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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Forester, by Zane Grey
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Young Forester
Author: Zane Grey
Posting Date: November 25, 2008 [EBook #1882]
Last Updated: March 10, 2018
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG FORESTER ***
Produced by Bill Brewer
THE YOUNG FORESTER
By Zane Grey
I. CHOOSING A PROFESSION
I loved outdoor life and hunting. Some way a grizzly bear would come in
when I tried to explain forestry to my brother.
“Hunting grizzlies!” he cried. “Why, Ken, father says you've been
reading dime novels.”
“Just wait, Hal, till he comes out here. I'll show him that forestry
isn't just bear-hunting.”
My brother Hal and I were camping a few days on the Susquehanna River,
and we had divided the time between fishing and tramping. Our camp was
on the edge of a forest some eight miles from Harrisburg. The property
belonged to our father, and he had promised to drive out to see us. But
he did not come that day, and I had to content myself with winning Hal
over to my side.
“Ken, if the governor lets you go to Arizona can't you ring me in?”
“Not this summer. I'd be afraid to ask him. But in another year I'll do
it.”
“Won't it be great? But what a long time to wait! It makes me sick to
think of you out there riding mustangs and hunting bears and lions.”
“You'll have to stand it. You're pretty much of a kid, Hal--not yet
fourteen. Besides, I've graduated.”
“Kid!” exclaimed Hal, hotly. “You're not such a Methuselah yourself! I'm
nearly as big as you. I can ride as well and play ball as well, and I
can beat you all--”
“Hold on, Hal! I want you to help me to persuade father, and if you get
your temper up you'll like as not go against me. If he lets me go I'll
bring you in as soon as I dare. That's a promise. I guess I know how
much I'd like to have you.”
“All right,” replied Hal, resignedly. “I'll have to hold in, I suppose.
But I'm crazy to go. And, Ken, the cowboys and lions are not all that
interest me. I like what you tell me about forestry. But who ever heard
of forestry as a profession?”
“It's just this way, Hal. The natural resources have got to be
conserved, and the Government is trying to enlist intelligent young
men in the work--particularly in the department of forestry. I'm not
exaggerating when I say the prosperity of this country depends upon
forestry.”
I have to admit that I was repeating what I had read.
“Why does it? Tell me how,” demanded Hal.
“Because the lumbermen are wiping out all the timber and never thinking
of the future. They are in such a hurry to get rich that they'll
leave their grandchildren only a desert. They cut and slash in every
direction, and then fires come and the country is ruined. Our rivers
depend upon the forests for water. The trees draw the rain; the leaves
break it up and let it fall in mists and drippings; it seeps into the
ground, and is held by the roots. If the trees are destroyed the rain
rushes off on the surface and floods the rivers. The forests store up
water, and they do good in other ways.”
“We've got to have wood and lumber,” said Hal.
“Of course we have. But there won't be any unless we go in for forestry.
It's been practiced in Germany for three hundred years.”
We spent another hour talking about it, and if Hal's practical sense,
which he inherited from father, had not been offset by his real love for
the forests I should have been discouraged. Hal was of an industrious
turn of mind; he meant to make money, and anything that was good
business appealed strongly to him. But, finally, he began to see what I
was driving at; he admitted that there was something in the argument.
The late afternoon was the best time for fishing. For the next two hours
our thoughts were of quivering rods and leaping bass.
“You'll miss the big bass this August,” remarked Hal, laughing. “Guess
you won't have all the sport.”
“That's so, Hal,” I replied, regretfully. “But we're talking as if it
were a dead sure thing that I'm going West. Well, I only hope so.”
What Hal and I liked best about camping--of course after the
fishing--was to sit around the campfire. Tonight it was more pleasant
than ever, and when darkness fully settled down it was even thrilling.
We talked about bears. Then Hal told of mountain-lions and the habit
they have of creeping stealthily after hunters. There was a hoot-owl
crying dismally up in the woods, and down by the edge of the river
bright-green eyes peered at us from the darkness. When the wind came up
and moaned through the trees it was not hard to imagine we were out
in the wilderness. This had been a favorite game for Hal and me; only
tonight there seemed some reality about it. From the way Hal whispered,
and listened, and looked, he might very well have been expecting a visit
from lions or, for that matter, even from Indians. Finally we went to
bed. But our slumbers were broken. Hal often had nightmares even on
ordinary nights, and on this one he moaned so much and thrashed about
the tent so desperately that I knew the lions were after him.
I dreamed of forest lands with snow-capped peaks rising in the
background; I dreamed of elk standing on the open ridges, of
white-tailed deer trooping out of the hollows, of antelope browsing
on the sage at the edge of the forests. Here was the broad track of a
grizzly in the snow; there on a sunny crag lay a tawny mountain-lion
asleep. The bronzed cowboy came in for his share, and the lone bandit
played his part in a way to make me shiver. The great pines, the shady,
brown trails, the sunlit glades, were as real to me as if I had been
among them. Most vivid of all was the lonely forest at night and the
campfire. I heard the sputter of the red embers and smelled the wood
smoke; I peered into the dark shadows watching and listening for I knew
not what.
On the next day early in the afternoon father appeared on the river
road.
“There he is,” cried Hal. “He's driving Billy. How he's coming.”
Billy was father's fastest horse. It pleased me immensely to see the
pace, for father would not have been driving fast unless he were in a
particularly good humor. And when he stopped on the bank above camp
I could have shouted. He wore his corduroys as if he were ready for
outdoor life. There was a smile on his face as he tied Billy, and,
coming down, he poked into everything in camp and asked innumerable
questions. Hal talked about the bass until I was afraid he would want to
go fishing and postpone our forestry tramp in the woods. But presently
he spoke directly to me.
“Well, Kenneth, are you going to come out with the truth about that
Wild-West scheme of yours? Now that you've graduated you want a fling.
You want to ride mustangs, to see cowboys, to hunt and shoot--all that
sort of thing.”
When father spoke in such a way it usually meant the defeat of my
schemes. I grew cold all over.
“Yes, father, I'd like all that--But I mean business. I want to be
a forest ranger. Let me go to Arizona this summer. And in the fall
I'd--I'd like to go to a school of forestry.”
There! the truth was out, and my feelings were divided between relief
and fear. Before father could reply I launched into a set speech upon
forestry, and talked till I was out of breath.
“There's something in what you say,” replied my father. “You've been
reading up on the subject?”
“Everything I could get, and I've been trying to apply my knowledge
in the woods. I love the trees. I'd love an outdoor life. But forestry
won't be any picnic. A ranger must be able to ride and pack, make trail
and camp, live alone in the woods, fight fire and wild beasts. Oh! It'd
be great!”
“I dare say,” said father, dryly; “particularly the riding and shooting.
Well, I guess you'll make a good-enough doctor to suit me.”
“Give me a square deal,” I cried, jumping up. “Mayn't I have one word to
say about my future? Wouldn't you rather have me happy and successful as
a forester, even if there is danger, than just an ordinary, poor doctor?
Let's go over our woodland. I'll prove that you are letting your forest
run down. You've got sixty acres of hard woods that ought to be bringing
a regular income. If I can't prove it, if I can't interest you, I'll
agree to study medicine. But if I do you're to let me try forestry.”
“Well, Kenneth, that's a fair proposition,” returned father, evidently
surprised at my earnestness “Come on. We'll go up in the woods. Hal, I
suppose he's won you over?”
“Ken's got a big thing in mind,” replied Hal, loyally “It's just
splendid.”
I never saw the long, black-fringed line of trees without joy in the
possession of them and a desire to be among them. The sixty acres of
timber land covered the whole of a swampy valley, spread over a rolling
hill sloping down to the glistening river.
“Now, son, go ahead,” said my father, as we clambered over a rail fence
and stepped into the edge of shade..
“Well, father--” I began, haltingly, and could not collect my thoughts.
Then we were in the cool woods. It was very still, there being only a
faint rustling of leaves and the mellow note of a hermit-thrush. The
deep shadows were lightened by shafts of sunshine which, here and there,
managed to pierce the canopy of foliage. Somehow, the feeling roused by
these things loosened my tongue.
“This is an old hard-wood forest,” I began. “Much of the white oak,
hickory, ash, maple, is virgin timber. These trees have reached
maturity; many are dead at the tops; all of them should have been cut
long ago. They make too dense a shade for the seedlings to survive. Look
at that bunch of sapling maples. See how they reach up, trying to get
to the light. They haven't a branch low down and the tops are thin. Yet
maple is one of our hardiest trees. Growth has been suppressed. Do you
notice there are no small oaks or hickories just here? They can't live
in deep shade. Here's the stump of a white oak cut last fall. It was
about two feet in diameter. Let's count the rings to find its age--about
ninety years. It flourished in its youth and grew rapidly, but it had a
hard time after about fifty years. At that time it was either burned, or
mutilated by a falling tree, or struck by lightning.”
“Now, how do you make that out?” asked father, intensely interested.
“See the free, wide rings from the pith out to about number forty-five.
The tree was healthy up to that time. Then it met with an injury of
some kind, as is indicated by this black scar. After that the rings grew
narrower. The tree struggled to live.”
We walked on with me talking as fast as I could get the words out. I
showed father a giant, bushy chestnut which was dominating all the trees
around it, and told him how it retarded their growth. On the other hand,
the other trees were absorbing nutrition from the ground that would have
benefited the chestnut.
“There's a sinful waste of wood here,” I said, as we climbed over and
around the windfalls and rotting tree-trunks. “The old trees die and are
blown down. The amount of rotting wood equals the yearly growth. Now, I
want to show you the worst enemies of the trees. Here's a big white oak,
a hundred and fifty years old. It's almost dead. See the little holes
bored in the bark. They were made by a beetle. Look!”
I swung my hatchet and split off a section of bark. Everywhere in the
bark and round the tree ran little dust-filled grooves. I pried out a
number of tiny brown beetles, somewhat the shape of a pinching-bug, only
very much smaller.
“There! You'd hardly think that that great tree was killed by a lot of
little bugs, would you? They girdle the trees and prevent the sap from
flowing.”
I found an old chestnut which contained nests of the deadly white moths,
and explained how it laid its eggs, and how the caterpillars that came
from them killed the trees by eating the leaves. I showed how mice and
squirrels injured the forest by eating the seeds.
“First I'd cut and sell all the matured and dead timber. Then I'd thin
out the spreading trees that want all the light, and the saplings that
grow too close together. I'd get rid of the beetles, and try to check
the spread of caterpillars. For trees grow twice as fast if they are not
choked or diseased. Then I'd keep planting seeds and shoots in the open
places, taking care to favor the species best adapted to the soil, and
cutting those that don't grow well. In this way we'll be keeping our
forest while doubling its growth and value, and having a yearly income
from it.”
“Kenneth, I see you're in dead earnest about this business,” said my
father, slowly. “Before I came out here today I had been looking up
the subject, and I believe, with you, that forestry really means the
salvation of our country. I think you are really interested, and I've a
mind not to oppose you.”
“You'll never regret it. I'll learn; I'll work up. Then it's an outdoor
life--healthy, free--why! all the boys I've told take to the idea.
There's something fine about it.” “Forestry it is, then,” replied he. “I
like the promise of it, and I like your attitude. If you have learned so
much while you were camping out here the past few summers it speaks well
for you. But why do you want to go to Arizona?”
“Because the best chances are out West. I'd like to get a line on
the National Forests there before I go to college. The work will be
different; those Western forests are all pine. I've a friend, Dick
Leslie, a fellow I used to fish with, who went West and is now a fire
ranger in the new National Forest in Arizona--Penetier is the name of
it. He has written me several times to come out and spend a while with
him in the woods.”
“Penetier? Where is that--near what town?”
“Holston. It's a pretty rough country, Dick says; plenty of deer, bears,
and lions on his range. So I could hunt some while studying the forests.
I think I'd be safe with Dick, even if it is wild out there.”
“All right, I'll let you go. When you return we'll see about the
college.” Then he surprised me by drawing a letter from his pocket
and handing it to me. “My friend, Mr. White, got this letter from the
department at Washington. It may be of use to you out there.”
So it was settled, and when father drove off homeward Hal and I went
back to camp. It would have been hard to say which of us was the more
excited. Hal did a war dance round the campfire. I was glad, however,
that he did not have the little twinge of remorse which I experienced,
for I had not told him or father all that Dick had written about the
wilderness of Penetier. I am afraid my mind was as much occupied with
rifles and mustangs as with the study of forestry. But, though the
adventure called most strongly to me, I knew I was sincere about
the forestry end of it, and I resolved that I would never slight my
opportunities. So, smothering conscience, I fell to the delight of
making plans. I was for breaking camp at once, but Hal persuaded me to
stay one more day. We talked for hours. Only one thing bothered me. Hal
was jolly and glum by turns. He reveled in the plans for my outfit, but
he wanted his own chance. A thousand times I had to repeat my promise,
and the last thing he said before we slept was: “Ken, you're going to
ring me in next summer!”
II. THE MAN ON THE TRAIN
Travelling was a new experience to me, and on the first night after I
left home I lay awake until we reached Altoona. We rolled out of smoky
Pittsburg at dawn, and from then on the only bitter drop in my cup of
bliss was that the train went so fast I could not see everything out of
my window.
Four days to ride! The great Mississippi to cross, the plains, the Rocky
Mountains, then the Arizona plateaus-a long, long journey with a wild
pine forest at the end! I wondered what more any young fellow could have
wished. With my face glued to the car window I watched the level country
speed by.
There appeared to be one continuous procession of well-cultivated
farms, little hamlets, and prosperous towns. What interested me most, of
course, were the farms, for all of them had some kind of wood. We passed
a zone of maple forests which looked to be more carefully kept than the
others. Then I recognized that they were maple-sugar trees. The farmers
had cleaned out the other species, and this primitive method of forestry
had produced the finest maples it had ever been my good-fortune to see.
Indiana was flatter than Ohio, not so well watered, and therefore less
heavily timbered. I saw, with regret, that the woodland was being cut
regularly, tree after tree, and stacked in cords for firewood.
At Chicago I was to change for Santa Fe, and finding my train in
the station I climbed aboard. My car was a tourist coach. Father had
insisted on buying a ticket for the California Limited, but I had argued
that a luxurious Pullman was not exactly the thing for a prospective
forester. Still I pocketed the extra money which I had assured him he
need not spend for the first-class ticket.
The huge station, with its glaring lights and clanging bells, and the
outspreading city, soon gave place to prairie land.
That night I slept little, but the very time I wanted to be awake--when
we crossed the Mississippi--I was slumbering soundly, and so missed it.
“I'll bet I don't miss it coming back,” I vowed.
The sight of the Missouri, however, somewhat repaid me for the loss.
What a muddy, wide river! And I thought of the thousands of miles of
country it drained, and of the forests there must be at its source. Then
came the never-ending Kansas corn-fields. I do not know whether it was
their length or their treeless monotony, but I grew tired looking at
them.
From then on I began to take some notice of my fellow-travelers. The
conductor proved to be an agreeable old fellow; and the train-boy,
though I mistrusted his advances because he tried to sell me everything
from chewing-gum to mining stock, turned out to be pretty good company.
The Negro porter had such a jolly voice and laugh that I talked to him
whenever I got the chance. Then occasional passengers occupied the seat
opposite me from town to town. They were much alike, all sunburned and
loud-voiced, and it looked as though they had all bought their high
boots and wide hats at the same shop.
The last traveller to face me was a very heavy man with a great bullet
head and a shock of light hair. His blue eyes had a bold flash, his long
mustache drooped, and there was something about him that I did not like.
He wore a huge diamond in the bosom of his flannel shirt, and a
leather watch-chain that was thick and strong enough to have held up a
town-clock.
“Hot,” he said, as he mopped his moist brow.
“Not so hot as it was,” I replied.
“Sure not. We're climbin' a little. He's whistlin' for Dodge City now.”
“Dodge City?” I echoed, with interest. The name brought back vivid
scenes from certain yellow-backed volumes, and certain uncomfortable
memories of my father's displeasure. “Isn't this the old cattle town
where there used to be so many fights?”
“Sure. An' not so very long ago. Here, look out the window.” He clapped
his big hand on my knee; then pointed. “See that hill there. Dead Man's
Hill it was once, where they buried the fellers as died with their boots
on.”
I stared, and even stretched my neck out of the window.
“Yes, old Dodge was sure lively,” he continued, as our train passed
on. “I seen a little mix-up there myself in the early eighties. Five
cow-punchers, friends they was, had been visitin' town. One feller,
playful-like, takes another feller's quirt--that's a whip. An' the other
feller, playful-like, says, 'Give it back.' Then they tussles for
it, an' rolls on the ground. I was laughin', as was everybody, when,
suddenly, the owner of the quirt thumps his friend. Both cowboys got up,
slow, an' watchin' of each other. Then the first feller, who had started
the play, pulls his gun. He'd hardly flashed it when they all pulls
guns, an' it was some noisy an' smoky. In about five seconds there was
five dead cowpunchers. Killed themselves, as you might say, just for
fun. That's what life was worth in old Dodge.” After this story I felt
more kindly disposed ward my travelling companion, and would have
asked for more romances but the conductor came along and engaged him in
conversation. Then my neighbor across the aisle, a young fellow not much
older than myself, asked me to talk to him.
“Why, yes, if you like,” I replied, in surprise. He was pale; there were
red spots in his cheeks, and dark lines under his weary eyes.
“You look so strong and eager that it's done me good to watch you,” he
explained, with a sad smile. “You see--I'm sick.”
I told him I was very sorry, and hoped he would get well soon.
“I ought to have come West sooner,” he replied, “but I couldn't get the
money.”
He looked up at me and then out of the window at the sun setting
red across the plains. I tried to make him think of something beside
himself, but I made a mess of it. The meeting with him was a shock to
me. Long after dark, when I had stretched out for the night, I kept
thinking of him and contrasting what I had to look forward to with his
dismal future. Somehow it did not seem fair, and I could not get rid of
the idea that I was selfish.
Next day I had my first sight of real mountains. And the Pennsylvania
hills, that all my life had appeared so high, dwindled to nothing. At
Trinidad, where we stopped for breakfast, I walked out on the platform
sniffing at the keen thin air. When we crossed the Raton Mountains
into New Mexico the sick boy got off at the first station, and I waved
good-bye to him as the train pulled out. Then the mountains and the
funny little adobe huts and the Pueblo Indians along the line made me
forget everything else.
The big man with the heavy watch-chain was still on the train, and after
he had read his newspaper he began to talk to me.
“This road follows the old trail that the goldseekers took in
forty-nine,” he said. “We're comin' soon to a place, Apache Pass, where
the Apaches used to ambush the wagon-trains, It's somewheres along
here.”
Presently the train wound into a narrow yellow ravine, the walls of
which grew higher and higher.
“Them Apaches was the worst redskins ever in the West. They used to hide
on top of this pass an' shoot down on the wagon-trains.”
Later in the day he drew my attention to a mountain standing all by
itself. It was shaped like a cone, green with trees almost to the
summit, and ending in a bare stone peak that had a flat top.
“Starvation Peak,” he said. “That name's three hundred years old, dates
back to the time the Spaniards owned this land. There's a story about it
that's likely true enough. Some Spaniards were attacked by Indians an'
climbed to the peak, expectin' to be better able to defend themselves
up there. The Indians camped below the peak an' starved the Spaniards.
Stuck there till they starved to death! That's where it got its name.”
“Those times you tell of must have been great,” I said, regretfully.
“I'd like to have been here then. But isn't the country all settled now?
Aren't the Indians dead? There's no more fighting?”
“It's not like it used to be, but there's still warm places in the West.
Not that the Indians break out often any more. But bad men are almost as
bad, if not so plentiful, as when Billy the Kid run these parts. I saw
two men shot an' another knifed jest before I went East to St. Louis.”
“Where?”
“In Arizona. Holston is the station where I get off, an' it happened
near there.”
“Holston is where I'm going.”
“You don't say. Well, I'm glad to meet you, young man. My name's Buell,
an' I'm some known in Holston. What's your name?”
He eyed me in a sharp but not unfriendly manner, and seemed pleased to
learn of my destination.
“Ward. Kenneth Ward. I'm from Pennsylvania.”
“You haven't got the bugs. Any one can see that,” he said, and as I
looked puzzled he went on with a smile, and a sounding rap on his chest:
“Most young fellers as come out here have consumption. They call it
bugs. I reckon you're seekin' your fortune.”'
“Yes, in a way.”
“There's opportunities for husky youngsters out here. What're you goin'
to rustle for, if I may ask?”
“I'm going in for forestry.”
“Forestry? Do you mean lumberin'?”
“No. Forestry is rather the opposite of lumbering. I'm going in for
Government forestry--to save the timber, not cut it.”
It seemed to me he gave a little start of surprise; he certainly
straightened up and looked at me hard.
“What's Government forestry?”
I told him to the best of my ability. He listened attentively enough,
but thereafter he had not another word for me, and presently he went
into the next car. I took his manner to be the Western abruptness that I
had heard of, and presently forgot him in the scenery along the line.
At Albuquerque I got off for a trip to a lunch-counter, and happened to
take a seat next to him.
“Know anybody in Holston?” he asked.
As I could not speak because of a mouthful of sandwich I shook my head.
For the moment I had forgotten about Dick Leslie, and when it did occur
to me some Indians offering to sell me beads straightway drove it out of
my mind again.
When I awoke the next day, it was to see the sage ridges and red buttes
of Arizona. We were due at Holston at eight o'clock, but owing to a
crippled engine the train was hours late. At last I fell asleep to be
awakened by a vigorous shake.
“Holston. Your stop. Holston,” the conductor was saying.
“All right,” I said, sitting up and then making a grab for my grip.
“We're pretty late, aren't we?”
“Six hours. It's two o'clock.”
“Hope I can get a room,” I said, as I followed him out on the platform.
He held up his lantern so that the light would shine in my face.
“There's a hotel down the street a block or so. Better hurry and look
sharp. Holston's not a safe place for a stranger at night.”
I stepped off into a windy darkness. A lamp glimmered in the station
window. By its light I made out several men, the foremost of whom had
a dark, pointed face and glittering eyes. He wore a strange hat, and I
knew from pictures I had seen that he was a Mexican. Then the bulky form
of Buell loomed up. I called, but evidently he did not hear me. The men
took his grips, and they moved away to disappear in the darkness. While
I paused, hoping to see some one to direct me, the train puffed out,
leaving me alone on the platform.
When I turned the corner I saw two dim lights, one far to the left,
the other to the right, and the black outline of buildings under what
appeared to be the shadow of a mountain. It was the quietest and darkest
town I had ever struck.
I decided to turn toward the right-hand light, for the conductor had
said “down the street.” I set forth at a brisk pace, but the loneliness
and strangeness of the place were rather depressing.
Before I had gone many steps, however, the sound of running water halted
me, and just in the nick of time, for I was walking straight into a
ditch. By peering hard into the darkness and feeling my way I found
a bridge. Then it did not take long to reach the light. But it was a
saloon, and not the hotel. One peep into it served to make me face about
in double-quick time, and hurry in the opposite direction.
Hearing a soft footfall, I glanced over my shoulder, to see the Mexican
that I had noticed at the station. He was coming from across the street.
I wondered if he were watching me. He might be. My heart began to beat
violently. Turning once again, I discovered that the fellow could not be
seen in the pitchy blackness. Then I broke into a run.
III. THE TRAIL
A short dash brought me to the end of the block; the side street was not
so dark, and after I had crossed this open space I glanced backward.
Soon I sped into a wan circle of light, and, reaching a door upon which
was a hotel sign, I burst in. Chairs were scattered about a bare office;
a man stirred on a couch, and then sat up, blinking.
“I'm afraid--I believe some one's chasing me,” I said.
He sat there eying me, and then drawled, sleepily:
“Thet ain't no call to wake a feller, is it?”
The man settled himself comfortably again, and closed his eyes.
“Say, isn't this a hotel? I want a room!” I cried.
“Up-stairs; first door.” And with that the porter went to sleep in good
earnest.
I made for the stairs, and, after a backward look into the street, I ran
up. A smelly lamp shed a yellowish glare along a hall. I pushed open
the first door, and, entering the room, bolted myself in. Then all the
strength went out of my legs. When I sat down on the bed I was in a cold
sweat and shaking like a leaf. Soon the weakness passed, and I moved
about the room, trying to find a lamp or candle. Evidently the hotel,
and, for that matter, the town of Holston, did not concern itself
with such trifles as lights. On the instant I got a bad impression of
Holston. I had to undress in the dark. When I pulled the window open a
little at the top the upper sash slid all the way down. I managed to
get it back, and tried raising the lower sash. It was very loose, but it
stayed up. Then I crawled into bed.
Though I was tired and sleepy, my mind whirled so that I could not get
to sleep. If I had been honest with myself I should have wished myself
back home. Pennsylvania seemed a long way off, and the adventures that I
had dreamed of did not seem so alluring, now that I was in a lonely room
in a lonely, dark town. Buell had seemed friendly and kind--at least,
in the beginning. Why had he not answered my call? The incident did
not look well to me. Then I fell to wondering if the Mexican had really
followed me. The first thing for me in the morning would be to buy a
revolver. Then if any Mexicans--
A step on the tin roof outside frightened me stiff. I had noticed a
porch, or shed, under my window. Some one must have climbed upon it. I
stopped breathing to listen. For what seemed moments there was no sound.
I wanted to think that the noise might have been made by a cat, but I
couldn't. I was scared--frightened half to death.
If there had been a bolt on the window the matter would not have been so
disturbing. I lay there a-quiver, eyes upon the gray window space of my
room. Dead silence once more intervened. All I heard was the pound of my
heart against my ribs.
Suddenly I froze at the sight of a black figure against the light of
my window. I recognized the strange hat, the grotesque outlines. I was
about to shout for help when the fellow reached down and softly began to
raise the sash.
That made me angry. Jerking up in bed, I caught the heavy pitcher from
the wash-stand and flung it with all my might.
Crash!
Had I smashed out the whole side of the room it could scarcely have made
more noise. Accompanied by the clinking of glass and the creaking of
tin, my visitor rolled off the roof. I waited, expecting an uproar from
the other inmates of the hotel. No footstep, no call sounded within
hearing. Once again the stillness settled down.
Then, to my relief, the gray gloom lightened, and dawn broke. Never
had I been so glad to see the morning. While dressing I cast gratified
glances at the ragged hole in the window. With the daylight my courage
had returned, and I began to have a sort of pride in my achievement.
“If that fellow had known how I can throw a baseball he'd have been
careful,” I thought, a little cockily.
I went down-stairs into the office. The sleepy porter was mopping the
floor. Behind the desk stood a man so large that he made Buell seem
small. He was all shoulders and beard.
“Can I get breakfast?”
“Nobody's got a half-hitch on you, has they?” he replied, jerking a
monstrous thumb over his shoulder toward a door.
I knew the words half-hitch had something to do with a lasso, and I was
rather taken back by the hotel proprietor's remark. The dining-room was
more attractive than anything I had yet seen about the place: the linen
was clean, and the ham and eggs and coffee that were being served to
several rugged men gave forth a savory odor. But either the waiter was
blind or he could not bear, for he paid not the slightest attention to
me. I waited, while trying to figure out the situation. Something was
wrong, and, whatever it was, I guessed that it must be with me. After
about an hour I got my breakfast. Then I went into the office, intending
to be brisk, businesslike, and careful about asking questions.
“I'd like to pay my bill, and also for a little damage,” I said, telling
what had happened.
“Somebody'll kill thet Greaser yet,” was all the comment the man made.
I went outside, not knowing whether to be angry or amused with these
queer people. In the broad light of day Holston looked as bad as it
had made me feel by night. All I could see were the station and
freight-sheds, several stores with high, wide signs, glaringly painted,
and a long block of saloons. When I had turned a street corner,
however, a number of stores came into view with some three-storied brick
buildings, and, farther out, many frame houses.
Moreover, this street led my eye to great snowcapped mountains, and I
stopped short in my tracks, for I realized they were the Arizona peaks.
Up the swelling slopes swept a black fringe that I knew to be timber.
The mountains appeared to be close, but I knew that even the foot-bills
were miles away. Penetier, I remembered from one of Dick's letters, was
on the extreme northern slope, and it must be anywhere from forty to
sixty miles off. The sharp, white peaks glistened in the morning sun;
the air had a cool touch of snow and a tang of pine. I drew in a full
breath, with a sense on being among the pines.
Now I must buy my outfit and take the trail for Penetier. This I
resolved to do with as few questions as possible. I never before was
troubled by sensitiveness, but the fact had dawned upon me that I did
not like being taken for a tenderfoot. So, with this in mind, I entered
a general merchandise store.
It was very large, and full of hardware, harness, saddles,
blankets--everything that cowboys and ranchmen use. Several men, two
in shirt-sleeves, were chatting near the door. They saw me come in, and
then, for all that it meant to them, I might as well not have been in
existence at all. So I sat down to wait, determined to take Western ways
and things as I found them. I sat there fifteen minutes by my watch.
This was not so bad; but when a lanky, red-faced, leather-legged
individual came in too he at once supplied with his wants, I began to get
angry. I waited another five minutes, and still the friendly chatting
went on. Finally I could stand it no longer.
“Will somebody wait on me?” I demanded.
One of the shirt-sleeved men leisurely got up and surveyed me.
“Do you want to buy something?” he drawled.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why didn't you say so?”
The reply trembling on my lips was cut short by the entrance of Buell.
“Hello!” he said in a loud voice, shaking hands with me. “You've trailed
into the right place. Smith, treat this lad right. It's guns an' knives
an' lassoes he wants, I'll bet a hoss.”
“Yes, I want an outfit,” I said, much embarrassed. “I'm going to meet a
friend out in Penetier, a ranger--Dick Leslie.”
Buell started violently, and his eyes flashed. “Dick--Dick Leslie!” he
said, and coughed loudly. “I know Dick.... So you're a friend of his'n?
... Now, let me help you with the outfit.”
Anything strange in Buell's manner was forgotten, in the absorbing
interest of my outfit. Father had given me plenty of money, so that I
had but to choose. I had had sense enough to bring my old corduroys and
boots, and I had donned them that morning. One after another I made my
purchases--Winchester, revolver, holsters, ammunition, saddle, bridle,
lasso, blanket. When I got so far, Buell said: “You'll need a mustang
an' a pack-pony. I know a feller who's got jest what you want.” And with
that he led me out of the store.
“Now you take it from me,” he went on, in a fatherly voice, “Holston
people haven't got any use for Easterners. An' if you mention your
business--forestry an' that--why, you wouldn't be safe. There's many in
the lumberin' business here as don't take kindly to the Government. See!
That's why I'm givin' you advice. Keep it to yourself an' hit the trail
today, soon as you can. I'll steer you right.”
I was too much excited to answer clearly; indeed, I hardly thanked him.
However, he scarcely gave me the chance. He kept up his talk about the
townspeople and their attitude toward Easterners until we arrived at a
kind of stock-yard full of shaggy little ponies. The sight of them drove
every other thought out of my head.
“Mustangs!” I exclaimed.
“Sure. Can you ride?”
“Oh yes. I have a horse at home.... What wiry little fellows! They're so
wild-looking.”
“You pick out the one as suits you, an' I'll step into Cless's here.
He's the man who owns this bunch.”
It did not take me long to decide. A black mustang at once took my eye.
When he had been curried and brushed he would be a little beauty. I was
trying to coax him to me when Buell returned with a man.
“Thet your pick?” he asked, as I pointed. “Well, now, you're not so much
of a tenderfoot. Thet's the best mustang in the lot. Cless, how much for
him, an' a pack-pony an' pack-saddle?”
“I reckon twenty dollars'll make it square,” replied the owner.
This nearly made me drop with amazement. I had only about seventy-five
dollars left, and I had been very much afraid that I could not buy the
mustang, let alone the pack-pony and saddle.
“Cless, send round to Smith for the lad's outfit, an' saddle up for him
at once.” Then he turned to me. “Now some grub, an' a pan or two.”
Having camped before, I knew how to buy supplies. Buell, however, cut
out much that I wanted, saying the thing to think of was a light pack
for the pony.
“I'll hurry to the hotel and get my things,” I said, “and meet you here.
I'll not be a moment.”
But Buell said it would be better for him to go with me, though he did
not explain. He kept with me, still he remained in the office while I
went up-stairs. Somehow this suited me, for I did not want him to see
the broken window. I took a few things from my grip and rolled them in a
bundle. Then I took a little leather case of odds and ends I had always
carried when camping and slipped it into my pocket. Hurrying down-stairs
I left my grip with the porter, wrote and mailed a postal card to my
father, and followed the impatient Buell.
“You see, it's a smart lick of a ride to Penetier, and I want to get
there before dark,” he explained, kindly.
I could have shouted for very glee when I saw the black mustang saddled
and bridled.
“He's well broke,” said Cless. “Keep his bridle down when you ain't
in the saddle. An' find a patch of grass fer him at night. The pony'll
stick to him.”
Cless fell to packing a lean pack-pony.
“Watch me do this,” said he; “you'll hev trouble if you don't git the
hang of the diamondhitch.”
I watched him set the little wooden criss-cross on the pony's back,
throw the balance of my outfit (which he had tied up in a canvas) over
the saddle, and then pass a long rope in remarkable turns and wonderful
loops round pony and pack.
“What's the mustang's name?” I inquired.
“Never had any,” replied the former owner.
“Then it's Hal.” I thought how that name would please my brother at
home.
“Climb up. Let's see if you fit the stirrups,” said Cless. “Couldn't be
better.”
“Now, young feller, you can hit the trail,” put in Buell, with his big
voice. “An' remember what I told you. This country ain't got much use
for a feller as can't look out for himself.”
He opened the gate, and led my mustang into the road and quite some
distance. The pony jogged along after us. Then Buell stopped with a
finger outstretched.
“There, at the end of this street, you'll find a trail. Hit it an' stick
to it. All the little trail's leadin' into it needn't bother you.”
He swept his hand round to the west of the mountain. The direction did
not tally with the idea I had gotten from Dick's letter.
“I thought Penetier was on the north side of the mountains.”
“Who said so?” he asked, staring. “Don't I know this country? Take it
from me.”
I thanked him, and, turning, with a light heart I faced the black
mountain and my journey.
It was about ten o'clock when Hal jogged into a broad trail on the
outskirts of Holston. A gray flat lay before me, on the other side of
which began the slow rise of the slope. I could hardly contain myself.
I wanted to run the mustang, but did not for the sake of the burdened
pony. That sage-flat was miles wide, though it seemed so narrow. The
back of the lower slope began to change to a dark green, which told me I
was surely getting closer to the mountains, even if it did not seem so.
The trail began to rise, and at last I reached the first pine-trees.
They were a disappointment to me, being no larger than many of the white
oaks at home, and stunted, with ragged dead tops. They proved to me that
trees isolated from their fellows fare as poorly as trees overcrowded.
Where pines grow closely, but not too closely, they rise straight and
true, cleaning themselves of the low branches, and making good lumber,
free of knots. Where they grow far apart, at the mercy of wind and heat
and free to spread many branches, they make only gnarled and knotty
lumber.
As I rode on the pines became slowly more numerous and loftier. Then,
when I had surmounted what I took to be the first foot-hill, I came upon
a magnificent forest. A little farther on the trail walled me in with
great seamed trunks, six feet in diameter, rising a hundred feet before
spreading a single branch.
Meanwhile my mustang kept steadily up the slow-rising trail, and the
time passed. Either the grand old forest had completely bewitched me or
the sweet smell of pine had intoxicated me, for as I rode along utterly
content I entirely forgot about Dick and the trail and where I was
heading. Nor did I come to my senses until Hal snorted and stopped
before a tangled windfall.
Then I glanced down to see only the clean, brown pine-needles. There was
no trail. Perplexed and somewhat anxious, I rode back a piece, expecting
surely to cross the trail. But I did not. I went to the left and to
the right, then circled in a wide curve. No trail! The forest about me
seemed at once familiar and strange.
It was only when the long shadows began to creep under the trees that I
awoke fully to the truth.
I had missed the trail! I was lost in the forest!
IV. LOST IN THE FOREST
For a moment I was dazed. And then came panic. I ran up this ridge and
that one, I rushed to and fro over ground which looked, whatever way I
turned, exactly the same. And I kept saying, “I'm lost! I'm lost!” Not
until I dropped exhausted against a pine-tree did any other thought come
to me.
The moment that I stopped running about so aimlessly the panicky feeling
left me. I remembered that for a ranger to be lost in the forest was an
every-day affair, and the sooner I began that part of my education the
better. Then it came to me how foolish I had been to get alarmed, when I
knew that the general slope of the forest led down to the open country.
This put an entirely different light upon the matter. I still had some
fears that I might not soon find Dick Leslie, but these I dismissed for
the present, at least. A suitable place to camp for the night must be
found. I led the mustang down into the hollows, keeping my eye sharp for
grass. Presently I came to a place that was wet and soggy at the bottom,
and, following this up for quite a way, I found plenty of grass and a
pool of clear water.
Often as I had made camp back in the woods of Pennsylvania, the doing
of it now was new. For this was not play; it was the real thing, and it
made the old camping seem tame. I took the saddle off Hal and tied him
with my lasso, making as long a halter as possible. Slipping the pack
from the pony was an easier task than the getting it back again was
likely to prove. Next I broke open a box of cartridges and loaded
the Winchester. My revolver was already loaded, and hung on my belt.
Remembering Dick's letters about the bears and mountain-lions in
Penetier Forest, I got a good deal of comfort out of my weapons. Then
I built a fire, and while my supper was cooking I scraped up a mass of
pine-needles for a bed. Never had I sat down to a meal with such a sense
of strange enjoyment.
But when I had finished and had everything packed away and covered,
my mind began to wander in unexpected directions. Why was it that the
twilight seemed to move under the giant pines and creep down the
hollow? While I gazed the gray shadows deepened to black, and night came
suddenly. My campfire seemed to give almost no light, yet close at hand
the flickering gleams played hide-and-seek among the pines and chased up
the straight tree trunks. The crackling of my fire and the light steps
of the grazing mustangs only emphasized the silence of the forest. Then
a low moaning from a distance gave me a chill. At first I had no idea
what it was, but presently I thought it must be the wind in the pines.
It bore no resemblance to any sound I had ever before heard in the
woods. It would murmur from different parts of the forest; sometimes it
would cease for a little, and then travel and swell toward me, only to
die away again. But it rose steadily, with shorter intervals of silence,
until the intermittent gusts swept through the tree-tops with a rushing
roar. I had listened to the crash of the ocean surf, and the resemblance
was a striking one.
Listening to this mournful wind with all my ears I was the better
prepared for any lonesome cries of the forest; nevertheless, a sudden,
sharp “Ki-yi-i!” seemingly right at my back, gave me a fright that sent
my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
Fumbling at the hammer of my rifle, I peered into the black-streaked
gloom of the forest. The crackling of dry twigs brought me to my feet.
At the same moment the mustangs snorted. Something was prowling about
just beyond the light. I thought of a panther. That was the only beast I
could think of which had such an unearthly cry.
Then another howl, resembling that of a dog, and followed by yelps and
barks, told me that I was being visited by a pack of coyotes. I spent
the good part of an hour listening to their serenade. The wild, mournful
notes sent quivers up my back. By-and-by they went away, and as my fire
had burned down to a red glow and the night wind had grown cold I began
to think of sleep.
But I was not sleepy. When I had stretched out on the soft bed of
pine-needles with my rifle close by, and was all snug and warm under the
heavy blanket, it seemed that nothing was so far away from me as sleep.
The wonder of my situation kept me wide awake, my eyes on the dim huge
pines and the glimmer of stars, and my ears open to the rush and roar
of the wind, every sense alert. Hours must have passed as I lay there
living over the things that had happened and trying to think out what
was to come. At last, however, I rolled over on my side, and with my
hand on the rifle and my cheek close to the sweet-smelling pine-needles