg, spends most of his time strutting about the ranch, stealing thefood of the dogs and chickens; awing them into submission by hissupernatural gift of speech. And as though that were not enough, hiscrop distended with his pilferings to the point of bursting, he comesunabashed to the kitchen door and blandly requests my mother, of allpeople, to give him a chew of tobacco!

  But the mail-coach has just gone through, and I hear Joe shouting forme; I must run.

  "Yetmore wants fifty-hundred of oats, Phil," he calls out. "You and Iare to take it up. We must dig out at once if we are to get backto-night. To-morrow we break ground on our new ditches. A month or moreof good stiff work for us, old chap!"

  He rubs his hands in anticipation; for the bigger he grows--and he hasgrown into a tremendous fellow now--the more work he wants. There is nosatisfying him.

  We have been very fortunate, wonderfully fortunate; but I am inclined toset apart as pre-eminently our lucky day that one in the summer of '79,when young Joe Garnier, the blacksmith's apprentice, stopped at ourstable-door to ask for work!

  THE END

  _By Amy E. Blanchard_

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