1. Pals
Sam was meditating. Tipped back in a chair made of river alder and willow, he leaned against the log wall of his cabin. His shoeless feet were swathed in wrinkled socks of the kind that come to a point at the toe where a tuft of thread keeps the cotton yarn from unraveling. Sam’s blue shirt was faded from too many washings in the creek below the cabin. The only unfaded portions of the shirt were hidden by his wide, yellow suspenders.
Sam’s tired, blue eyes stared out over his “stompin’ ground,” which was a high mesa overlooking the blue depths of Shadow Canyon. Across the mesa meandered a chain of castle rocks. This outcropping was red and yellow in color. It stood on edge, silent evidence of the upheaval which had formed the Crazy Kill Mountains millions of years before. Sam’s toothless gums clamped down on the stem of his cold pipe. Keeping the pipe right side up was the heaviest work Sam planned for that morning.
Out in a lush meadow which crowded like a green carpet around the castle rocks there was plenty of healthy contrast to the lazy inactivity that filled Sam. He let his eyes wander fondly over the scene. Up near the base of the biggest castle five fat yellowbelly whistlers romped about among the rocks. A sixth sat like a round ball of silver fur, perched on the top of a high rock. The old rockchuck on guard was as relaxed and lazy as Sam, except for his beady eyes. Those eyes saw everything that moved, as far away as the spruce woods which bordered the upper side of the mesa.
Sam studied the yellowbelly whistlers with a spark of interest in his faded eyes. They were yellowish animals with long, silvery hairs covering their brown coats, giving them a shining appearance when they romped in the sun. They had dark-brown heads and tails, and a whitish band across their faces. They rolled through the grass and over the rocks, front end up, hind end up, rocking along on their stubby legs.
Many smaller fellows courted the protection of the yellowbellies, making good use of the sharp eyes of the sentinel whistler perched high on his lookout. A dozen rockchips dodged about in the grass while as many more sat on little rocks and stared away toward the snow-capped peaks of the Crazy Kill Range. These potbellied little brownies of the high country were well content with the crumbs from the great one’s table. The keen eyes and the ready blast of warning from the high rock removed their chief worries. The sentinel whistler was sure to announce the arrival of the swift-hawk, the laughing coyote, the martens, or the bobcat. There were many other enemies of the air and the forest and the whistler watched for and spotted all of them.
Then there was the calico chip, a two-striped ground squirrel whose vast energy always made Sam feel tired. The calico chips dashed about with an energy which had undoubtedly been intended for some much larger animal, but must have been misplaced when Mother Nature laid out the blueprints of creation. The calico chips were always too busy chasing bugs or gathering and storing seeds to pause for meditation. They left foolish gawking into space to the potbellied rockchips. But their little ears were always tuned to catch the warning blast of the big whistler.
There was a sprinkling of lesser chipmunks, a dozen or more. Sam noted with satisfaction that their number was increasing. He had brought two pairs in with him several summers before. They were active, noisy little fellows, dashing about, hoisting their tails like flags when they came to a halt. Every so often one of them would dash to a rock and jump on top of it. He would sit very straight and burst into song.
“Chock! Chock! Chock!” in quick succession, like the rattle of an old alarm clock. Sometimes the song would be pitched higher and would go “Check, check, check, chir-r-r-up!” No sooner had one chipmunk mounted his song perch than all the others would dart to theirs, always the same perches. The meadow would ring with their chorus.
Their round of music never failed to disturb the fat sentinel whistler. He would shake his silver robe, stretch his neck, then blast three short, sharp notes on his whistle, after which he would settle back with a deep chuckle.