In the Great Apache Forest (Complete Edition). James Willard Schultz
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were set for him, would not touch poisoned meat, and survived the bullets of the riders who occasionally got sight of him. All who saw him said that he was of huge size, that he was a silvertip, with bald — white — head, and a large white spot on his breast. The Cattlemen’s Association of Apache County was now offering a reward of two hundred dollars for the death of the bear. I asked myself if I had the courage to attempt to earn it, provided I should see the old fellow in broad daylight?
Continuing on up the meadow, we crossed the creek at the head of it and entered the heavy spruce forest that clothes the steep slopes of Mount Thomas. Here were still patches of the winter snow, in places five or six feet deep. But the Forest Service telephone line repairers had already been to the summit with their pack-train, so the trail was well broken and we made good time. Down below, the groves of Douglas firs and white pines that we had traversed were carpeted with bright flowers and full of many kinds of singing birds. Here under the tall spruces was deep silence and deep gloom that always made me shiver. The few fallen trees lay like picked bones upon the dark, needle-strewn slope. No flowers were here except those of a few scattering blueberry bushes, and not a bird did we see other than a couple of silent-flitting, drab moose birds. I was glad when, at something like 11,000 feet, we came out on the top of the ridge and into the bright sunshine, and saw above us the bare, long summit of the mountain, its rim deep with glistening snow. And then, in a little clearing, we came to the tiny fireguard cabin. Here again were flowers, and singing birds, and scampering chipmunks and squirrels. We dismounted in front of the four by six feet porch of the cabin, unpacked the horses and piled my outfit upon it, and with my Forest Service key unlocked the padlocked door and stepped inside, and found but little more than room to turn around in. The cabin is only a ten by twelve feet room of very small logs, the only kind obtainable at that height. It has two small windows; in one corner a very small cook-stove; opposite it a narrow bunk of poles; and against the wall, and near the telephone screwed to the wall, a small table. A galvanized iron, squirrel- and rat-proof food chest occupies a good share of the floor space.
“Well, here you are, snug as a bug in a rug,” said Uncle John, after a good look around, “except that it’s sure airy: you could sling a cat out between any two of the logs. They sure need chinking!”
“They will not be chinked by me; plenty of air is what I like,” I answered, little thinking how soon I was to change my mind as to the gaping spaces. We brought my outfit inside, put the things in their proper places, and had a hurried lunch. It was about two o’clock. Uncle John said he must be going, in order to arrive home in time to do the milking. Just then the telephone bell gave two short rings. I looked at the printed card hanging beside it and saw that the call was for me, and answered.
“That you, George?” came Supervisor Winn’s voice so plainly that Uncle John could also hear what he said.
“Yes, I am here,” I answered.
“Glad that you are. Green’s Peak 38. Go up on top and report what you see.”
“Right away,” I answered, and hung up.
“Ha! Busy already. Well, I must be going,” said Uncle John.
I helped him get the loose horses strung out on the trail, and cheerfully enough answered his goodbye. But the moment that the dwarf spruces hid him from view, my little cabin clearing seemed not to be so sunny and pleasant. “Now, you are alone, but you are not to feel lonely!” I scolded myself, and returned to the cabin for my rifle, then took the steep trail winding up through scattering, wind-torn spruces to the summit of the mountain, passing on the way drifts of snow of great depth, some of thirty feet and more.
The rocky, bare summit of this mountain is about a quarter of a mile in length — running northwest and southeast, and in its center is a gentle depression, or saddle. At its southeast end is a round, sharp uplift of rock about fifty feet in height, upon which stands the lookout station. At the other end the mountain drops off abruptly, but at a somewhat lesser height. I went straight to the station, an eight-sided, eight-windowed, conical-roofed building just large enough to contain a central chart stand, a very small stove, and one chair, and unlocked the door and went in. Then, turning about and looking off to the north, I at once saw the forest fire, about fifteen miles away, near Conaro Lake. I got behind the chart stand — on the south side of it. A round copper plate a foot in diameter, and marked with the 360 degrees of a circle, is fastened upon it, and pivoted to its center is a threaded sight, just like the sight upon a surveyor’s level. I swung it around until I had it directly in line with the smoke of the fire. Due north on the copper plate is degree 360. The level’s arrow-point was on degree 10,1 turned to the telephone, called the main office, and reported. The Green’s Peak lookout had reported the fire on degree 38. The Supervisor had but to get the cross-section of degrees 10 and 38, upon his map of the forest, and he had the exact location to which to send his fire patrols. I soon heard the telephone calling the Cienega Flat Fire Patrol Station, and listened in: “The fire is right at Sheep Springs. Go over,there as fast as you can,” I heard the Supervisor saying. The Springs are about a mile south of Conaro Lake.
I was now free to return to my cabin, but I lingered there in the lookout for some time, looking down upon the world. Far to the north, across several hundred miles of the great, gray desert, I could see the cliffs of the Hopi Indians, and nearer, to the northeast, the Zuni Buttes. Eastward as far as I could see into New Mexico, a hundred miles and more, loomed up the grim, black-forested Mogollon Range. To the south, across a hundred miles of greener forest, the snaky outline of the Graham Mountains hid the hot country from me, else I could have looked down upon the deserts of Old Mexico, more than three hundred miles away. More to the west, the Sierra Anches Mountains prevented a view of the great Roosevelt Lake. But I had seen pictures of it, and its huge dam, and pictures, too, of the vast fields of grain, alfalfa, cotton, and groves of fruit trees dependent upon its waters. Some of our soldiers, I knew, were night and day guarding the dam from destruction by German spies. And we fireguards were here, perched upon the peaks of the range, to prevent fires devastating the great forest and drying up the stream feeders of that wonderful irrigation system. Right under me, on the east, headed a fork of Black River, and on the south and west two forks of White River, main feeders of the high-dammed lake. I said to myself that by no fault of mine should fires kill the forest that mothered their hundreds of springs.
Fireguards before my time had told of finding some small turquoise, and black stone beads upon the sharp uplift that was capped by the lookout station. I went outside, and with the point of my knife began to scratch out the fine earth and gravel that the winds and rains had deposited in crevices in the rock, and in less than two minutes’ time found two black stone beads, one of them so small that I could take it up only with the point of my knife, and then feared to place it on a rock, lest I should be unable to find it again. I carried it into the lookout, and, measuring it on the chart stand, found that it was one sixteenth of an inch in diameter, and less than a thirty-second of an inch thick; the hole through it so small that it would not admit an ordinary pin. I became interested. I wondered why the beads had been left here by the Indians, and by what Indians? How long ago? And how could they possibly have fashioned them of such small size? I placed my finds in a Forest Service envelope, and went out to search for more of them. It was then about five o’clock, and I scratched and dug about among the rocks as long as I had sufficient light. When, at last, I was forced to quit, I had collected two arrow-points, one of a glasslike substance, and one of red flint, and fifty-three beads of black, gray, red, and yellow stone, none of them a quarter of an inch in diameter, the average running about an eighth of an inch. I was quite excited over my success. Here was something to keep me occupied day after day while I watched the great forest. By diligent search I thought that I might make some wonderful finds of old Indian handicraft. I hurried down the steep trail in the gathering night, and at the edge of the cabin clearing came to a sudden stop: I had glimpsed something quickly slipping into the shadow of the spruces beyond the cabin, something that, dim though it was, had the shape of a man!
Chapter II.
The Mountain Cave
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