Elam Storm, the Wolfer; Or, The Lost Nugget

by Harry Castlemon

If Tom had any idea of a landslide, it was a little piece of ground which could be thrown away in half a day's time; but the sight of a real landslide was what took his breath away. He didn't eat a very hearty supper after that, for the thought that was uppermost in his mind was that the men who had stood by him, and of whom he had a right to expect something better, had completely fooled him in regard to Elam Storm's nugget. Instead of telling him that there wasn't any show at all of his success, they had fitted him out and sent him away to put in a month of his time. There was one thing about it: he would not go back until every mouthful in the pack-saddle had been eaten. That much he was determined on.

"I had an idea that cowboys were above suspicion, but now I know they are not," said Tom spitefully. "I can waste a month of their grub as well as anybody, and I won't put a spade in the ground until I see some prospects of success."

At the end of a week Tom was still of the same determination, although he saw much to discourage him. It was landslides everywhere, and the mark of a man's spade was on every one; so it showed that the bronco had been over that same ground before. The way was getting lonely, they were getting deeper and deeper into the mountains, and somehow Tom felt very disconsolate. A deep silence brooded over everything—a silence so utterly mysterious that he was not accustomed to it. How gladly he would have welcomed Jerry Lamar and listened to news from home and from the uncle he had deserted. Another week and Tom found himself hopelessly in a pocket. Turn which way he would, there was no chance for him to get out. The man had been there before him—indeed, he seemed to have gone into all the places and thrown out just earth enough to prove that he had been there, but not enough to accomplish anything. It was just enough to let Tom see how useless it was to dig there.

Tom's two weeks of tramping in the mountains had given him a ravenous appetite; his bronco was hitched so that he could not take to his heels and leave his master to find his own way home; and as he sat there on his blanket, dividing his attention between his cup of coffee, hard-tack, and bacon, he thought seriously of going back to headquarters. This was undoubtedly the remotest point reached by the man, and if one of his experience should be frightened out by a few shovelfuls of earth, or scared at finding himself in a pocket, Tom thought himself entitled to follow his lead. It had taken him two weeks to reach the pocket (he had managed to keep close run of the days); it would probably take him fully as long to return, and so he would fill Mr. Parsons' contract anyway. And so it was settled that he was to go home; but there's many a slip between determining upon a thing and doing it. He finished his coffee and bacon, led the horse down to the spring, from which he had scraped the leaves, to give him a drink, and rolled himself up in his blanket to go to sleep with his ready rifle safe beside him.

How long he slept he did not know, but he was awakened about midnight by a sound he had never heard before. It came from his horse, but it wasn't a neigh: it was the sound of fear, and made the cold chills creep all over him. He started up with his rifle in his hand, but did not have time to get off the blanket. Another shriek, which sounded like somebody in fearful bodily agony, came from the bushes, and the next minute the horse was on the ground and struggling in the grasp of some animal or thing which Tom could not remember to have seen or heard of before. It had a long neck, long legs, and a wonderfully high body which was increased materially by a hump on its back. The horse was as nothing in its grasp, and the struggle took place not over ten feet from the blanket on which Tom was sitting.

"Great Moses!" was Tom's mental ejaculation.

He sat for an instant as if spellbound, and then his rifle arose to his face. He was sure he had a good shot at it and expected to see it drop; but instead of that it gave another shriek, tossed the horse away from it, breaking like thread the lariat with which he was confined, and with a single jump disappeared in the bushes. Tom listened, but could hear no sound coming from it to tell what sort of a beast it was. Then he got upon his feet and turned his attention to the wounded horse. He was past the doctor's aid, for he was dead.

"Well, that beats me," said he, going back to the fire and starting it up, so that he could see what sort of wounds the beast had made. "I never heard of an animal like that before."

A good many boys would have been startled pretty near to death by the sudden appearance of an apparition like that. It must be possessed of tremendous power to toss the broncho about as it did, and break the lariat with which he was fastened. No ghost could do that, and neither could a ghost have made that wide and fearful rent that Tom found when he had punched up the fire. Tom thought it best to build up a bright blaze, for he did not know how long it would be before the animal would come back to finish its work. He loaded the rifle carefully and placed the revolver where he could get his hands upon it at a moment's warning. He thought of grizzly bears, but had never heard of them taking to the bushes on account of a single bullet.

"It couldn't have been a panther or a bear, unless my eyes were deceiving me, for it was at least four times as big as the horse," said Tom, picking up a brand from the fire and once more approaching the specimen of the apparition's handiwork. He hadn't been in sight more than a minute, and yet the horse was as dead as a door-nail. "He must have been a flesh-eater, for nothing else that I know of could have made such wounds. I am beat. Now, how am I going to find my way home?"