“Yes,” he answered stoutly, “I’d like to hear it.”
For a few moments, the guide, marshal and sheriff, said nothing. Then he recharged his pipe, threw a couple of bits of mesquite upon the fire and resumed his position.
“When I’m done,” he said at last, “ye’ll say I’m bughouse. They all do. Anyway, ye’ll know why I’m Sink Hole Weston.”
Roy breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Weston’s tone was calm enough.
“In ninety-eight, I brung a party of railroad prospectors to Durango,” Mr. Weston began. “That winter, I herded sheep and fit Utes. In the spring, I was sick o’ Injuns and I made up my mind to do a little minin’. Jist then, a couple o’ fellers named Labarge an’ Moffett showed up in camp. They wuz nice men an’ it wuz bad fur ’em an’ others what happened to ’em, but it came nigh bein’ as bad fur me. These men come all the way from Washin’ton to make a map o’ the San Juan river. They had money an’ a outfit an’ a boat that come in pieces. The wages they offered me to go with ’em settled the minin’ idee.
“In May, when the arroyos wuz bank full and better, we toted the pieces o’ that boat up in the San Juan mountains beyant Pagasa Peak. Two weeks later, down about Alcatrez—or whar Alcatrez is now—we found timber and them fellers figured out they wanted a raft big enough to carry us an’ the boat. We made it. But it must a bin a bum raft. At the first bad rapids we struck, whar the river cuts through the Carriso mountains, the raft went to pieces and we all went down. Labarge he never did come up.”
“Drowned?” exclaimed Roy.
“An’ smashed,” explained Weston, tamping his pipe. “We saved the boat, an’ me and Moffett went on. The river was now sartin deep in the canyon. Mebbe Moffett knowed whar we was, but I didn’t. He put it down in his book. Then it got so bad thar was not no stoppin’ any more an’ we jist shot ahead. I don’t know whar we wuz, as I said, but it wuz about four days arter Labarge was lost ’at Moffett figgered out he was due to climb out o’ the canyon. It was like a mine shaft fur deep and dark, but he had some projeck about gettin’ his bearin’s. So we tried it. He lugged them instruments o’ his an’, I’ll say this fur him, he mighty near done it when somepin’ happened. He dropped six hundred feet like a rock.”
Roy shuddered and pulled his blanket nearer the fire. Mr. Weston snapped a piece of mesquite.