One of the fellows had brought his mouth-organ, and under his leadership they sang every song from "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" to "Nearer, My God, to Thee." When the fire had had time to work its wonders on the hearts and spirits of the campers, Mr. Allen suggested a few stories. Of course, he just voiced what was in the minds of many others, for who ever heard of a campfire, a grand night, a happy crowd, and no stories? Such a situation was inconceivable. Every fellow looked forward to the campfire because of the stories, and remembered the stories because of the campfire. They were inseparable. Mr. Dean opened the program. One story suggested another, and that one another, until nearly every one in the circle had told a story except Ham. Willis told Indian legends of the great Kankakee Swamp and of the disappearance of the Pottawattomie Indians. Another told of a wonderful trip through Yellowstone Park; another of a deer hunt in Routt County; and still another of a mountain goat expedition in the Canadian Rockies. All the while Ham lay flat on his back, shading his face from the fire with his hands, and looking up at the stars. He was reveling in the spirit of the fire and of the night.
"What are you dreaming about, Ham?" called Willis from the other side of the fire, to which Ham made no reply.
"What's on your mind?" asked Fat, as he rolled over, facing Ham, and punched him in the ribs.
"Nothing special," drawled Ham as he rose to a sitting position and drew his legs up under him. "I've just been listening. Your stories have been the words to the music that is in the air to-night. I love to lie still before a fire and listen to its music. I never realized before how many out-of-door noises are liberated when a pile of dry sticks are burned. That old fire has just been singing all the imprisoned songs of the forest wild to-night, and giving out again in its little flames a hundred thousand tons of absorbed sunshine."
"Ham, let's have the Pike's Peak story," urged Mr. Dean; but Ham only laughed.
"Yes, let's do," begged Willis.
"What's the Pike's Peak story?" inquired Sleepy from his place against an old stump.
"Well, if every one of you fellows will promise to never mention it again to me," said Ham hesitatingly; "but I'm not going to tell you all the details—just the plot—remember that!" He settled himself comfortably and began:
"The three of us had been in the habit of taking long Sunday afternoon tramps in the mountains, but because of the cold weather we had been pretty well shut in all winter. The snowfall for the season had been heavy and the cold, especially in the mountains, had been intense. It was the eighth of March, I think, and the very first signs of spring had just put in their appearance. We decided that we would walk to the Half-Way House on the Cog Road, or at least as far as we could. We didn't know how much snow there was, or where it began, but we were all feeling good and anxious for another real hike. We were all three dressed in our Sunday clothes, and I was the proud possessor of a new spring suit and a pair of low shoes. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when we started up the track from Manitou; by five o'clock we reached the Half-Way House, and much to our surprise found the keeper there. We had encountered very little or no snow that far on the track, and, as the days were getting longer, we knew we had two good hours yet before dark. We inquired of the inn keeper how far the track was open, and he informed us that it was clear as far as Windy Point, that there the great ice sheets began. There is always more snow on the great south shoulder of the Peak than anywhere else. You remember Son-of-a-Gun Hill? Well, we decided that we would push on to the top of Son-of-a-Gun, then come back. We left the Half-Way House and started up the track. The walking was fine on that flat stretch just after you leave the inn, and we covered space very rapidly. At the bottom of the great hill, in a grove of young aspens, we stopped and cut us some walking sticks.
"If it had been summer, and the snow and ice gone, we would probably have noticed that there was a terrible storm gathering in the valley back of Cameron's Cone; but with the range all white and dreary we did not notice it. You fellows who have lived here near the mountain know that a storm often rises up there as if by magic. They come so quickly you often wonder where they came from. Of course, being directly in the shadow of Pike's Peak, the sun went down very early, and our twilight was not as long as we anticipated. I was the first to notice the cold breeze that had sprung up, and I remarked about it; but we were walking fast and were really too much interested in reaching the edge of the snow to pay much attention to anything. Suddenly it grew dark and the wind increased. In less than ten minutes we were in the midst of a howling mountain blizzard and the snow was being driven before the wind at a terrific speed. John suggested turning back, but Al and I were for pushing on, thinking it was just a squall, and, as it seemed to be headed straight down the canyon, we thought we would soon get above it. John insisted that we were crazy, but we made all manner of fun of him, so on we went.