“And where do you get it?”
“That is what I am going to tell you. You know that deep, rocky gorge where Big Reuben had his den? Well, near the head of that gorge is a basin in the rock in which is a large quantity of this powdered galena, all in very fine grains, showing that they have traveled a considerable distance. That stream is one of the four little rills which make up this creek, and if you tell Connor of this deposit it will save him the trouble of prospecting the other three creeks, as he would otherwise naturally do; and as Long John will pretty certainly do, for the creek coming out of Big Reuben’s gorge is the last of the four he would come to if he took up his search where he left off to-day—which would be the plan he would surely follow. It should save Connor a day’s work at least—perhaps two or three.”
“That’s true,” I responded. “It is an important piece of information. I wonder, though, that nobody else has ever found the deposit you speak of.”
“Do you? I don’t. Considering that Big Reuben was standing guard over it, I think it would have been rather remarkable if any one had discovered it.”
“That’s true enough,” remarked Joe. “But that being the case, how did you come to discover it yourself? Big Reuben was no respecter of persons, that I’m aware of.”
“Ah, but that’s just it. He was. He was afraid of me; or, to speak more correctly, he was afraid of Sox—the one single thing on earth of which he was afraid. Before I knew of his existence, I was going up the gorge one day when Big Reuben bounced out on me, and almost before I knew what had happened I found myself hanging by my finger-tips to a ledge of rock fifteen feet up the cliff, with the bear standing erect below me trying his best to claw me down. My hold was so precarious that I could not have retained it long, and my case would have been pretty serious had it not been for Socrates. That sagacious bird, seeming to recognize that I was in desperate straits, flew up, perched upon the face of the cliff just out of reach of the bear’s claws, and in a tone of authority ordered him to lie down. The astonishment of the bear at being thus addressed by a bird was ludicrous, and at any other time would have made me laugh heartily. He at once dropped upon all fours, and when Socrates flipped down to the ground and walked towards him, using language fit to make your hair stand on end, the bear backed away. And he kept on backing away as Sox advanced upon him, pouring out as he came every word and every fragment of a quotation he had learned in the course of a long and studious career. One of the reasons I have for thinking that he is getting on for a hundred years old is that Sox on that occasion raked up old slang phrases in use in the first years of the century—phrases I had never heard him use before, and which I am sure he cannot have heard since he has been in my possession.
“This stream of vituperation was too much for Big Reuben. He feared no man living, as you know, but a common black raven with a man’s voice in his stomach was ‘one too many for him,’ as the saying is. He turned and bolted; while Socrates, flying just above his head, pursued him with jeers and laughter, until at last he found inglorious safety in the inmost recesses of his den, whither Sox was much too wise to follow him.”
“I don’t wonder you set a high value on old Sox, then,” said I. “He probably saved your life that time.”
“He certainly did: I could not have held on five minutes longer.”
“And did you ever run across Big Reuben again?” asked Joe.