“Hope Dad’s home to-day,” said Mr. Allen.  “I haven’t seen him since early spring.  I certainly do enjoy getting the old gentleman to telling some of his stories.  You know he is an old, old timer in these parts.  He came here years before gold was first discovered in Cripple Creek, and he has lived up in his little gulch ever since.  In the early days, when the only outside connection the gold camp had was this old wagon road, there were a great many interesting happenings at Dad’s little inn.  It was really the only road house on the Stage Road, and was burned down years ago.  Haven’t you ever heard that story?  I’ll tell it to you some time.  They used to say that Dad had any quantity of money—­I don’t know how true it was.  At any rate, he hasn’t much now.  After the old inn burned, he built himself a log cabin down by the spring, and there has lived ever since.  He can tell some great old tales, too.  You can’t name a single prospector of the Rocky Mountain region but what Dad can tell you all about him.  He lives a lonely life up here all by himself, shut in all winter by heavy snows.  In the summer he sees a few people passing by, and that helps some.  He’s a very friendly old man, and if you treat him right there isn’t anything in the world he won’t tell you or do for you if he can.  He loves to talk politics, and can tell you about every Presidential election back as far as the war.  He was a Confederate soldier in his day, and if there is one thing above another that he loves to talk about, it’s the ‘Gov’ment,’ as he calls it.  ‘Uncle Sammy an’ me ain’t jest zackly the best o’ pards yit, by crackey,’ he says, with a twinkle in his eye.”

“That certainly is a great view,” explained Ham.  “I’m going to unload my cargo and rest here a bit, for I like this spot.  Right up yonder in that heavy belt of timber is where we used to come so often to stay all night.  There is a great granite boulder up there in the ‘Graveyard,’ as we used to call it, that’s just as good as a house any day.  It leans away out on one side, and we built a big bed of balsam boughs under it.  Right behind the great rock, to the west, we found a tiny spring, hardly big enough to be called a spring; but we dug it out and stoned up a small reservoir to catch the water.  We used to come up in the evening, cook our supper, get our beds ready for the night, then climb on the big rock and watch the lights of the city come on.  When they were all lighted it looked like a big, illuminated checker board out there on the plain.  We’d get up early in the morning, then, and climb to the Devil’s Horn to see the sunrise.  My! but it’s a gorgeous sight on a cloudy morning.  The last time we were there we sure did have a mighty queer experience—­”

“Come on, fellows, let’s travel along, or we’ll not get anywhere to-night.  Ham, you can tell us your story while we are walking.  We’ve got to reach Dad’s by four o’clock, or we’ll never get to the Park by night,” said Phil, as he arose and adjusted his blanket roll preparatory to starting.