I
Two weeks later a light buckboard bearing Welton and Bob dashed in theearly morning across the plains, wormed its way ingeniously through gapsin the foothills, and slowed to a walk as it felt the grades of thefirst long low slopes. The air was warm with the sun imprisoned in thepockets of the hills. High chaparral, scrub oaks, and scattered, unkemptdigger pines threw their thicket up to the very right of way. It was ingeneral dense, almost impenetrable, yet it had a way of breakingunexpectedly into spacious parks, into broad natural pastures, intobold, rocky points prophetic of the mountains yet to come. Every once ina while the road drew one side to pause at a cabin nestling among fruittrees, bowered beneath vines, bright with the most vivid of the commonerflowers. They were crazily picturesque with their rough stone chimneys,their roofs of shakes, their broad low verandahs, and their split-picketfences. On these verandahs sat patriarchal-looking men with sweepingwhite beards, who smoked pipes and gazed across with dim eyes toward thedistant blue mountains. When Welton, casually and by the way, mentionedtopographical names, Bob realized to what placid and contentedretirement these men had turned, and who they were. Nugget Creek, FlourGold, Bear Gulch--these spoke of the strong, red-shirted Argonauts ofthe El Dorado. Among these scarred but peaceful foothills had beenplayed and applauded the great, wonderful, sordid, inspired drama of theearly days, the traces of which had almost vanished from the land.
Occasionally also the buckboard paused for water at a more pretentiousplace set in a natural opening. There a low, rambling, white ranch-housebeneath trees was segregated by a picket fence enclosing blossoms like abasket. At a greater or lesser distance were corrals of all sizesarranged in a complicated pattern. They resembled a huge puzzle. Thebarns were large; a forge stood under an open shed indescribablylittered with scrap iron and fragments of all sorts; saddles hungsuspended by the horn or one stirrup; bright milk pails sunned bottom-upon fence posts; a dozen horses cropped in a small enclosed pasture ordozed beneath one or another of the magnificent and spreading live-oaktrees. Children of all sizes and states of repair clambered to the fencetops or gazed solemnly between the rails. Sometimes women stood in thedoorways to nod cheerfully at the travellers. They seemed to Bob acomely, healthy-looking lot, competent and good-natured. Beyond anoccasional small field and an invariable kitchen garden there appearedto be no evidences of cultivation. Around the edges of the naturalopening stretched immediately the open jungle of the chaparral or thepark-like forests of oaks.
"These are the typical mountain people of California," said Welton."It's only taken us a few hours to come up this far, but we've struckamong a different breed of cats. They're born, live and die in thehills, and they might as well be a thousand miles away as forty orfifty. As soon as the snow is out, they hike for the big mountains."
"What do they do?" inquired Bob.
"Cattle," replied Welton. "Nothing else."
"I haven't seen any men."
"No, and you won't, except the old ones. They've taken their cattle backto the summer ranges in the high mountains. By and by the women and kidswill go into the summer camps with the horses."
On a steep and narrow grade they encountered a girl of twenty riding aspirited pinto. She bestrode a cowboy's stock saddle on which was coiledthe usual rope, wore a broad felt hat, and smiled at the two men quitefrankly in spite of the fact that she wore no habit and had beencompelled to arrange her light calico skirts as best she could. Thepinto threw his head and snorted, dancing sideways at sight of thebuckboard. So occupied was he with the strange vehicle that he paidscant attention to the edge of the road. Bob saw that the passage alongthe narrow outside strip was going to be precarious. He prepared todescend, but at that moment the girl faced her pony squarely at the edgeof the road, dug her little heels into his flanks, and flicked himsharply with the _morale_ or elongated lash of the reins. Withouthesitation the pony stepped off the grade, bunched his hoofs and sliddown the precipitous slope. So steep was the hill that a man would havehad to climb it on all fours.
Bob gasped and rose to his feet. The pony, leaving a long furrow in theside of the mountain, caught himself on the narrow ledge of a cattletrail, turned to the left, and disappeared at a little fox trot.
Bob looked at this companion. Welton laughed.
"There's hardly a woman in the country that doesn't help round up stock.How'd you like to chase a cow full speed over this country, hey?"
As they progressed, mounting slowly, but steadily, the character of thecountry changed. The canons through which flowed the streams becamedeeper and more precipitous; the divides between them higher. At onepoint where the road emerged on a bold, clear point, Bob looked back tothe shimmering plain, and was astonished to see how high they hadclimbed. To the eastward and only a few miles distant rose the dark massof a pine-covered ridge, austere and solemn, the first rampart of theSierras. Welton pointed to it with his whip.
"There's our timber," said he simply.
A little farther along the buckboard drew rein at the top of a longdeclivity that led down to a broad wooded valley. Among the trees Bobcaught a glimpse of the roofs of scattered houses, and the gleam of ariver. From the opposite edge of the valley rose the mountain-ridge,sheer and noble. The light of afternoon tinted it with lilac and purple.
"That's the celebrated town of Sycamore Flats," said Welton. "Just atpresent we're the most important citizens. This fellow here's the firstyellow pine on the road."
Bob looked upon what he then considered a rather large tree. Later hechanged his mind. The buckboard rattled down the grade, swung over abridge, and so into the little town. Welton drew up at a low, broadstructure set back from the street among some trees.
"We'll tackle the mountain to-morrow," said he.
Bob descended with a distinct feeling of pleasure at being able to usehis legs again. He and Welton and the baggage and everything about thebuckboard were powdered thick with the fine, white California dust. Atevery movement he shook loose a choking cloud. Welton's face was a dullgray, ludicrously streaked, and he suspected himself of being in thesame predicament. A boy took the horses, and the travellers entered thepicketed enclosure. Welton lifted up his great rumbling voice.
"O Auntie Belle!" he roared.
Within the dark depths of the house life stirred. In a moment a capableand motherly woman had taken them in charge. Amid a rapid-fire ofgreetings, solicitudes, jokes, questions, commands and admonitions Bobwas dusted vigorously and led to ice-cold water and clean towels. Tenminutes later, much refreshed, he stood on the low verandah looking outwith pleasure on the little there was to see. Eight dogs squattedthemselves in front of him, ears slightly uplifted, in expectancy ofsomething Bob could not guess. Probably the dogs could not guess either.Within the house two or three young girls were moving about, singing andclattering dishes in a delightfully promising manner. Down the windinghill, for Sycamore Flats proved after all to be built irregularly on aslope, he could make out several other scattered houses, each with itsdooryard, and the larger structures of several stores. Over all loomedthe dark mountain. The sun had just dropped below the ridge down whichthe road had led them, but still shone clear and golden as an overlay ofcolour laid against the sombre pines on the higher slopes.
After an excellent chicken supper, Bob lit his pipe and wandered downthe street. The larger structures, three in number, now turned out to bea store and two saloons. A dozen saddle horses dozed patiently. On theplatform outside the store a dozen Indian women dressed in bright calicohuddled beneath their shawls. After squatting thus in brute immobilityfor a half-hour, one of them would purchase a few pounds of flour or ahalf-pound of tea. Then she would take her place again with the others.At the end of another half-hour another, moved by some sudden andmysterious impulse, would in turn make her purchases. The interior ofthe store proved to be no different from the general country storeanywhere. The proprietor was very busy and occupied and important andinterested in selling a two-dollar bill of goods to a chance prospector,which was well, fo
r this was the storekeeper's whole life, and he had indefence of his soul to make his occupations filling. Bob bought a cigarand went out.
Next he looked in at one of the saloons. It was an ill-smelling, cheapbox, whose sole ornaments were advertising lithographs. Four men playedcards. They hardly glanced at the newcomer. Bob deciphered ForestReserve badges on three of them.
As he emerged from this joint, his eyes a trifle dazzled by the light,he made out drawn up next the elevated platform a buckboard containing asingle man. As his pupils contracted he distinguished such details as awiry, smart little team, a man so fat as almost to fill the seat, amoon-like, good-natured face, a vest open to disclose a vast whiteshirt, "Hullo!" the stranger rumbled in a great voice. "Any of my boysin there?"
"Don't believe I know your boys," replied Bob pleasantly.
The fat man heaved his bulk forward to peer at Bob.
"Consarn your hide!" he roared with the utmost good humour; "stand outof the light so I can see your fool face. You lie like a hound!Everybody knows my boys!"
There was no offence in the words.
Bob laughed and obligingly stepped one side the lighted doorway.
"A towerist!" wheezed the fat man. "Say, you're too early. Nothing doingin the mountains yet. Who sent you this early, anyway?"
"No tourist; permanent inhabitant," said Bob. "I'm with Welton."
"Timber, by God!" exploded the fat man. "Well, you and I are like tohave friendly doings. Your road goes through us, and you got to toe themark, young fellow, let me tell you! I'm a hell of a hard man to get onwith!"
"You look it," said Bob. "You own some timber?"
The fat man exploded again.
"Hell, no!" he roared. "Why, you don't even know me, do you? I'm Plant,Henry Plant. I'm Forest Supervisor."
"My name's Orde," said Bob. "If you're after Forest Rangers, there'sthree in there."
"The rascals!" cried Plant. He raised his voice to a bellow. "Oh, youJim!"
The door was darkened.
"Say, Jim," said Plant. "They tell me there's a fire over Stone Creekway. Somebody's got to take a look at it. You and Joe better ride overin the morning and see what she looks like."
The man stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Oh, hell!" said hewith deep feeling. "Ain't you got any of those suckers that _like_ toride? I've had a headache for three days."
"Yes, it's hard luck you got to do anything, ain't it," said Plant."Well, I'll see if I can find old John, and if you don't hear from me,you got to go."
The Supervisor gathered up his reins and was about to proceed when downthrough the fading twilight rode a singular figure. It was a thin, wiry,tall man, with a face like tanned leather, a clear, blue eye and adrooping white moustache. He wore a flopping old felt hat, a fadedcotton shirt and an ancient pair of copper-riveted blue-jeans overallstucked into a pair of cowboy's boots. A time-discoloured cartridge beltencircled his hips, supporting a holster from which protruded the shinybutt of an old-fashioned Colt's 45. But if the man was thus nondescriptand shabby, his mount and its caparisons were magnificent. The horse wasa glossy, clean-limbed sorrel with a quick, intelligent eye. The bridlewas of braided rawhide, the broad spade-bit heavily inlaid with silver,the reins of braided and knotted rawhide. Across the animal's brow ranthree plates of silver linked together. Below its ears were wide silver_conchas_. The saddle was carved elaborately, and likewise ornamentedwith silver. The whole outfit shone--new-polished and well kept.
"Oh, you John!" called Plant.
The old man moved his left hand slightly. The proud-stepping sorrelinstantly turned to the left, and, on a signal Bob could notdistinguish, stopped to statue-like immobility. Then Bob could see theForest Ranger badge pinned to one strap of the old man's suspender.
"John," said Plant, "they tell me there's a fire over at Stone Creek.Ride over and see what it amounts to."
"All right," replied the Ranger. "What help do I get?"
"Oh, you just ride over and see what it amounts to," repeated Plant.
"I can't do nothing alone fighting fire."
"Well I can't spare anybody now," said Plant, "and it may not amount tonothing. You go see."
"All right," said John. "But if it does amount to something, it'll getan awful start on us."
He rode away.
"Old California John," said Plant to Bob with a slight laugh. "Crazy oldfool." He raised his voice. "Oh, you Jim! John, he's going to ride over.You needn't go."
Bob nodded a good night, and walked back up the street. At the store hefound the sorrel horse standing untethered in the road. He stopped toexamine more closely the very ornate outfit. California John came outcarrying a grain sack half full of provisions. This he proceeded to tieon behind the saddle, paying no attention to the young man.
"Well, Star, you got a long ways to go," muttered the old man.
"You aren't going over those mountains to-night, are you?" cried Bob.
The old man turned quite deliberately and inspected his questioner in amanner to imply that he had committed an indiscretion. But the answerwas in a tone that implied he had not.
"Certain sure," he replied. "The only way to handle a fire is to stickto it like death to a dead nigger."
Bob returned to the hotel very thoughtful. There he found Mr. Weltonseated comfortably on the verandah, his feet up and a cigar alight.
"This is pretty good medicine," he called to Bob. "Get your feet up, youlong-legged stork, and enjoy yourself. Been exploring?"
"Listening to the band on the plaza," laughed Bob. He drew up a chair.At that moment the dim figure of California John jingled by. "I wouldn'tlike that old fellow's job. He's a ranger, and he's got to go and lookup a forest fire."
"Alone?" asked Welton. "Couldn't they scare up any more? Or are theyover there already?"
"There's three playing poker at the saloon. Looked to me like a foolway to do. He's just going to take a look and then come back andreport."
"Oh, they're heavy on reports!" said Welton. "Where is the fire; did youhear?"
"Stone Creek--wherever that is."
"Stone Creek!" yelled Welton, dropping the front legs of his chair tothe verandah with a thump. "Why, our timber adjoins Stone Creek! Youcome with me!"
The Rules of the Game Page 26
