“Hark!” he whispered. “Somebody chopping.”
There was a sound as of metal being struck against stone somewhere ahead of us, so on we went again, making as little noise as possible, until presently Joe stopped again, and pointing forward, said softly, “There he is, look!”
The man was down in the creek-bed again, and all we could see of him above the bank was his hat. We therefore went forward once more, timing our steps by the blows of the hatchet, until we could see the man’s head and shoulders; but we did not gain much by that, as he had his back to us and was too intent upon his work to turn round. At length, however, he ceased chopping, and gathering the chips of frozen sand in his hands, he cast them to one side. In doing so, he showed his face for a moment, and in that brief glimpse I recognized who it was.
Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows, as much as to say, “Do you know him?” to which I replied with a nod, and laying my hand on my companion’s arm, I drew him back until only the top of the man’s hat was visible again, when I whispered, “It’s Long John Butterfield.”
“What! The man they call ‘The Yellow Pup’? How do you suppose he came to hear of the black sand?”
“From Yetmore. He is a prospector whom Yetmore grub-stakes every summer.”
“‘Grub-stakes,’” repeated Joe, inquiringly.
“Yes. Some prospectors go out on their own account, you know, but some of them are ‘grub-staked.’ This man is employed by Yetmore. He sends him out prospecting every spring, providing him with tools and ‘grub’ and paying him some small wages. Whether it is part of the bargain that Long John is to get any share of what he may find, I don’t know, but probably it is—that is the general rule. There is very little doubt that Yetmore has sent him out now, just as Tom has sent us out, to see which stream the lead-ore in the pool came from.”
“Not a doubt of it. Well, shall we go ahead and speak to him?”
Before I could reply, the man himself rose up, looked about him, and at once espied us. At seeing us standing there silently watching him, he gave a not-unnatural start of alarm, but perceiving that he had only two boys to deal with, even if we were pretty big, he climbed up the bank and advanced towards us with a threatening air.
Standing six feet five inches in his over-shoes, he was a rather formidable-looking object as he came striding down upon us, a shovel in one hand and a hatchet in the other; but as we knew him by reputation for a blusterer and a coward, we awaited his coming without any alarm for our safety.
Long John Butterfield was a well-known character in Sulphide. Though a prospector all summer, he was a bar-room loafer all winter, spending his time hanging around the saloons, and doing only work enough in the way of odd jobs to keep himself from starving until spring came round again, when Yetmore would provide for him once more.
It had formerly been his ambition to pass for a “bad man,” though he found it difficult to maintain that reputation among the unbelieving citizens of Sulphide, who knew that he valued his own skin far too highly to risk it seriously. He had been wont to call himself “The Wolf,” desiring to be known by that title as sounding sufficiently fierce and “bad,” and being of a most unprepossessing appearance, with his matted hair, retreating forehead, long, sharp nose and projecting ears, he did represent a wolf pretty well—though, still better, a coyote.
As the people of Sulphide, however, declined to take him at his own valuation, greeting his frequent outbreaks of simulated ferocity with derisive jeers—even the small boys used to scoff at him—he was reduced to practising his arts upon strangers, which he always hastened to do when he thought it was not likely to be dangerous. Unluckily for him, though, he once tried one of his tricks upon an inoffensive newcomer, with a result so unexpected and unwelcome that his only desire thereafter was that people should forget that he had ever called himself “The Wolf”—a desire in which his many acquaintances, whether working-men or loafers, readily accommodated him. But as they playfully substituted the less desirable title of “The Yellow Pup,” Long John gained little by the move.
It happened in this way: There came out from New York at one time a young fellow named Bertie Van Ness, a nephew of Marsden, the cattle man, some of whose stock we were feeding that winter. He arrived at Sulphide by coach one morning, and before going on to Marsden’s he stepped into Yetmore’s store to buy himself a pair of riding gauntlets. Long John was in there, and seeing the well-dressed, dapper little man, with his white collar and eastern complexion—not burned red by the Colorado sun, as all of ours are—he winked to the assembled company as much as to say, “See me take a rise out of the tenderfoot,” sidled up to Bertie, who was a foot shorter than himself, leaned over him, and putting on his worst expression, said, in a harsh, growling voice, “I’m ‘The Wolf.’”
It was a trick that had often been successful before: peace-loving strangers, not knowing whom they had to deal with, would usually back away and sometimes even take to their heels, which was all that Long John desired. In the present instance, however, the “bad man” miscalculated. The little stranger, seeing the ugly face within a foot of his own, withdrew a step, and without waiting for the formality of an introduction, struck “The Wolf” a very sharp blow upon the end of his nose, at the same time remarking, “Howl, then, you beast.”
Long John did howl. Clapping his hands over his face, he retreated, roaring, from the store, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of those present.
Thus it was that the name of “The Wolf” fell into disuse and the title, “Yellow Pup,” was substituted; and if at any time thereafter Long John became obstreperous or in any way made himself objectionable, it was only necessary for some one in company to say “Bow-wow,” when the offender would forthwith efface himself, with promptness and dispatch.
This was the man who came striding down upon Joe and me, looking as though he were going to eat us up at a mouthful and think nothing of it. Doubtless he supposed that, being country boys, we had not heard the story of Bertie Van Ness, for, advancing close to us he said fiercely:
“What you doing here? Be off home! Do you know who I am? I’m ‘The Wolf’!”
“So I’ve heard,” said I, calmly; a remark which took all the wind out of the gentleman’s sails at once. He collapsed with ridiculous suddenness, and with a sheepish grin, said, “I was only just a-trying you, boys, to see if you was easy scart.”
“Well, you see we’re not,” remarked Joe. “What are you doing up here? Pretty early for prospecting, isn’t it?”
“Not any earlier for me than it is for you,” replied Long John, with a glance at the hatchet in Joe’s hand. He was sharp enough.
Joe laughed. “That’s true,” said he. “I suppose we’re both hunting the same thing. Did you find any of it in that hole up there?”
Long John hesitated. He would have preferred to lie about it, probably, but knowing that we could go and see for ourselves in a couple of minutes, he made a virtue of necessity and replied:
“Yes, there’s some of it there; but it don’t amount to much. I guess the vein ain’t worth looking for. Come and see.”
We walked forward and looked into the hole Long John had chopped, when we saw that his prospector’s instinct had hit upon the right place again. Here also was a black streak an inch thick below the yellow sand.
It was evident that the vein of galena was somewhere up-stream, though we ourselves were unable to judge from the amount of the deposit whether it was likely to be big or little. Long John might be telling the truth when he “guessed” that it was not worth looking for, though, from what we knew of him, we, in turn, “guessed” that what he said was most likely to be the opposite of what he thought.
We could not tell, either, whether our new acquaintance was speaking the truth when he declared that he was satisfied with his day’s work and had already decided to go home again; I think it rather likely that, being unable to devise any scheme for shaking us off, and not caring to act as prospector for us as well as for Yetm
ore, he preferred to go back at once and report progress. He was right, at any rate, in saying that the drifts ahead were too deep to admit of further prospecting; for the mountains began to close in just here, and the snow was becoming pretty heavy.
Nevertheless, Joe and I thought we would try a little further, if only for the reason that Long John would not, and we were about to part company, when we were startled to hear a voice above our heads say, “Good-morning,” and, looking quickly up, we saw, seated on a dead branch, a raven, to all appearance asleep, with his feathers fluffed out and his head sunk between his shoulders.
That it was our friend, Socrates, we could not doubt, and we looked all around for the hermit, but as there was no one to be seen, Joe, addressing the raven, said:
“Hallo, Sox! Where’s your master?”
“Chew o’ tobacco,” replied the raven.
At this Long John burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a cute one,” said he; and thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out a piece of tobacco which he invited Socrates to come and get. Sox flew down to a convenient rock and reached for the morsel, but the moment he perceived that it was not anything he could eat, he drew back in disdain, and eying Long John with severity, remarked, “Bow-wow.”
Now, as I have intimated, nothing was so exasperating to Long John as to have any one say “bow-wow” to him, and not considering that the offender was only a bird, he raised his hatchet and would have ended Sox’s career then and there had not Joe stayed his arm.
At being thus thwarted, Long John turned upon my companion, and for a moment I felt a little uneasy lest his temper should for once get the better of his discretion; but I need not have alarmed myself, for Long John’s outbreaks of rage were always carefully calculated when directed against any one or anything capable of retaliation in kind, and very probably he had already concluded that two well-grown boys like ourselves, used to all kinds of hard work, might prove an awkward handful for one whose muscles had been rendered flabby by lack of exercise.
At any rate, he quickly calmed down again, pretending to laugh at the incident; but though he made some remark about “a real smart bird,” I guessed from the gleam in his little ferrety eyes that if he could lay hands on Socrates, that aged scholar’s chances of ever celebrating his one hundredth anniversary would be slim indeed.
“Who’s the thing belong to, anyhow?” asked John. “There’s no one living around here that I know of.”
“He belongs to a man who lives somewhere up on this mountain,” I replied. “You’ve probably heard of him: Peter the Hermit.”
“Him!” exclaimed Long John, looking quickly all around, as though he feared the owner might make his appearance. “Well, I’m off. I’ve got to get back to Sulphide to-night, so I’ll dig out at once.”
So saying, he picked up his long-handled shovel, and using it upside-down as a walking-staff, away he went, striding over the snow at a great pace; while Socrates, seeing him depart, very appropriately called after him, “Good-bye, John.”
* * *
CHAPTER VII
The Hermit’s Warning
As it was now after midday, we concluded to eat our lunch before going any further, so, sitting down on the rocks, we produced the bread and cold bacon we had brought with us and prepared to refresh ourselves. Observing this, Socrates, who had flown up into a tree when Long John threatened him with the hatchet, now flipped down again and took up his station beside us, having plainly no apprehension that we would do him any harm, and doubtless thinking that if there was any food going he might come in for a share.
I was just about to offer him a scrap of bacon, when the bird suddenly gave a croak and flew off up the mountain. Naturally, we both looked up to ascertain the reason for this sudden departure, when we were startled to see a tall, bearded man with a long staff in his hands, skimming down the snow-covered slope of the mountain towards us. One glance showed us that it was our friend, the hermit, though how he could skim over the snow like that without moving his feet was a puzzle to us, until, on approaching to within twenty yards of where we sat, he stuck his staff into the snow and checked his speed, when we perceived that he was traveling on skis.
“How are you, boys?” he cried, shaking hands with us very heartily. “I’m glad to see you again. Much obliged to you, Joe, for interfering on behalf of old Sox. I would not have the bird hurt for a good deal. I saw the whole transaction from where I was standing up there in that grove of aspens. Why did your companion go off so suddenly?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I only just mentioned to him that Sox belonged to you, when he picked up his shovel and skipped.”
Peter laughed. “I understand,” said he. “The gentleman and I have met before, and have no wish to meet again. Our first and only interview was not conducive to a desire for further acquaintance. He is not a friend of yours, I hope.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “We never met him before.”
“Well, I’m glad of that, because he is not one to be intimate with: he is a thief.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Joe, rather startled.
“Because I happen to know it’s so. I’ll tell you how. I had set a bear-trap once up on the mountain back of my house, and going up next day to see if I had caught anything, I found this fellow busy skinning my bear. He had come upon it by accident, I suppose, and the bear being caught by both front feet, and being therefore perfectly helpless, he had bravely shot it, and was preparing to walk off with the skin when I appeared.”
“And what did you say to him?” I asked.
“Nothing,” replied Peter. “I just sat down on a rock near by, with my rifle across my knees, and watched him; and he grew so embarrassed and nervous and fidgety that he couldn’t stand it any longer, and at last he sneaked off without completing his job and without either of us having said a word.”
“That certainly was a queer interview,” remarked Joe, laughing, “and a most effective way, I should think, of dealing with a blustering rogue like Long John.”
“Long John?” repeated the hermit, inquiringly.
“Yes, Long John Butterfield; known also as ‘The Yellow Pup.’”
“Oh, that’s who it is, is it? I’ve heard of him from my friend, Tom Connor.”
“Tom Connor!” we both exclaimed. “Do you know Tom Connor, then?”
“Yes, we have met two or three times in the mountains, and he once spent the night with me in my cabin—he is the ‘one exception’ I told you about, you remember. He seems like a good, honest fellow, and he has certainly been most obliging to me.”
As we looked inquiringly at him, wondering how Tom could have found an opportunity to be of service to one living such a secluded life as the hermit did, our friend went on:
“I happened to mention to him that I had great need of an iron pot, and three days afterwards, on returning home one evening, what should I find standing outside my door but a big iron pot, and in it a chip, upon which was written in pencil, ‘Compliments of T. Connor.’”
“Just like Tom,” said I, laughing. “He has more friends than any other man in the district, and he deserves it, for when he makes a friend he can’t rest easy until he has found some way of doing him a service.”
“And he’s as honest as they make ’em,” Joe continued. “If he’s a friend, he’s a friend, and if he’s an enemy, he’s an enemy—he doesn’t leave you in doubt.”
“Just what I should think,” said the hermit. “Very different from Long John, if I’m not mistaken. That gentleman, I suspect, is of the kind that would shake hands with you in the morning and then come in the night and burn your house down. What were you and he doing, by the way? I’ve been watching you for an hour. First one and then the other would kneel down in the snow and chop a hole in the bed of the creek, then get up, walk a mile, and do it again. If I may be allowed to say so,” he went on, laughing, “it appeared to an outsider like a crazy sort of amusement.”
“I should think it migh
t,” said I, laughing too; and I then proceeded to tell our friend the object of these seemingly senseless actions.
“And do you expect to go prospecting for this vein of galena in the spring?” he inquired, when I had concluded.
“Not we!” I exclaimed. “My father wouldn’t let us if we wanted to. We are doing this work for Tom Connor, whom my father is anxious to serve, he having done us, among others, a very good turn.”
“I see,” said the hermit. “And this man, Yetmore, or, rather, his henchman, Long John, will be coming as soon as the snow is off to hunt for the vein in competition with our friend, Connor.”
“That is what we expect.”
“Well, then, I can help you a little. We will, at least, secure for Connor a start over the enemy.”
“How?” I asked.
“You remember, of course,” said the hermit, “that sulphurous stuff that was cooking on the flat stone outside my door the day you came down to my house through the clouds? That was galena ore.”
“Why, of course!” I exclaimed, slapping my leg. “What pudding-heads we must have been, Joe, not to have thought of it before. I had forgotten all about it. Have you found the vein, then?”
“No, I have not; nor have I ever taken the trouble to look for it, having found a place where I can get a sufficient supply for my purposes to last for years.”
“And what do you use it for?” I asked.
“To make bullets from. I get the powdered ore, roast out the sulphur on that flat stone, and then melt down the residue.”
“And where do you get it?”
“That is what I am going to tell you. You know that deep, rocky gorge where Big Reuben had his den? Well, near the head of that gorge is a basin in the rock in which is a large quantity of this powdered galena, all in very fine grains, showing that they have traveled a considerable distance. That stream is one of the four little rills which make up this creek, and if you tell Connor of this deposit it will save him the trouble of prospecting the other three creeks, as he would otherwise naturally do; and as Long John will pretty certainly do, for the creek coming out of Big Reuben’s gorge is the last of the four he would come to if he took up his search where he left off to-day—which would be the plan he would surely follow. It should save Connor a day’s work at least—perhaps two or three.”
The Boys of Crawford's Basin Page 7
