Unexplored!

Unexplored!
Allen Chaffee

Chaffee Allen

Unexplored!

INTRODUCTION

A pack-burro camping trip in an unexplored region of the high Sierras results in a series of adventures for three boys in the late teens, a young Geological Survey man and the old prospector who guides them.

They meet bears and catch rainbow trout, are carried to fight fire by the Forest Service Air Patrol, and trail the incendiaries through a labyrinthian limestone cave. They ride in a lumber camp rodeo and experience earthquakes and avalanches. And in the glacier-gouged canyons, the giant Sequoias, and sulphur springs, they trace the story of the geological formation of the earth, and its evolution from the days of dinosaurs.

CHAPTER I

THE RODEO

Ted Smith, flinging his long legs off a frisky bay, grinned delightedly as his eye caught a flag-decked touring car.

“Are you riding?” called the boy at the wheel.

“Sure AM!” drawled the ranch boy. “How about yourself?”

“Betcher life, Old Kid!” Ace King flung himself to the ground, disclosing the fact of his new leather chaps – a contrast to Ted’s overalls. Greetings followed between Ted and Senator King in the back seat, and Pedro Martinez, a black-eyed young fellow who sat a pinto pony alongside.

The slanting rays of California sunshine were fanned by a breeze from Huntington Lake, as the crowd sifted about the corral fence at Cedar Crest. The prevailing khaki of the dusty onlookers gave way at intervals to a splash of color. An Indian in a purple shirt was borrowing the orange chaps of another broncho-buster; he had drawn number two from the hat. Most of the cowmen offset their “two-quart” sombreros with brilliant-hued bandannas knotted loosely at their throats. A few wore chaparreras in stamped leather, and a few in goatskin – red or black or tan – though most let it go at plain blue overalls. One of the machines drawn up beside the soda-pop stand fluttered a flag on its nose. For the Fourth was to be marked by a reading of the Declaration of Independence before the rodeo and barbecue. (The day had begun with a Parade of Horribles, in which every last lumberman took part, chanting the marching song to an accompaniment of well-belabored frying-pans.)

Unbidden, a band of unspeakably unwashed Digger Indians, attired in gay and ill-assorted rags, appeared, and seated themselves on the opposite hill-side, beaming vacuously as the ox was put in the pit to roast (together with two smaller carcasses that the camp cook winkingly designated as wild mutton, though he was careful to bury the antlers against the possible advent of the Forest Ranger).

The rodeo master, a megaphone-voiced blond giant, in high-heeled riding boots and spurs that made him limp when he walked, careened up and down the dusty field on a high-stepping bay, while two lasso men in steel-studded belts and leather cuffs helped round the range stock into the adjoining small corral.

An unbroken two-year-old with wild, rolling eyes tried to climb the fence when the rope tightened on his throat, and a sleek mule kicked out in a way that left a red mark on the flank of a lean white mare. Then one of the bulls in a separate corral shoved his head under the lower of the two log bars that fenced him in and lifted – lifted, – but could not break through.

“Riding, old Scout?” Ted asked the young Spanish-Californian.

“’Fraid I’d ride the ground,” admitted Pedro, with a gesture of his plump, manicured hands.

“Yeh! – Saw-horse’s HIS mount!” jollied Ace, though the pinto looked by no means spiritless. (And to himself he added: “Likely promised his mother not to. Gee! I’d like to cut him loose from her apron strings for about three months and see how he’d pan out!”)

“He’s got too much sense to risk his bones,” championed the Senator, (a heavy, florid man with a leonine mass of white curly hair and Ace’s daring black eyes).

Just then a petite young woman rode up, her bobbed curly hair and sun-flushed cheeks topping a red silk blouse joined to her khaki riding breeches by a fringed sash that reached half way to her elkskin boots.

“I say, Rosa, are you riding?” greeted Ace. The girl shook her head merrily. “Dad, that’s Pierre La Coste’s sister, – you know, he’s fire-lookout on Red Top. Used to be one of our Scouts when we lived in Peach Cove.”

“Yeh, we used to call him Pur-r-r,” supplemented the ranch boy.

“And that’s the horse Ranger Radcliffe’s been trying to give her,” added Ace, sotto voce. “Isn’t he a beauty?”

“And she won’t have him?” laughed the Senator.

“Won’t have man or beast.”

Ace, now studying geology at the University of California, though he had traveled widely since the old ranch days, still counted Ted, sandy haired, thin and freckled, struggling to make his mother’s fruit ranch a go, his chum. Pedro, a neighbor of the old days, was his roommate in the fraternity house at Berkeley. All three ran to greet Norris, a young man in the uniform of the U. S. Geological Survey (son of the Forest Supervisor), who now appeared, galloping beside Ranger Radcliffe. For he was to pilot them on a camping trip into the high Sierras in a week or two.

The first entry was just being led forth to be saddled as the fifth and final member of their expedition arrived on the scene, afoot, – Long Lester, a lanky, bewhiskered old prospector in soft felt hat, clean but collarless “b’iled shirt,” vest, cartridge belt and corduroy “pants,” thrust into the tops of ordinary hob-nailed boots.

“Well, you broncho-busters, out in the center!” megaphoned the man on the big bay. “Five more riders here! – Two-fifty to ride and seven-fifty more to go up!” Three men came forward. “We want two more entries. If you pull-leather or fall off, two-fifty. If a fellow rides a bull with one hand hold, he gets seven-fifty. Ten dollars if you go up!”

Ace and Ted exchanged glances as they started forward.

“You’re sure courtin’ trouble,” called the Senator.

“I reckon I am,” grinned Ted, “but I’m broke.”

“You’ll have to pay your winnings to get your bones mended.”

“I’ll take a chance!”

King laughed. Most of the horses he recognized as having been ridden before. But he was secretly resolved if Ace drew a bad one, to exercise his parental authority.

The chums drew from the hat, Ace taking the last name. He started as he looked at his slip. “The white-faced bull,” read Ted over his shoulder.

“Gee! Don’t tell Dad!” breathed Ace. “What’s yours?”

“Spitfire!”

The older boy emitted a long-drawn whistle.

“All right, broncho boys,” megaphoned the starter.

The first entry, rearing and snorting, with two lassos about his neck, had finally been blind-folded and caparisoned.

“Johnny White from Fresno, on Old Ned from Northfork,” rang the announcement. An Indian in overalls swung himself into the saddle simultaneously with the snatching away of lassos and blinders.

The horse tucked his head almost between his knees, and leaped into the air, bowing his back and grunting with each jump, while the dust rose till no one could tell whether the rider was on or off. Then the horse galloped to the opposite side of the corral and his unwelcome incumbent was perceived picking himself sheepishly out of the dust.

“Henry Clark from Table Mountain, on the pinto from Cascada,” the next entry was shortly announced. The Indian in the purple shirt stepped forward, gorgeous in his borrowed chaps.

“Some buckaroo!” grinned Ted.

The pony, not quite so thin as most of the range stock, blinked startled eyes, and the fire-works began. The gorgeous one, barely surviving the first buck, and seeing himself riding for a fall in all his finery, leapt nimbly to the ground while the pony went on bucking. He landed right side up – with no damage to the purple shirt. A derisive jeer greeted this – fiasco.

“He sure wasn’t goin’ to dust them ice-cream pants,” laughed one of the crowd hanging over the fence. The Indian signified a desire to try again. After a couple more riders were called, he was given the same mount again.

This time he saved his finery by grabbing hold with both hands.

“Pulling leather only gets two-fifty,” adjudged the megaphone man.

“He sure had a good hand hold,” gurgled Ted. “Pretty hard on the wrists, isn’t it, Henry?”