"No, Ham, he's just like me—busy thinking of the really admirable qualities of the old man. You would have to hunt a long, long time these days before you would find another such old timer as Dad. He has lived a rough life all his days. He has been knocked about from pillar to post for ninety long years. Just think of the store of experience that is gathered into that one life—frontiersman, cattle man, freighter, prospector, business man, soldier, and philosopher. Through all his disappointments, hardships, and discouragements he has still remained a decided optimist, always happy and cheerful, and is a veritable sage when it comes to good, common horse-sense. I'd rather take Dad's opinion of a man than any one's I know of in this world. It wouldn't be in polished English, but it would be shrewd and just."
From up the valley there came several long, heavy thuds. They soon reached the point where the valley widened out and the underbrush disappeared to give place to a splendid growth of tall, clean Douglas spruce. Somewhere back in the timber a woodsman was chopping.
As the trail wound in and out among the great tree trunks, the party soon came to a little clearing on which was pitched a small tent. Close beside it a little spring trickled out of a fissure in the rocks. At the far side of the tent, with his back to the approaching group, worked a man. He was engaged in chopping young spruce logs into lengths for mine props. Fat called out in his cheeriest voice, "Hello, there; must be going to build a cabin!" The man turned and a broad smile crossed his face.
"Yes, an underground one," he said. Then, in a surprised tone, he continued, "Well, well, aren't you the fellows I saw over at Ben's place the other evening?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Why, yes, there is my friend of the wreck! How do you do, lad? It looks like you fellows are going to make somewhat of a journey, from the appearance of your traps. Where to, may I inquire? Looking for something definite, or just out, like myself, to get a little of the wilderness spirit into your systems?"
"Well, I hardly expected to see you up here in the mountains," said Willis. "It seems we have met a good many times since spring. What are you doing up here, anyway?" He turned and surveyed the valley.
"Well, I'll tell you," replied the man, as he leaned on his ax-handle. "It's like this. When I was a young man, like yourself, I developed a great love for life in the wilderness. My father was a mountain ranchman in the Sierra Nevadas, so I had ample opportunity to satisfy my greatest desire—to roam the hills and valleys and to learn first-hand the art of getting along well in the wilderness by utilizing Nature's storehouse. As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy. Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed." He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent. "I've been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me. It's a funny thing about mines, boys—you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects. But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quantities. I've had the gold fever for twenty years."
"Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?" inquired Willis. "My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine—never developed. I'd love to find it, though, just because it was his. He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy."
The miner's face went suddenly white. His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, "Just as I thought," then continued, "Well, I—" He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments. When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.
"I can't tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know. That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn. That one with a dump of black rock," pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, "belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs—Williams and somebody." He never took his eyes from the boy's face as he spoke.
"Williams, why—why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn't know that he—"