Chapter X

Catching the Firebugs

RIGHT then and there we held a council of war, and decided that I was to tell as little as possible of our troubles and our plans. I then went to the telephone and called the Supervisor: “How about it – I suppose the rain has already killed the fires!”

“All but the dead, pitchy trees and logs; they are still burning,” he answered.

“But they will soon burn out. We are out of provisions, May I have a couple of days off, to go for some!”

“Yes! Sure! The forest is already so well soaked that those firebugs can‘t do any more damage for a time, two days, anyhow.”

“All right ! We‘ll leave here early in the morning. I don‘t have to ring you up again, do I?”

“No. This is Tuesday. I give you off from now until Friday evening. You be back to your station at that time and ring me up. Good-bye!”

So, there we were, free from that moment, and for three days. When the old men were told what had been said, White Deer remarked that my forest chief must be a good man. None but men of good heart would be watchers of Rain God‘s gardens. And there were others: the whites who studied the work of the people of the long ago, and those who raised crops of grain, and raisers of cattle and horses. They were just like the Hopis: they attended strictly to their own business; were never telling others how they must live, and what gods they must worship!

The rain showed no signs of stopping, and as the afternoon wore on, we told the Hopis that they were welcome to remain in our cabin for the night. They refused to do that, saying that they would make a shelter of brush under a spruce tree and be dry and comfortable. They then opened their sacks and gave us a good portion of their corn meal and pinole, and went out to build their shelter. Later on, at about five o‘clock, the young Hopi and I started up the mountain to try to kill a deer. I had seen the little band of them feeding evenings and early mornings, as well as he. They were generally on the east slope, and just above the timber line, at the north end of the mountain. So, instead of following the trail up on top, we turned off from it and quartered northward up the slope and soon neared the feeding-place. Rain was still falling; wisps of fog drifted past us through the trees; although the sun was still nearly three hours from setting, night seemed to be right upon us. There was a little better light when we arrived at the edge of the timber and looked out upon the grass slope, and saw no deer, and were disappointed. I said that they might not come out to feed an such a rainy evening, and he laughed softly: “No matter what the weather is, they have to eat!” he answered.

Just then a very heavy bank of fog came drifting past us, and he plucked my sleeve: “Come. We go with it!” he said. I did not understand what he intended to do, but I followed; out into the open and quartering up toward the end of the summit, only two or three hundred yards away; and now it was so dark that we could no more than see where to put our feet. We presently stumbled up against a thick bunch of stunted alder brush and he pulled me down beside him in the lower edge of it; the fog bank cleared and I saw that we were in the center of the open slope.

“Most white men and some Indians are poor hunters,” said my friend. “They trail around, and around, and the deer, ever watchful, see them first, and with a few jumps are gone from sight. Good hunters learn where the game goes to feed, and to drink, and then they go to that place and sit quietly, patiently, for the game to come to them!”

“I will remember that,” I told him. And had no more than spoken, when, straight down from us, four deer came stringing up out of the timber, two of them very large bucks, the others about two-year-olds. They scattered out, moving with quick steps from one patch of brush to another and nipping off the green and tender tips and leaves, and coming always nearer to us. My friend had not brought his ancient bow, because he had been unable to find any feathering for the arrows, and because the rain would have wet the bowstring and made it sag. I whispered to him to take my rifle – to make the shot. He smiled and refused with a quick, out motion of his hand. I took a careful sight at one of the big bucks, broadside to me, and when I pulled the trigger, he keeled over backward, rolled down the slope a few yards, and lay still against a rock. The others stared at him for a moment, and then made for the timber with high, stiff jumps.

An hour later we returned to the cabin with all the meat that we could carry, and then two of the old men came with us and we brought in all the rest of it. During our second trip up the mountain, Hannah had made a large cake of corn meal and water, and, regardless of the rain, brought in a few dry quaking aspen poles and chopped them into right lengths for the stove. We filled the firebox with these, and when they had burned to a mass of red coals, we removed the stone top and broiled some loin steaks of the deer over them. Maybe that was n‘t a good supper! Juicy venison and cornmeal cake sure were a feast to us. And we had music with it: through the open door there came up to us, clear and soft, the singing of the old men in their camp down by the spring. They were evidently very happy. A little later, when our friend came up To us, he said that the songs were sacred ones; that the old men had been praying and singing to the gods, giving thanks for the rain, asking that it continue, and that we all might survive danger of every kind, and capture the bad men and recover the bear hide.

We now built a big fire close in front of the little roofed porch, and in the course of a couple of hours thoroughly dried ourselves before it. And while we did that we tried to talk, of many things, but always came back to the loss of our hear hide and the meanness of the men who had taken it. It meant so much to us all, that silver-tipped hide: To our friend, the means of carrying out his mission for his people. To Hannah and me, more money than we had ever seen at one time in all our lives; money for Liberty bonds; for the Red Cross; and for some nice Christmas presents to send to our Uncle Cleveland, fighting the Huns in far-away France. And thinking and talking of him made us hate all the more the mean deserter, Henry King, and the terrible I.W.W. fire-setters. And were we really about to trap them in that cave at the edge of the desert? It did n‘t seem possible that we could have such good luck. More and more I doubted that the outlaws had found the place, but more and more stoutly our friend insisted that they had found it. “I can‘t explain how my old priests have the power,” he said, “but this much I know: it is given them to see things that only they can see. They say that the bad white men are in that cave; without doubt they are there!”

It was all of ten o‘clock when our friend went back to his old men. As soon as he had gone, Hannah put on her heavy coat and lay down upon the boughs in her bunk, and I stretched out on the floor. We awoke three or four times during the night, and each time I got up and built a fresh fire in the stove, for we were very cold. Rain fell steadily until near morning, when it began to come down with driving gusts of wind, a sure sign, we thought, that the storm was about over. It did pass a little later, and the sun came up in a partly cloudy sky.

During our wakeful hours we had talked a lot about our plan to capture the outlaws. It seemed to be a terribly risky venture, and I told Hannah that she had better keep out of it; that we should take her home, and get Uncle John, and maybe one or two other men to go on with us to the Conaro Creek cave.

“Yes, I see you going there after mother and Uncle John learn about this I “ she exclaimed. “And as to myself, have n‘t I my automatic and can‘t I shoot it! I am going to that old cave with you!”

Well, that settled it. I told her that she should go with us. And then, when morning came and the sun shone and all was bright and clear, I thought our plan not near so desperate as it had seemed in the dark night. In fact, not at all desperate: we could certainly take care of ourselves.

We had more broiled meat and corn cake for breakfast; then washed the dishes, swept out the cabin, locked the door, and sat on the porch waiting for our friends to appear. They soon came up from their camp, each one with his little pack, and we all went up on to the summit, and along it to the north end of the mountain. As we were passing the cave hole, the old men called a halt, and White Deer told our young friend that he had a few words far us:

“You two of good heart,” he said, “although this place is nothing to you, it is very sacred to us, as you have learned. You have seen what a very powerful place it is: that here, through our prayers and offerings to Rain God, we have brought rain, heavy rain, and saved our plantings out there in the desert. So, to us this kiva here in the mountain is a very sacred place. As we found it so have we left it, putting back into the passage the broken roof rock just as Rain God dropped it there. And now we ask you not to remove that rock, not to go into that place, lest by doing so you make our god angry with us, and with you, too. He might make you prisoners there, as he did the Apache, whose bones we found.”

“We shall do as you ask,” I promptly answered.

“Yes. Of course we shall!” said Hannah.

And then how the old men smiled as they one by one shook hands with us.

We went on to the end of the mountain and looked off at the forest and the great desert beyond. The black burnings were dead; not a wisp of smoke was rising from them. Away to the north the Hopi buttes were hidden in a great cloud bank, and nearer cloud masses were dropping rain. The old men clapped their hands and pointed off to it, talking excitedly, and our friend told us that they were saying that Rain God was very good to them; that he was continuing to soak their gardens.

Pointing then to a little lake to the northwest, and almost at the edge of the timber, White Deer asked me if it was not the head of the creek of the great cave! I answered that it was.

“And just a little way from the lake the creek drops down a very steep and rocky slope, then runs through a narrow slope of timber, and then over the three ledges and out into the desert. Am I not right!”

“It runs just as you say it does,” I told him.

“You see how we of the kivas keep knowledge of places: none of us have ever been to that creek, nor our fathers nor grandfathers, yet we know it as well as though we had been along it many times!” he said.

He pointed to a large, shining lake midway between us and Conaro Lake. “But I do not understand about that water,” he went on. “Our description of this Rain God garden makes no mention of it. It can‘t be that it is the gathering of last night‘s rain.”

“It is n‘t,” I told him. “White men who live away down the river built a dam there, and so made the lake. When they need water for their plantings they let the water run down into the river, and from it into their ditches.”

“Ah! That explains it!”he exclaimed, clapping hands together with a loud smack. And then, sadly: “Our people once had ditches; water in plenty for their large gardens!”

We planned our route to Conaro Lake: Down the long ridge running from the mountain almost to the big prairie in which is the reservoir; past its south side and again into the timber and straight on to our destination. Our young friend said that I must kill a duck for him at the reservoir, so that he could have some feathering for his arrows.

The end of the mountain was so abrupt that we did not dare try to go down it: we turned down the west slope almost to the timber, and then went on around to the ridge. It was bare for nearly a half-mile, and the soft ground was all cut up with deer tracks, nearly washed out by the rain. As soon as we entered the timber we had hard going; windfalls that were breast-high tangles of logs and branches, one after another for all of two miles, down to the lower edge of the spruce belt. We then had fine footing down through the open pine and fir timber to the prairie, which we struck at noon. We went straight out across if to the reservoir, and found it covered with ducks of all kinds, old and young. I shot a drake mallard, and our young friend waded out for it, and, stripping some of the larger wing feathers, began work on his arrows. The old men opened their sacks, produced some roasted meat, and we had lunch. Our young friend finished feathering his arrows, and, gathering and tightly binding a wad of grass about a foot in diameter, set it on top of a bush and fired three arrows at it from a distance of about thirty yards: all three of them plunked into it. We thought that wonderful shooting, and said so.

“If we find those bear-hide stealers, watch what I do to them!” he grimly answered.

We were about to go on when we saw five riders come into the north edge of the prairie, pause for a moment, and then start ‘loping straight toward us; and even at that distance, by the way they sat their horses, and quirted them, we knew them for what they were, Apaches.

“We must not show that we are afraid of them. We will not fear them ! “ our young friend exclaimed, and turned about to sit facing their approach, as did Hannah and I, she taking her automatic from its holster and concealing and holding it in a fold of her dress. Our young friend re-strung his bow, and held it and several arrows across his lap, as I did my rifle. As the riders neared us we made out that four of them wore the blue uniform of the reservation police, the other, khaki trousers and a red calico shirt, and that they were armed with Government carbines and revolvers. They rode close up in front of us, brought their horses to a quick stand and stared down at us, and we returned their stare, and outstared them. Even in the excitement of the moment I noticed how different they were from our kindly and intelligent featured friends. Their faces were coarse and cruel; their bodies short and heavy upon spindly bow legs; and what mean, shifty little eyes they had, sunk deep in the edge of low, retreating foreheads!

Said one of them in broken English, when, as it seemed, he could no longer endure our steady stare: “What you doin‘?”

“You see what we are doing: resting,” I answered.

“Where you come from!”

“From our place.”

“Where you goin‘! “

“Wherever we choose to go,” I answered.

“White boy, you think you smart! What you doin‘ with old Hopi men – old prairie dogs!”

“Here, you, don‘t you call us that again!” our young friend cried, springing up and facing him menacingly.

The other did not answer. He looked shiftily at me, at Hannah, and talked with his companions. And how their language grated in our ears: how different it was from the soft, pleasant-sounding Hopi tongue. It was natural, I thought, that cruel, bloodthirsty people should have a harsh, cruel-sounding language.

Presently the Indian again turned to me: “We huntin‘ hims set fires in timber. I guess you hims.

You come ‘long! I ‘rest you all!”

“I guess you won‘t ! “ I told him, and pulled from my pocket my Forest Service badge. “Do you see that ! I am a fireguard! That is my station, up there on that big mountain. Just you go on wherever you are going. If you want those fire-setters, I am sure that you know where to find them!”

At sight of my badge all five of the party were noticeably surprised. Again they talked together, and suddenly put quirt to their horses and started past us. The last in line was he of the khaki overalls, and as he rode past us he spit at the old Hopi men and hissed hard words. They pretended not to notice his insult.

Without once looking back at us, the Apaches went on south toward their reservation, and disappeared in the timber, but we felt quite sure that they would stop in the edge of it and watch our movements. So, instead of going on northwest, we changed our course to northeast, as though we were heading for home, for Greer. And after we had crossed the big prairie, we stopped a long time in the timber and watched for the Apaches to come back upon our trail. They did not appear, and at two o‘clock we circled on through the timber and then turned straight toward Conaro Lake, often pausing and watching to learn if we were being trailed. We made sure that we were free from that, but the old men were very uneasy.

Said old White Deer: “Those blue coats will tell that they have seen us, and some of their brother sneaking-killers will soon be coming after our heads!”

“Oh, I don‘t believe they will dare do that,” I said.

“But you don‘t understand,” he replied. “The whites are so powerful that the Apaches fear to kill one of them. They know that they can kill the poor Hopis as they do deer, and with no more fear of punishment.”

It was five o‘clock when we looked out upon Conaro Lake from the timber. It was black with quacking ducks; seven big turkey gobblers were chasing grasshoppers along its near, grassy shore; and at its far end a doe with two fawns was drinking. We watched them for a few minutes and then I led on, across the hundred yards or so of level timberland, and down the steep slope on the right of the creek canyon, and finally, at sundown, we crept to the edge of the timber and looked out upon the three ledges over which the creek was tumbling, a hundred yards away. Straight across from us was the big brush patch at the foot of the center ledge, it, too, about a hundred yards from the stream. The old men smiled and nodded and whispered to one another when they saw it.

And now, as we had planned to do, we lay perfectly quiet, watching the brush patch: if the outlaws were in the cave that it concealed, we felt sure that they would be coming out at dusk for a supply of wood and water. Hannah lay close to me on my right; close on my left was our young friend; and beyond him the old men all in a row, each with a little gathering of rocks in front of him. For a time, sister and I were tremendously excited; we expected every moment to see some of the bad men or all of them come out into the open. But as the day faded and none appeared, we became quiet enough; then doubtful; and at last, when it was so dark that the

brush patch was little more than a blur on the farther side of the creek, she whispered to me: “We have had our long tramp for nothing! Of course those firebugs are nor here! Why should they be here instead of in any one of the thousand hiding-places that there are in this forest!”

And just then our young friend nudged me with his elbow, and I did the same to Hannah, and heard one of the old men give a low hiss of caution: a man was leaving the brush, was coming toward the creek! He came on swiftly, and as he neared it became more plain to us, and at last we made out that he was carrying a bucket. We saw him stoop at the edge of the creek and fill and raise it to his face and drink, and then he refilled it and went back the way he had come and was lost to us in the darkness even before he entered the brush. We had been unable to see his features, but by the way he walked and the general outline of him, Hannah and I both thought that he was the deserter, Henry King. I whispered our belief to our young friend, and he told the old men, and they all whispered together, and finaly, after some talk with me, it was decided that we should sneak across to the brush patch as soon as the night became quite dark.

And now we were again tremendously excited – Hannah and I, anyhow. We wondered what was going to happen when we arrived in the brush – if we were to make a success of our undertaking, or get into terrible trouble? Yes, I‘ll say it: to cross to that brush patch and the cave hole in it was the last thing that we wanted to do; we wished, as we never had wished before, that we were right then safe at home! I told sister that she had best remain right where we were and wait for us to come back to her, but she refused to do that. To stay there all alone would be worse than following us, she said.

The time came for us to start. Our young friend took the lead and I fell in behind him, then Hannah, and after her the old men. We were a long time making the two hundred yards to the brush patch. At the edge of it we stood and listened, heard nothing, then little by little moved into it, and at last stood before a small, black hole at the foot of the ledge. Excited and scared though I was, I almost laughed at our foolish confidence in our plan: We were to seize some big rocks quickly and block the cave entrance with them. Lo! there were no rocks, large or small, other than the great rock ledge itself!

As we stood there listening, hearing nothing, we caught the odor of smoke and knew that a fire was burning down in the cave.

Our young friend leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Will you follow me down into the hole, lust a little way: far enough to see who is there – how many of them?”

“Yes. But I go first with my rifle,” I answered, and told Hannah what we were to do, and he told

the old men. Sister tried to prevent me going, but I loosened her grasp upon my sleeve, and the next moment was crawling slowly into the hole, the young Hopi close at my heels. For twenty-five feet or more, the passage sloped down at an angle of about thirty degrees to the door of the cave. When halfway down it, I passed the level of the roof and saw, not far off in the intense blackness, a small fire and men sitting facing it. Three men! And to the left of the fire, leaning up against the wall of the cave, was the big bear hide, laced again into a frame of poles! All three of the men had their backs to me, and how glad I was of that. Noiselessly I began to crawl back, and the young Hopi kept out of my way. I could hear the men talking; their voices sounded deep and hollow. One of them dropped something and the echo of its fall rumbled like thunder.

At last I got back into the open. “All three are down in there! They have the big bear skin!” I whispered to Hannah. The young Hopi whispered to his old men what we had seen. Noiselessly we all drew away from the cave entrance, out from the brush patch to a safe distance, and in whispers decided upon what was to be done. Hannah was to go to the sawmill, five miles away, for help, and the Indians and I were to guard the cave entrance. I wonder how many girls there are who would have had the courage to make that journey through the dark forest! She did not fear it, however, nor had I any fears for her: the bad men were in the cave; old Double Killer was dead: there were none to do her harm. She left us, and we sneaked back to the cave hole, and sat in a row in the brush, facing it. If the outlaws started to come out, we were to shout to them to go back or we would shoot; if they refused to obey, we were to do our best with rifle, and arrows, and rocks.

I thought that, having water, wood, the food and bedding that they had stolen from us, and a roof over their heads, the outlaws would not think of coming out until morning. How I hoped that they would n‘t! I asked myself how I could possibly have the nerve to shoot a man, outlaw though he were?

“If it comes to a show-down, I‘ve just got to shoot, and shoot first!” I kept saying to myself. For a time we could now and then faintly catch the odor of smoke. Time passed slowly, but at last we got no more of the smoke, and the young Hopi whispered to me that he was sure the bad men were asleep. Without doubt they were. Big, strong, grim old William Hammond would be with us when the outlaws came sneaking out of the cave hole. All would be well with us. I felt better.

It was about three o‘clock in the morning when we heard, off across the creek opening, the faint click of an iron shoe upon rock; and another click, nearer, more plain. And then, in a little while, came Hannah to us, and behind her William Hammond and five of his men.

“You have n‘t had any trouble! The firebugs are still in there! “ Hammond whispered to me.

“No, no trouble. I think they are asleep in there,” I answered.

“Good! We‘ll wait until daylight, and then get ‘em out!” He whispered to his men, and they all sat down with us, in a half-circle facing the hole.

Day was not long in coming. We were all silent, watching the hole, looking at Hammond, wondering what was his plan to capture the outlaws. We all but jumped when he suddenly roared out: “Well, it is time we were callin‘ those sleepers in there to breakfast!” And with that, he starred to go into the cave.

“You are not going in there! They will kill you!” cried one of his men.

“Not they! Nary a kill! Them kind have n‘t got the sand to kill a chipmunk, even! Just you watch me get ‘em out of there.”

In he went, crawling down the incline, and his men, the young Hopi, and I started to follow him, but he ordered us back. We stood close around the hole, listening, and soon heard him shout: “Hi, there! Henry King, you and your partners come out of that! Come out, I say, poco pronto!”

Then silence. We held our breath, every moment expecting to hear the boom of guns as the outlaws shot down the sawmill man.

Then again he roared: “Come out, I say. You can‘t get away from us! If you won‘t come, we‘ll starve you to death, in there. But you‘ll die from thirst before you starve!”

This time he was answered. We could not hear what it was, but afterward learned that the deserter whined: “We‘ll come, if you all won‘t shoot us.”

And “Jones,” as he called himself, one of the I.W.W., had blustered: “Course we‘ll come out!

We ain‘t done nothin‘; you ain‘t got anything on us!”

And then, in a moment or two, out came Hammond, and after him, “Jones,” then “Smith,” and last the deserter. And when he straightened up and saw Hannah and me, he starred back as though he had been struck.

“That bear hide of ours that you have in there is a big one, is n‘t it, Henry” I said to him.

He gave me no answer, but suddenly cried out: “Oh, God! You fellows, let me go! Let me go! I did n‘t want to steal anything; I could n‘t help it! You don‘t know what hell I was in. Goin‘ to bed to the toot of a horn ! Tooted at to git up ! Drillin‘ all day! I could n‘t stand it! I had to get away – make a sneak back to these here mountains –”

“My Uncle Cleveland loves these mountains, too, but he is away off there in France, fighting that we may keep them!” Hannah almost shouted to him. And how she glared at him. I had never thought she could look so fierce.

And then “Jones” and “Smith” began to bluster that they had done nothing; that they would have the law on us if we did n‘t let them go. But suddenly King cried out: “They lie! They lie! They helped me steal the grub and the bear skin and stuff. They set the forest fires – I did n‘t, not one of them! I‘II tell the truth, and then you‘ll let me go, won‘t you!”

How the firebugs cursed him then, until Hammond roared that if he heard another word from any of them, he would gag them all. And then, while three of his men guarded them, we all followed Hammond into the cave, and by lighting matches groped our way to the camping-place of the outlaws, and there found and lit my lamp.

Other stuff was there besides mine. Other bedding, cooking-utensils, three rifles, some clothing. And, too, a beautiful, large, white prehistoric jar with rain, cloud, and lightning paintings on it in black.

When the old Hopi priests saw it they made great outcry. Our young friend told us that they were saying the sacred cave of their fathers was forever desecrated.

“Why, if that is so, perhaps I may have the jar,” said Hannah.

“Of course you may. Nothing here is now of any use to us,” one answered, when he was told what she had asked.

Well, we got all the stuff out of the cave. Hammond had brought all his horses, and lent us two upon which to pack home our belongings. Away he and his men went with the outlaws, to turn them over to the sheriff, and the Hopis went home with us. And the next day they set out for their own home in a heavy rain.

Rain fell day after day, and so saturated the forest that all the fireguards were dismissed. In due time we got our rewards for the deserter, and for killing the bear, and then we sent the hide to our Hopi friend, and he sold it, as he had promised he would, to a tourist for four hundred and fifty dollars, and sent us a post-office order for three hundred dollars. We then sent him his share of the rewards that we got. We have not since heard from him.

Hannah and I were witnesses at the trial of the firebugs, but Henry King gave the most damaging evidence against them before he was taken by army officials to be tried, and sentenced to Leavenworth prison. He got twenty years, and the firebugs each ten years.

One thing that we wanted to hear came out at the trial: Henry King had found the great cave four

years back, by following a wounded coyote to it, and he had never told any one of his discovery.

Hannah and I are planning to explore it thoroughly some day.

Well, for a Lone Boy Scout, as Uncle John and others smilingly call me, I am of the opinion that I had quite an exciting summer.

THE END