CHAPTER XX
MR. WEBSTER'S SLASHING
A month passed, which the boys spent quietly in grubbing up stumps and chopping. Then Mr. Oliver suggested that they go over to Mr. Webster's ranch and burn off his slashing, as he had promised its absent owner to send them. He added that they could camp there for the night and get a little hunting when they had done the work. There was a nipping air when they started early in the morning, each with a packet of provisions and a blanket upon his shoulder, and the newly turned clods in the clearing were iron-hard. The Pacific Slope is warmer in winter than the Atlantic coast, but there are times when the cold snaps are sharp enough in its northern part, and the boys were glad to plunge into the shelter of the woods where the frost was less stinging.
They reached the ranch without much trouble, and when they stopped at the slip rails Frank, who had not been there before, looked about him. The bush clearings are much alike, but this one was smaller than Mr. Oliver's. A little, very rudely built log house stood at one end with thick timber creeping close up behind it. There was also an unusual quantity of underbrush among the stumps near the door, which Frank had occasion to notice more particularly later. In the meanwhile it struck him that the place had an uncared-for look and Harry seemed to share his opinion.
"Webster's a very ordinary rancher," he remarked. "He can't stay with a thing and finish it. When he's about halfway through he lets up and starts something else. Any other man would have grubbed out all that withered stuff about the house and chopped back the bush behind it. It's not safe to have big trees growing so close."
"Why?" asked Frank.
"Because of the fires. They come along every now and then. It's lucky there's no wind to speak of, because I wouldn't put a light to this slashing if there was."
Frank glanced at the belt of fallen timber behind the fence on one side of the clearing. It had been badly cut and some of the trees lay across each other, while only a few of the branches had been sawed off and the undergrowth had not been mowed. If the fall had not been a dry one it would have been difficult to burn the slashing. Then he glanced up at the leaden-gray sky above the pine tops and fancied that it looked threatening. The dense wall of somber sprays seemed unusually harsh of aspect, and there was something curious about the light. Everything was gray and raw-edged, and he shivered, for the faint wind had blown across a wilderness of snowy mountains.
"It's not the kind of day for hanging round," he said. "Let's get to work."
Entering the house they found a can of coal oil and plenty of rags, for a heap of worn-out clothing lay in a corner.
"They'll hold oil and that's about all they're good for," Harry remarked. "I expect it's months since Webster pitched them there with the idea that he might mend them sometime."