The Trail of The Badger: A Story of the Colorado Border Thirty Years Ago

"Thank you," said Dick. "What is your name?"

"José Santanna," replied the man.

"Well, José," continued Dick, "I'm much obliged to you for your offer, and if I need your help at any time I'll come and ask you."

"Gracias, señor," replied the man; and with that he turned and galloped after his companions.

"That's a good thing for us," remarked Arthur. "We may find it very handy to have an ally in the enemy's camp. And now, you fellows," he continued, "you may as well turn back. I'm safe enough now, and there is no need for you to come any further. I hope it won't be long before you see me back again. Meanwhile you'll search for that ditch-head, and if there is anything you can do toward getting the water down, you'll go ahead and do it. That's the plan, eh?"

"That's the plan," repeated my partner.

"Very well. Then, good-bye, and good luck to you!"

CHAPTER XVI
The Old Pueblo Head-Gate

It was about two in the afternoon that we parted with our friend, and wishing him the best of success, we watched him ride away until the shimmering haze drawn by the heat of the sun from the surface of the valley, finally obscured him from our view altogether. Then, turning our ponies, we rode back up the mountain and once more descended to our camp, where we found Pedro waiting for us.

As it was then too late to begin any fresh enterprise, especially one so difficult as the attempt to climb the cañon-wall was likely to be, we determined to postpone the expedition until next morning. In order, too, that we might be in good fettle for the adventure, we went to bed that night as soon as it got dark; no more late hours for us; late hours at night not being conducive to clear heads in the morning – and it was more than likely that clear heads might be very essential to the success of the task in hand.

About an hour after sunrise we set off on foot down the left bank of the stream, making our way along the steep slope of stone scraps, big and little, which bordered its edge, and after a pretty rough scramble we reached a spot about a mile below camp where Pedro had told us he thought there was a possible way up – a narrow cleft in the rocky wall, none too wide to admit the passage of the Mexican's big body – and following the sturdy hunter, who acted as guide, we began the ascent.

There was no great difficulty about it at first, for the crevice, though still very narrow, was not particularly steep. After climbing up about three hundred feet, however, the ascent became much more abrupt, and presently we came to a place where the bed of the dry watercourse was blocked entirely by a smooth, water-worn mass of rock, twenty feet high, filling the whole width of the crevice, and overhanging in such a manner that even a lizard would have had difficulty in climbing up it.

We were looking about for some means of surmounting this obstacle, when Pedro, who had stepped back a little to survey it, called our attention to what appeared to be a number of steps, or, rather, foot-holes in the rock about ten feet up, just above the bulge.

"Hallo!" cried Dick. "This looks promising. Those holes were made with a purpose. I believe we've struck the original Pueblo highway after all."

"It does look like it," I agreed. "But how are we going to get up there?"

"Señor," said Pedro to Dick, "if you will stand on my shoulders, I think you can reach those holes."

"All right," replied Dick. "Let's try."

It was simple enough. Dick easily reached the lower steps, which, it was hardly to be doubted, had been cut for the purpose, and scrambled up to the top. Then, letting down the rope we had brought for such an emergency, he called to me to come up. With a boost from Pedro, and with the rope to hold on by, I was quickly standing beside my partner, when up came Pedro himself, hand over hand.

If this was really the road by which the Pueblos originally came up – and from those nicks in the rock we felt pretty sure it was – it was the roughest and by long odds the most upended road we had ever traveled over. It was, in fact, a climb rather than a walk: we had to use our hands nearly all the time.

We had come within a hundred feet of the top, when, looking upward, I was startled to see on an overhanging ledge a large, tawny, cat-like animal calmly sitting there looking down at us.

"Look there, Dick!" I cried. "What's that?"

"A mountain-lion!" exclaimed my partner. "My! What a shot!"

It happened, however, that we were at a point where it was necessary to hold on with our hands to prevent ourselves from slipping back; it was impossible to shoot. The "lion" therefore continued to stare at us and we at him, until Dick shouted at him, when the beast leisurely walked off and disappeared round a corner.

"Well!" remarked my companion. "I never saw a mountain-lion so calm and unconcerned before. As a rule they are the shyest of animals."

"All the animals up here are like that," remarked Pedro. "Many times since I have lived on the mountain I have seen them come down to the edge of the cañon to look at me – deer and even mountain-sheep and wolves; yes, many times wolves. They have no fear of man."

"That's queer," said I. "I wonder why not."

"Señor," replied Pedro, looking rather surprised at my lack of intelligence, "it is simple: since the days of the Pueblos there has been no man up here."

"Why, I suppose there hasn't!" cried Dick. "That didn't occur to me before, either. It will be interesting to see how the wild animals behave, Frank. It will be like Robinson Crusoe on his island."

He spoke in Spanish, as we always did when Pedro was in company, not wishing him to feel that he was left out. It was Pedro who replied.

"I know not," said he, "the honorable gentleman, Señor Don Crusoe, of whom you speak, but for ourselves we must have care."

"Why, Pedro. What do you mean?"

"The wolves up here are many, and they will surely smell us out."

"Well, suppose they do, Pedro. What then?" asked Dick, jokingly. "You are not afraid of wolves, are you?"

This seemed a reasonable question, remembering how boldly he had faced them that time at the head of the Mescalero valley.

"Most times I have no fear," replied Pedro, simply, "but up here it is different. These wolves know not what a man is; they will smell us out, and they will think only, 'Here is something to eat;' they do not know enough to be afraid."

"I suppose that is likely," Dick assented. "You are quite right, Pedro: we must take care. I don't suppose there will be anything to fear from them during daylight, but we'll keep a sharp lookout, all the same. Come on, let us get forward."

In another ten minutes we had reached the top, when, turning up-stream, we presently came to the dry gully which led down to where the old flume once stood. Thence, turning "inland," as one might say, we followed up the bed of this gully, finding that it had its head in a little grassy basin which looked as though it had once been a small lake. In crossing this basin we stirred up from among the bushes a band of blacktail deer, which ran off about fifty yards and then stood still to look at us; these usually shy animals being evidently consumed with curiosity at the sight of three strange beasts walking on their hind legs. Undoubtedly, we were the first human beings they had ever encountered.

We did not molest them, but pursuing our course across the little basin, we were about to proceed up a narrow, stony draw at its further end, when a sudden scurry of feet behind us caused us to look back. The band of deer had vanished, and in their stead were four wolves, which, when we turned round, drew up in line and stood staring at us!

As Dick had said, the wild animals up here were making themselves decidedly "interesting."

Pedro had an arrow fitted to his bow in an instant, while Dick and I simultaneously cocked our rifles and stood ready. The wolves, however, remained stationary; it was evidently curiosity and not hunger that inspired them. Seeing this, I picked up a pebble and threw it at them, just to see what they would think of it. The stone struck the ground close under their noses, making them all start, passed between two of them and went hopping along the ground, when, to our great amusement, the whole row of them turned, ran after the stone, sniffed at it, one after the other, and then came back to the old position. It looked so comical that Dick and I burst out laughing; whereupon the wolves, who had doubtless never heard such a sound before, retreated a few paces, where they once more turned round to stare at us.

"Well, Pedro!" cried Dick. "They don't seem to be very dangerous. If all the wolves up here are like that we needn't be afraid of them."

"They are not hungry just now," replied Pedro, so significantly that our merriment was checked; "and you see for yourselves," he added, "that a man is a new animal to them. They know not what to make of us. It is that which makes me uneasy. A big pack of hungry wolves would be very dangerous, for the reason that they have never learned that we are dangerous, too. For me, I am afraid of them."

Such an admission, coming from such a man, one who, we knew, was not lacking in courage, was impressive; so, in order that he should not regard us as merely a pair of careless, light-headed boys, Dick assured him in all earnestness that we had no intention of treating the matter lightly; that we fully understood and agreed with his view of the matter.

"You are quite right, Pedro," said he. "We can't afford to be careless. A pack of wolves is dangerous enough when you know what to expect of them, but when you don't – ! It will pay us to be careful, all right; there's no doubt about that. Come on, now. Let us get ahead. Those beasts back there have gone off – to tell the others, perhaps."

Proceeding up the stony draw for about half a mile, we presently came upon a most unexpected sight: – a little lake, covering perhaps a space of twenty acres, its surface, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the trees and rocks surrounding it, and dotted all over with hundreds of wild ducks and geese.

"Here's the head of the ditch!" cried Dick, exultingly. "Here's where the Pueblos got their water! They drew from this lake down the gully we have just come up. The mouth of the draw has been blocked by the caving of the sides, you see, but it will be an easy job to dig a narrow trench through the dam, and then the pitch is so great that the water will soon scour a channel for itself. Don't you think so, Pedro? The water must have run down here, filled the grassy basin where the deer were, flowed out at its lower end down the gully to the flume, and then by the ditch over the foothills to the valley. Wasn't that the way of it, Pedro?"

It was natural that Dick should address his question to the Mexican rather than to me, for Pedro, one of a race that had followed irrigation for centuries, knew far more of its practical possibilities than I did, and his opinion was infinitely more valuable than mine was likely to be. In reply, he nodded his big head and said, gravely:

"That is it. It is not possible to doubt. The Pueblos drew their water from the lake at this point. That is very sure. But – "

"But what?" asked Dick.

"This lake is small, and I see nowhere any stream coming into it," replied Pedro.

"That's a fact," Dick assented. "Perhaps it is fed by underground springs. Let us walk round the lake and see where the water runs out and how much of a stream there is. That is what concerns us. Where it comes from doesn't matter particularly – it's how much of it there is."

Our walk round the little lake, however, resulted in a disappointment which staggered us for the moment. There was no outlet. The lake was land-locked; the one insignificant rivulet we found running into it being evidently no more than enough to counterbalance the daily evaporation.

"Well," remarked Dick, after a long pause, "there is one thing sure: the Pueblos never built a flume and dug that big, long ditch to carry this trifling amount of water. This lake, after all, was not the source of supply, as we were supposing. It was a reservoir, perhaps, but nothing more. The real source was somewhere higher up."

If Dick was right – and there could be hardly a doubt that he was – the most promising direction in which to continue our search would be on the west side of the lake, whence the little rivulet came down. An examination of the ravine in which the stream ran showed evidence that it had at one time carried much more water than at present, so, with hopes renewed, we set off at once along its steep, stony bed.

The country on that side was very rough and precipitous, and the ravine itself, reasonably wide at first, became narrower and narrower, and its sides more and more lofty, until presently it became so contracted that we might have imagined ourselves to be walking up a very narrow lane with rows of ten-story houses on either side. The sky above us was a mere ribbon of blue.

After climbing upward for about half a mile, we began to catch occasional glimpses ahead of us of a frowning cliff which bade fair to bar our further progress altogether, and we were beginning to wonder whether we had not chosen the wrong ravine after all, when suddenly, with one accord, we all stopped short and cocked our ears. There was a sound of running water somewhere close by!

There was a bend in the gorge just here, and we could not see ahead, but the instant we detected the sound of water, Dick, with a shout, sprang forward, and with me close on his heels and the short-legged Pedro some distance in the rear, dashed up the bed of the ravine and round the corner.

What a wonderful sight met our gaze! Out of the great cliff I mentioned just now there came roaring down a magnificent stream, which, falling into a deep pool it had worn for itself in the rocks, went boiling and foaming off through a second ravine to the right – a fine thing to see!

But what was finer, and infinitely more interesting, was the original Pueblo head-gate, so set in the narrow gorge in which we stood that the water, which, if left to itself, would have flowed down our ravine, was forced to run off through the other channel.

It was a remarkable piece of work for such a primitive people to have performed, considering especially the very inferior tools they had to do it with. The walls of the gorge came together at this point in such a manner that they were not more than five feet apart and were so straight-up-and-down that they looked as though they had been trimmed by hand – as possibly they had been to some extent. Taking advantage of this narrow gap, the Pueblos had cut a deep groove in the rocks on either side of the ravine, and in these grooves they had set up on end a great flat stone about five feet high and three inches thick – it must have weighed a thousand pounds or more.

Against this stone head-gate, on its inner side, the water stood four feet deep, and it was obvious that when the gate was raised the flood would go raging down the gorge we had just ascended into the little lake below, leaving the bed in which it now ran high and dry.

Undoubtedly, it was this stone door with which the Pueblos used to regulate their water-supply, prying it up and holding it in position, perhaps, with blocks of wood, which, after the Indians deserted the valley, had in time rotted away, allowing the gate to fall, thus shutting off the water entirely.

However that may have been, one thing at any rate was certain: – Whenever our flume and our ditch were ready, here was water enough for thousands of acres only waiting to be let loose.

For a long time Dick and I stood with our hands resting on the top of the head-gate and our chins resting on our hands, watching the water as it went foaming and splashing down the other ravine, and as we stood there, there came over us by degrees a sense of the real importance to us of this discovery. We were only boys, after all, and we had gone into this enterprise more or less in the spirit of adventure, but now it gradually dawned upon us that we had in reality arrived at a point where the roads forked: – Here, ready to our hands, was work for a lifetime, and we had to decide whether we were going into it heart and soul or whether we were not. Every boy arrives at this fork in the roads sooner or later, and when he does, he is apt to feel pretty serious. I know we did.

With us, however, the question seemed to settle itself, for Dick, presently straightening up and turning to me, said:

"Frank! What will your Uncle Tom say? Will he be willing that you should stay out in this country and take to wheat-raising and ditch-building and so forth?"

"If I know Uncle Tom," I replied, "he'll be not only willing but delighted. If we make a success of this thing – as we will if hard work will do it – just imagine how proudly he will point to us as proofs of his theory that a fellow may sometimes learn more out of school than in it. In fact, if I'm not much mistaken, he will be eager to help; and if we need money for the work, as we certainly shall, I shan't hesitate to ask him for it. I shall inherit a little when I come of age, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Tom will advance me some if I need it. But how about the professor, Dick? How will he fancy the idea of your settling down in this valley? For if we do go into this thing in earnest, that is what it means."

"I know it does," replied my companion, seriously. "And I'm glad of it. I'll let you into a little secret, Frank. For some time past the professor has been worrying himself as to what was to become of me: what business or occupation I was fit for with my peculiar bringing-up – for there is no getting over the fact that it has been peculiar – and the professor, considering himself responsible for it, has been pretty anxious about the result. Now, here is an occupation all laid out for me, and nobody will be so pleased to hear of it as the professor. It will take a burden off his mind; and I'm mighty glad to think it will."

"I see," said I. "I should think you would be: such a fine old fellow as he is. So, then, Dick, it is settled, is it, that we go ahead? What's the first move, then?"

"Why, the first move of all, I think, is to get back to the lake and eat our lunch, and while we are doing so we can consult as to what work to start upon and how to set about it. What time is it, Pedro?"

"Midday and ten minutes," promptly replied the Mexican, casting an eye at the sun; while I, pulling out my watch, saw that he had hit it exactly, as he always did, I found later.

"Then let us get back to the lake," said Dick. "Hark! What was that? The water makes so much noise that I can't be sure, but it sounded to me like wolves howling."

Pedro nodded his big head. "It will be well to go down to where there are some trees," said he. "This arroyo, with its high walls, is not a good place."

As we walked down the ravine and got further away from the water, we could hear more distinctly the cry of the wolves. Pedro stopped short and listened intently.

"There is a good many of them," said he. "I think they come hunting us. Let us get up on this rock here and wait a little."

In the middle of the ravine lay a great flat-topped stone, about six feet high, and to the top of this we soon scrambled – there was plenty of room – and there for a minute or two we waited. The cry of the hunting wolves grew louder and louder, and presently, around a bend a short distance below, loping along with their noses to the ground, there came a band of sixteen of them. At sight of us they stopped short, and then – showing plainly that they knew of no danger to themselves – with a yell of delight at having run down their prey, as they supposed, they came charging up the ravine!

CHAPTER XVII
The Bridge

As the pack came racing up the gulch, we waited an instant until a narrow place crowded them into a bunch, when Dick called out, "Now!" and we all fired together into the midst of them. Three of the wolves fell, two dead – I could see the feather of Pedro's arrow sticking out of the ribs of one of them – and one with its back broken.

I had hoped that the strange thunder of the rifles would send them flying – but no. They all stopped again for a moment, and then, maddened seemingly at the sight of the broken-backed wolf dragging itself about and screeching with pain – poor beast – they all fell upon the unfortunate creature and worried it to death. Then, with yells of rage, on they came again.

The pause had given us time to re-load. Dick and Pedro, quicker than I, fired a second shot, and once more two wolves fell writhing among the stones. The next moment we were surrounded, and for a minute or two after that I was too much engaged myself to note what the others were doing.

A gaunt, long-legged wolf sprang up on the rock within three feet of me. I fired my rifle into his chest. Another, close beside him, was within an ace of scrambling up when I hit him across the side of his head a fearful crack with the empty rifle-barrel and knocked him off again. Then, seeing a third with his feet on top of the rock, his head thrown back in his straining efforts to get up, I sprang to that side, kicked the beast under his chin and knocked him down.

Meanwhile my companions had been similarly engaged and similarly successful. Pedro in particular, having dropped his bow and taken in one hand the short-handled ax he always carried with him, while in the other he held his big sheath-knife, had laid about him to such effect that he had put four of the enemy out of the fight – two of them permanently.

Dick was the only one who had received any damage, and that was to his clothes and not to himself. His rifle being empty, he had used it to push back the wolves as they jumped up. In doing so he had stepped too near the edge of the rock, and one of the watchful beasts, springing up at that moment, had caught the leg of his trousers with its teeth, tearing it from end to end and coming dangerously near to pulling my partner down. Pedro, however, quick as a flash, had delivered a back-handed "swipe" with his ax at the wolf's neck, nearly cutting off its head, and Dick was saved. It was an unpleasantly close thing, though.

It was a short, sharp tussle, and at the end of it nine of the sixteen wolves lay scattered about the bed of the ravine, dead or helpless. This seemed to take the fight out of the remaining seven – as well it might – who retreated down the arroyo, turning at the corner and looking back at us with their lips drawn up and their teeth showing, seeming to convey a threat, as though they would say, "Your turn this time – but just you wait a bit."

Such unexpected fierceness and such determination on the part of the wolves – by daylight, too – scared me rather; Dick also, I noted, looked pretty sober, as, turning to the Mexican, he said:

"You were right, Pedro: these wolves are dangerous – a good deal more so than I had supposed. Our chances would have been pretty slim if we hadn't had this rock so handy. If this sort of thing is going to happen at any time, day or night, it will add very much to the difficulty of the work up here. We shall have to be continuously on the lookout; it won't do to separate; and wherever we are at work, we shall have to prepare a place of refuge near at hand. I don't like it. I've seen wolves by the hundred, but I never saw any before so savage and so persistent as these. I tell you, I don't half like it."

"And I don't either," said I, glad to find that I was not the only one to feel uneasy. "Did you notice, Dick, how thin they all were? I've often heard the expression, 'gaunt as a wolf,' and now I know what it means. They seemed half-starved."

"That is it, senor," remarked Pedro. "The wolves up here are very many – too many for the space they have. Here they are, the cañons all round them, they cannot get away. All the time they are half-starved, all the time they hunt for food, all the time they are dangerous. Often in winter they eat each other. It is well if we move away from here. Pretty soon there will come another pack to eat up these dead ones."

"Let us get out, then!" I cried. "I've had enough of them for one day!"

The others were quite ready to move, so, jumping down from our fortress we started along the ravine again, this time keeping our ears wide open for suspicious sounds, and feeling a good deal relieved when, on the edge of the lake, we sat down to our lunch with an old low-branching pine tree close by, up which we could go in a jiffy if need be.

But though the presence of so many wolves on the "island" was something we had not anticipated, something, moreover, which was likely to add very much to the difficulty of our undertaking, we did not for a moment contemplate its abandonment. It meant the use of great caution in going about the work, but as to backing out, I do not think the idea so much as occurred to either of us.

As soon as we had sat down to our lunch, therefore, we began the discussion of the best method of procedure.

"It is a big undertaking, Dick," said I, "a very big undertaking; but it looks like a straightforward piece of work; and it seems to me that what has been done once can certainly be done again, especially as we have our line already laid out for us. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I certainly think so," replied my partner. "What those Pueblos accomplished with their poor implements, we can surely do again with our superior tools. And some of it, at least, we can do ourselves, I believe – with our own hands, I mean. When it comes to digging out the ditch on the other side of the cañon, it will pay us to hire Mexicans; but the preliminary work of bringing the water down to the cañon, and, perhaps, the building of the flume, I believe we can do ourselves."

"The building of the flume," said I, "is likely to be a pretty big job by itself. We can undoubtedly get the water down that far – that is simple – but the building of the flume is quite another thing. A small flume won't do; it has to be a big, strong, solid structure, and it strikes me that the very first thing to be done – the laying of the two big stringers across the cañon – is going to take us all we know, and a trifle over. In fact, I don't see myself how we are to do it."

"I think I do," rejoined my partner; "but we shall need tools for the purpose. We can't build a big, solid flume with one pick, one shovel and two axes."

"No, we certainly can't," I replied.

"We shall need, too, a large amount of lumber," continued Dick, "heavy pieces, besides boards for floor and sides – two inch planks, at least – three inch would be better. We shall need several thousand feet altogether."

"Well?"

"Well, there is no lumber to be had nearer than Mosby, and to bring it from Mosby is out of the question. In the first place it would cost too much; and in the second place it is too far to pack it on mule-back."

I nodded. "You mean we shall have to cut it out ourselves, here on the spot."

"Yes; and to do that we shall need a long, two-handled rip-saw, and a saw-pit to work in. Besides this, the other tools we shall require, as far as I can think of them on the spur of the moment, are two or three pulley-blocks for placing the big timbers, hammers, nails, cross-cut saws and a big auger; for I propose that we pin the heavy parts together with wooden pins: it will save the carriage on spikes, and be just as good, if not better. Don't you think so, Pedro?"

Pedro approved of the idea, and we were about to continue the discussion, when there broke out a great yelling and snarling of wolves up the arroyo. Dick and I sprang to our feet, and instinctively cast an eye up into the adjacent tree in search of a convenient limb; but Pedro, unconcernedly continuing his meal, remarked:

"It is only that they eat the dead ones."

"Well, they're a deal too close to be pleasant," said Dick. "I vote we move on down to the cañon and get a little further away from them."

As I was heartily of the same opinion, we moved down accordingly, and there on the brink of the gorge surveyed the scene of our future labors.

"Look here," said Dick. "Here's where we shall have to cut our timbers – on this side. See what a splendid supply there is right at hand."

He pointed to a scar on the mountain close by where a landslide had brought down scores of trees of all sizes.

"When did that come down, Pedro?" he asked.

"Only last spring, señor," replied the Mexican. "And the trees are sound and good."

"Mighty lucky for us," continued my partner; "for, you see, on the other side trees are scarce and they average rather small. But on this side, there are not only seasoned trees of all sizes in abundance, but it will be a down-hill pull to get them into place – a big item by itself. Besides that, just back here on this little level spot we can dig our saw-pit very conveniently. The only question to my mind is, whether we should not move our camp over to this side. If it were not for the wolves I should certainly say, 'Yes'; but as it is, I feel rather doubtful. The nearest water is up there at the lake, and if we did move over to this side that is where we should have to make our camp."

"It's a long way up to the lake, Dick," said I, "and it might be dangerous going to and from our work – especially going back in the evening. In fact, it might easily happen that we couldn't get back at all."

"That's what I was thinking of," replied my partner.

"On the other hand," I continued, "if we keep our present camp, it will be very inconvenient, and will waste a great deal of time, to come to our work every day by way of those stone steps we climbed this morning."

"Yes, that's it. But there's yet another way which, I think, would get us over both difficulties; one which would combine all the advantages and at the same time do away with the danger – or, to say the least, the inconvenience – of being harried by the wolves, and that is to build a bridge here. Then, if we move our camp to that little 'park' just below here, where we found that spring yesterday, it would only take us five minutes in the morning to come up here, cross the bridge and go to work. How does that strike you? What do you think, Pedro?"