AT THE END OF THE GULCH
Recognizing the signs of an all-day hunting trip, Starlight held her ears alert, and the big, strong muscles of her legs quivered. Meadowlark seemed somewhat less eager, while to Humpty-Dumpty this appeared to be just another day’s work. But the boys were all getting to understand their mounts, and no one cared to change.
Bob had a rifle, but the others were unarmed.
“It isn’t so important that we get the mountain lion, as that we find out if there really is one,” he explained. “If necessary, we could get a big party together and smoke him out.”
Ted and Nelson couldn’t decide whether Bob really believed in the mountain lion or not. It seemed to be something more than a joke that he was playing on tenderfeet. Ted had the feeling that Bob badly wanted a mountain lion, so that he might have some chance of matching the stories told by the old-timers. This being so, they were willing to play along with the game, and show just as much enthusiasm over the hunt as Bob did.
“Don’t mountain lions work the night shift?” Nelson questioned.
“Usually, but extreme hunger or some unusual circumstance will lead them to change their normal habits. Anyway, even if he is holed up for the day, we should be able to find his spoor, or the remains of a kill, or something like that.”
“Do they ever lie in wait in a tree overlooking a trail, waiting to pounce on a victim?” asked Ted, recalling some movies he had seen.
“Don’t worry. If that’s what he’s planning, you’ll probably never see him, he’ll take care of that.” And with these hardly reassuring words the group set out.
They galloped up toward the ridge, but didn’t race for they had a long ride ahead. Crossing the ridge with hardly a pause, they started downward. This was the end of the rich prairie land and the beginning of the forest. Occasional trees grew more numerous, forming thick clumps. Before an hour had passed, they were well into the woods. With the trail now rough and winding, they had slowed down to a steady walk.
“Dry as tinder,” Bob remarked, as twigs snapped sharply beneath the horses’ hoofs. “I hope we’re not in for a burn this summer.”
The prospect was a grim one. To Bob, who had grown up in these woods, it would be a real tragedy, and even his visitors would feel a strong sense of loss, remembering the beauty they had seen and the fun they had had.
“Is there any real danger?” asked Ted.
“Well, Jake Pastor says this is the driest summer he’s ever seen, and he’s been around a long time. I don’t think it’s one of his tall tales, either.”
“What really causes most fires?” Nelson questioned.
“Matches, cigarettes, and campfires that aren’t really out get most of the blame, rightly or wrongly, and when that happens everybody says the ‘dudes’ were at fault.
“Myself, I don’t blame it all on the dudes,” Bob went on. “I’ve seen local people who ought to know better acting more careless than the visitors. And there are other causes, too, that maybe no one can quite help. Railroads used to start a lot of fires, especially the early wood burners, but of course they usually denied it and tried to blame something else. They said that more fires were caused by the sparks from horses’ shoes, but whether that ever really happened I don’t know. Some people even say that old bottles left on the ground will sometimes focus the sun’s rays on dry leaves or needles or grass and touch off a blaze. Lightning is probably the most important natural cause, though a storm usually produces rain that puts out or limits the fire. But a severe electrical storm coming after a long dry spell could do it.”
“I’ve heard it claimed that a lot of these fires are started deliberately,” Nelson observed.
Bob’s face grew long. “I hope not. I wouldn’t want to believe that about anybody. Most of the suspected cases I’ve heard about were never proved.”
“But I suppose some people get a feeling of importance out of destroying something,” said Ted thoughtfully.
Game was neither so plentiful as earlier, Bob told them, nor as scarce as he had expected. Squirrels and rabbits were seen in fair numbers, but Bob’s rifle was never raised even for a “sight.” Under Bob’s direction they studied each suspicious ledge, scanned each low, overhanging limb or nearby cliff, studied the dust for tracks, and watched their horses for unexplained nervousness.
To ride directly to Rainbow Gulch, and home again, would have made their day too short, and Bob proposed that they explore several other gulches along the way, saving the best for last. Dead Man’s Gulch was their first objective, and Bob told them that it had been named for a young pioneer who had been found there with an arrow through his back.
“Some people say that he rode off on his wedding day, running the gamut of attacking Indians, in an effort to save the settlement. Other people say he was a traitor who was deliberately stirring up trouble by selling weapons to the Indians, playing both sides until simple justice caught up with him. I don’t know which story is right, and I guess the people who named this gulch couldn’t decide, either.”
The first gulch was not too promising. The hillside was wooded, with few traces of the rocks which they felt were more likely to appeal to a mountain lion. Besides, it was too close to civilization, too open to intrusion.
“They say if you want to go hunting, you have to figure out what you would do if you were the animal you’re after,” Bob remarked.
“I want some raw sheep meat, gr-r,” Nelson growled, and they laughed.
“Seriously, though, I think what a mountain lion would like is a nice cool cave,” Bob decided, for the day had grown pleasantly warm. “That means we’re out of luck here.”
Although it was still early, they decided to stop for lunch. Afterward they set up a target, and fired at it for a while, so that at least they might have the satisfaction of saying they had used the rifle.
“Not that I’m going to take a chance on getting caught with any illegal game,” Bob pointed out. “José is the only one who can get away with that. He seems to spend quite a bit of time around here, in season and out. The game warden tries his best to explain about licenses and hunting seasons, but he can’t seem to get it into José’s head. I guess sometimes there are advantages in being deaf.”
“A lucky thing there’s no closed season on mountain lions,” Nelson remarked. “I can see where a mountain lion would explain the missing sheep, but then what about the cow that was milked? You got any ideas, Ted?”
“Oh, I could probably think of half a dozen if I tried.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Well, it might have been Henry Cox,” Ted explained slowly. “He’s a green hand. Maybe he wanted to practice milking while none of the other men were around, and later, finding he had stirred up some trouble, he hadn’t wanted to admit it.”
“Not very good,” Bob objected. “He’d know we use milking machines.”
“Well, I didn’t promise it would be very good,” said Ted with a laugh.
The next two gulches yielded nothing, though they explored them as thoroughly as they could.
“So I guess it’s Rainbow Gulch or we’re out of luck,” Bob announced. “And when we get there be ready for a surprise—if somebody hasn’t tipped you off already.”
They had been traveling rather steadily uphill most of the day. Now the woods were beginning to thin out as they reached the rocky uplands. As they turned into Rainbow Gulch, Ted and Nelson saw that it had all the characteristics they had thought would most appeal to a mountain lion: water, ledges, caves, seclusion, and accessibility both to the natural game of the woods and the not-too-distant farms when the natural food supply failed.
Ted and Nelson had not thought of inquiring how Rainbow Gulch got its name, but they knew as they made a turn and saw a natural bridge stretching out across the chasm above their heads. It was a scene of startling beauty. Once the bridge must have been a solid rock, but seeping water had created a hole which grew through the centuries, until the bridge rose to its present majestic arch from cliff to cliff. Its strata presented a myriad of colors, and particularly in the early summer when the sun set in the northwest directly behind it, they could imagine that it rivaled any of the natural wonders of the West.
“How’d you like to climb over the Rainbow?” Bob challenged.
“Has anyone ever done it?” Ted inquired. He recognized that it would be a tough climb, with loose rocks slipping beneath one’s feet, and that coming down might be even worse.
“Oh, yes, I guess all the older boys around here have. Our parents warn us not to ‘until we’re older,’ but they keep their fingers crossed, knowing that we will. I climbed it with Larry, but as far as I know no one has ever done it without a partner and a rope.”
“You only did it once?” asked Nelson.
“Sure, we proved we could do it, so why risk our necks for nothing?”
With some reluctance they passed under the bridge and pushed on up the gulch. Unlike the previous gulches, with their long slopes of thick grass, here the grass was scant, and the sides steep. Points of rock jutted out precipitously. The trail was little used, for visitors seldom went beyond the Rainbow, and the valley looked desolate. A small, sparkling brook ran through the gully and they had to cross and re-cross it repeatedly.
This was the longest of the gulches, and turned many times. As each new view opened before them, they studied it eagerly for any signs of a mountain lion’s hiding place, but without discovering anything definite. On one of these occasions Nelson said suddenly:
“Hey, does anybody smell smoke?”
It seemed that their horses did at least, for Starlight was unusually alert to her master’s wishes, and Meadowlark seemed apprehensive. Only Humpty-Dumpty looked as though nothing would bother him.
Bob sniffed the air. “Yes, I think so.”
“I hope it’s not a forest fire,” Ted remarked. “This could be a terrible place to be trapped.”
“I don’t think it is. It’s more likely a campfire.”
“Who’d be camping in here?” Nelson demanded.
“I don’t know. It’s coming from up ahead, I think. Let’s take a look.”
They advanced cautiously, until, after making another turn, a small spiral of smoke could be seen ahead. Bob drew rein, and the others came up to his side and halted.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” said Bob in a low voice. “It may be perfectly all right, and then again, it may not. It’s certainly a queer place for anyone to camp out.”
“What do you think we’d better do?” asked Ted.
“I don’t think we ought to barge right ahead without knowing what we’re getting into. Tell you what, let’s try a flank attack. We’ll go back until we can find someplace to climb out of here, tether our horses, and creep up on foot from above, until we see what’s doing.”
This was agreeable to the others. They turned back, and had to go some distance, back under the bridge and nearly to the mouth of the gulch, before finding a slope that the horses could climb. They made their way to the top, which brought them to a flat, grassy tableland, and here they dismounted. Making their horses fast, they advanced once more toward the wisps of smoke.
Below them the gulch made its serpentine curves, but above they did not have so far to go. As they finally neared the edge of the hill at the head of the gulch, they dropped to their hands and knees and crept forward. Below them, much to their surprise, they saw a battered old cabin.
“Do you see what I see or am I dreaming?” asked Bob in wonder. “I never knew there was a cabin there.”
“It’s a cabin, all right,” said Nelson.
“I can see why you never suspected it,” Ted observed. “It’s set back so that you’d almost have to stumble over it before you came across it down below, and I imagine it’s invisible from most places on the hills. It was only the smoke that led us to it.”
“But that must mean someone’s living in it!” Bob exclaimed. “From the looks of things, I’d say he’s been living here a long time!”
“There’s a path going down,” Nelson indicated. “I’ll bet we could creep down almost to the cabin without being seen. Let’s try it and see what we can find.”
The path was steep, but with many bushes on its sides which they counted on to shield them from view. They were able to get within a hundred feet of the cabin without being discovered.
“Listen!” Bob cautioned. “The door’s opening. Someone’s coming out. Down, and quiet.”
Suddenly an old man stepped into view. His face was covered with white whiskers, his hair was unkempt, his shoulders slightly bowed as though by the weight of years or insurmountable troubles. He was carrying a water pail, and headed toward the spring. He passed within a few yards of their hiding place, and they could hear him muttering to himself.
The hermit—for there seemed no doubt that that was what he was—filled his pail and headed back for the cabin, again passing quite close to them. He disappeared inside, and though they waited some ten minutes longer, there was no further sign of him.
“Should we try to get closer and see what’s going on inside the cabin?” asked Nelson in a whisper.
“No, let’s get moving out of here.”
Bob led the way back up the hill. Once out of sight of the cabin, they straightened up and made their way back to the horses.
“We certainly know one thing for sure,” Bob pointed out. “There’s no mountain lion in Rainbow Gulch. A man and a mountain lion can’t live that close together. One or the other has to go.”
“You think this explains the sheep and the milk?” Ted questioned.
“I’m sure of it. Look how it fits in. The only time things were taken was when natural game was too hard to get, during the winter storms or the summer drought. A hermit’s like a clever mountain lion—he wouldn’t want to get men on his trail, either.”
“This is the screwiest thing I ever saw,” Nelson decided. “I wonder how long he’s been there?”
“Not as long as the cabin, of course, but I imagine he’s been here for years. He looks completely settled in. You’d have to ride all the way into the gulch to find him, and no one’s likely to do that. We only did it, at first, because we were after a mountain lion. Then if he was careful with his fires, and never came out except very late at night, who would suspect?”
“His clothes didn’t look too bad,” Ted recollected, “and he surely never showed up in town to buy them.”
“But who is he, and what’s he doing there?” Nelson persisted. “And why didn’t you want us to take a peek in the window? We might have found out something. I don’t think it would have hurt anything—he didn’t look dangerous.”
“I think I know what he’s doing. He’s a prospector of some sort. I imagine he thinks he’s discovered something, or about to discover something, and that’s why he’s holed up there.”
“What could he be prospecting for?” asked Ted.
“It could be almost anything—gold, silver, copper, maybe even diamonds or uranium.”
“Don’t things like that take a lot of equipment nowadays? He didn’t look as though he’d have very much along that line.”
“I suppose they do, if you want to do a really efficient job. But you still have some of these lone prospectors, hoping to stumble across something valuable. The way he walked and the way he muttered to himself made it look as though he’s not quite right. That’s why I didn’t want to go bursting in on him. You don’t know what notions he might take if he thought we were spying on him and going to beat him to his claim.”
“You were the closest to him when he passed us, Ted,” Nelson pointed out. “Did you catch what he was muttering about?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Ted, frowning, “but to me it sounded as though he was saying over and over to himself, ‘Maryland, Maryland!’ “