The Cave of Gold<br />A Tale of California in '49, Everett McNeil [best books for students to read .txt] 📗

passing, unless he chanced to see them. Then the trail again entered the defiles of the mountains, where the going was rough and difficult and sometimes dangerous, on account of their not being able to see clearly in the dim light of the moon; but Mr. Conroyal kept pressing steadily and silently onward, and as steadily and as silently all the others followed.

There was no talking, even after they had passed the danger zone. No one seemed to care to talk. There was something in the mystery of the night and the wilderness, in the white light of the moon falling on tree and rock and mountain and valley, in the silence of the vast surrounding forests and mighty piles of towering rocks that stilled the tongue.

For a couple of hours they journeyed steadily and silently on through the moonlit wilderness; and then Mr. Conroyal came to a halt in a narrow little valley.

"I reckon we've thrown the scoundrels off the trail by now, if we are going to to-night," he said; "and so we might as well go into camp again and rest up until sunrise; and as this looks like a good place we will go into camp right there under those trees," and he pointed toward a little grove of evergreen oaks that grew a few rods away.

All were tired and all were sleepy; and, consequently, all welcomed the decision to go into camp, and acted on it so promptly that, in fifteen minutes, all, except the guard, were rolled up in their blankets and soon were sound asleep.

CHAPTER XXII THE MYSTERY OF THE TENT

"I reckon we otter make Humbug Canyon afore dark tew-night," Ham declared, as our friends, notwithstanding the break in their rest of the night before, moved out of the little valley, where they had camped, as soon as it became light enough to see the trail the next morning.

"Yes," assented Mr. Conroyal, "but we will have to keep going to do it. Do you suppose we fooled Ugger and his gang and threw them off our trail last night?" and he turned a little anxiously to Ham and Frank Holt, who were walking by his side.

"If they didn't have no one on watch, I reckon we did," answered Ham; "but it's more'n likely they're cunnin' enough tew be on th' lookout for jest such tricks an' that they know right now where we be. They know it wouldn't dew for them tew lose track of us in this here wilderness of mountains, where 'twould be like tryin' tew find a needle in a haystack tew try tew hit our trail ag'in, once it was lost; an' so, I reckon, some on 'em has got an eye on us right now, an' that we'll have tew play a shrewder trick than that tew fool 'em. But, maybe, 'twill work all right as a sort of a blind, an' make them think that we think that we have fooled them, an' so make 'em keerless, so that we can fool 'em th' next time. What dew you think, Steeltrap?" Ham still frequently called Frank Holt by his old name, Steeltrap Smith, a name that had been given to him on account of his skill as a trapper, when his own name was unknown even to himself, as the readers of this series of books will remember.

"I think you are about right, Ham," replied Holt, "although I should not be much surprised if we gave them the slip last night. I kept watch all the time that we were on the move yesterday, but nary a sign of anybody following our trail could I discover. They sure must have a cunning trailer, or else they're not depending on keeping us in sight. Perhaps they got more about the trail from the old miner than we think they did, and are on the watch for us at some point ahead, which they know we must pass."

"That's a shrewd guess, Frank," declared Mr. Conroyal. "Now," and his face brightened, "why wouldn't it be a good plan for us not to pass through Humbug Canyon at all; but to go around it and to try to hit the trail again on the other side? If there is any place ahead where they would be likely to be on the watch for us, it is at Humbug Canyon, because that is the last place on the trail they could be sure of without the map. The trouble will be to get around Humbug Canyon. Maybe there is no trail that we can follow but the one running through the canyon. Anybody here know anything about the region around Humbug Canyon?" and, raising his voice, he stopped and looked inquiringly around.

"Yes, a little," answered Dickson, quickly coming forward. "I spent about two weeks last fall prospecting in the mountains around it. What would you like to know?"

"Can we go to one side of Humbug Canyon and hit the trail to the Cave of Gold again beyond?" inquired Conroyal eagerly. "If there has been anybody stationed in Humbug Canyon to look out for us, we would like to fool them by not passing through it at all."

"I think we might do it by working around through Owl Gulch about five miles to the east of Humbug Canyon," Dickson answered thoughtfully: "but it will be considerable out of our way and the trail won't be nigh as good. I am not absolutely sure, but I think we could get through all right that way and not go nigh Humbug Canyon."

"Shall we risk it?" and Mr. Conroyal turned to the men, all of whom had been interested listeners to his query and to Dickson's answer.

"I think the idea a good one," declared Mr. Randolph, "because, if the old miner told them that the trail to the cave passed through Humbug Canyon, they'd be sure to have someone on the watch for us there; and, I reckon, we are good enough mountaineers to find the trail on the other side without much trouble."

"My sentiments tew a ha'r," agreed Ham emphatically. "Let's hit for Owl Gulch. 'Twould be worth goin' a hundred miles out of th' way tew shake them skunks."

"All right," and Mr. Conroyal turned to Dickson. "You are the guide from now on, Dick, so step to the front and we will follow."

This plan appeared to please all except Pedro, who, bending down by the side of one of the horses and pretending to tighten a rope holding the pack, scowled furiously and swore violently, under his breath, in Mexican; and the scowl was still on his face, when he again straightened up and prepared to follow along with the pack-horses.

"What's the trouble, Pedro? Flapjacks getting busy?" and Thure turned a grinning face to the Mexican.

"No. Pack slip and pinch finger in rope. Now all right," and the smile came back on Pedro's face.

But Thure noticed that the scowl returned again and again to his face that forenoon, as he walked along by the side of the pack-horses.

"Reckon the break in his sleep has made him cross," he thought, and gave the matter no more attention.

At noon, when they stopped to give horses and selves a short rest and a chance to eat their dinners, Pedro slipped off behind a rock for some ten minutes; and, when the journey was resumed, he lagged a little behind the others, pretending to be tightening one of the packs, and, once again, managed to slip, unseen, a little piece of paper under a stone and leave it near the camp-fire over which Mrs. Dickson had heated the coffee. This little feat seemed to fully restore his good-nature; for there were no more scowls on his face that day.

About the middle of the afternoon Dickson halted, where the stream along whose bank they had been walking for the last two hours forked, one branch flowing almost directly from the north and the other coming from the east, with a huge triangle of mountains widening out between them.

"Thither runs the trail to Humbug Canyon," and he pointed to the northern stream; "and thither runs the trail to Owl Gulch," and his finger turned to the eastern branch. "We are now about two hours from Humbug Canyon and some four hours from Owl Gulch. Remember I am not absolutely sure I can find the trail the other side of Humbug Canyon; but I think I can. Stackpole and I went by way of the canyon. Now, which shall it be?"

"Owl Gulch," answered Mr. Conroyal promptly. "I reckon we can find the trail all right again—Hi, there, Pedro, what sort of a heathenish charm is that you are making?" and he turned abruptly to Pedro, who the moment they had stopped had begun scratching curious lines with his knife on the face of a soft rock, by the side of which they had halted.

"Si, señor," and Pedro turned a solemn face to Mr. Conroyal, "'tis but a holy cross I am cutting to scare the devils away from following us up that evil-smelling stream," and he pointed to the east fork of the little river, from which arose a faint odor.

"Wal," grinned Ham, "I shore dew hope that you scare 'em away; for thar shore is devils a-follerin' us," and his grin broadened at sight of the startled look that came into Pedro's face.

"Madre de Dios!" and Pedro crossed himself swiftly.

"But, even a devil must cotch a feller afore he can run his pitchfork intew him," and Ham chuckled; "an' we ain't cotched yit. As for that thar stream," and he chuckled again, "th' devil once took a drink out of it, an' it's smelt of his breath ever since."

"There, that will do, Ham," laughed Mr. Conroyal. "Come on," and he started up the east fork of the river.

Pedro, the snaky look in his eyes showing more plainly than ever, swiftly cut a small arrow, with its head pointing up the east fork of the rivulet, underneath the cross, slipped the knife back into its sheath, and followed with the pack-horses, his sallow face now all smiles. Evidently he had explicit faith in the power of his charm to keep the devils from following them up the evil-smelling stream.

That night our friends camped in Owl Gulch, a steep, narrow defile, little more than a crack in the huge walls of surrounding rock; and the next day, after much arduous and violent climbing for horses and men up the gulch and over the low back of a mountain, they passed down into a quiet little valley, just as the sun sank behind the tops of the mountains to the west.

The moment Dickson entered the valley he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "We've hit the trail again! I am sure this is the little valley where Stackpole and I camped the first night out from Humbug Canyon. There should be a spring bubbling out of the ground at the point of that spur of rocks where you see that little grove of trees," and he pointed to a small grove of trees that clustered about the point of a ridge of rocks that projected, like a long bony finger, from the side of the surrounding mountains down into the little valley. "We made our camp in the grove. I'll know the place for sure when we get there by a tree that Stackpole girdled," and, accompanied by Thure and Bud, he started on the run for the little grove of trees now about half a mile away.

In a few minutes the three reached the trees. The spring was there! By its side stood a tall sycamore tree, dead, its trunk having been girdled by an ax, as the deep scars in its bark still plainly showed.

"There," and Dickson pointed triumphantly to the tree, "there is my witness, the very tree that Stackpole girdled, in order that he might have plenty of dry wood the next time that he camped here. And see," and he pointed excitedly to the blackened remains of a camp-fire that did not look to be many weeks old, "there is where he camped on his way back from the Cave of Gold. We sure are in luck!" and he turned to shout the good news to the others, who were now pushing their way eagerly through the trees.

"Here is where we camp for the night," declared Mr. Conroyal, when the excitement and the jubilation of the discovery that they were surely on the right trail again had somewhat quieted down; and all at once began joyfully preparing the camp for the night.

"It's queer how things dew turn out sometimes," philosophized Ham, when all were seated around a blazing camp-fire, built from the limbs of the dead sycamore, after the supper had been eaten and all the camp