“We worked on until dark.  My friend found me, and we started for the buggy.  We got home some way—­he drove.  I was exhausted.  That was my only forest fire experience, but I don’t care for another.  I was stiff and sore for a week.”

The little party worked its way into the gulch, and then proceeded up the canyon on an old cattle trail in the second range.  Every now and then they would pass a prospect hole, which showed that they were not, by any means, the first to tramp up the gulches and drink at the crystal streams.  On a great, flat stone, close by a tiny spring, they stopped to eat their dinner and rest.

“Let’s get as far as we can by night,” suggested Phil, “for we’ll never find a cabin site here in this canyon.  It’s too far away.  We’ll have to get in closer, near St. Peter’s Dome.”

“Let’s make the Little Fountain by night.  It must cross this canyon, and perhaps it will yield us a trout for breakfast.  What do you say?” inquired Mr. Allen.

“Little Fountain, or bust,” called Ham.  “I’m in for it.  Say, we ought to find a few squirrels this afternoon up in this lonesome canyon.  A squirrel would taste pretty fine, stewed in a little rice, for supper.  I’ll bet I get the first one.”

“Got some salt in your pocket?” asked Willis.

“Salt, what do I want with salt?  Just keep your eye on me.  I’m dead-shot at squirrels.”

“Hello, here, what’s this?” called out Mr. Allen about the middle of the afternoon.  “This looks interesting to me.  See here, I’ve found a few small pieces of aspen that have been cut by beaver.”  He held them up for inspection.  Sure enough, on the ends were the marks of the tiny chisel teeth of the little water workmen.  “I’d certainly like to see a real beaver dam.  I’ve seen pieces of dams and old, wrecked dams, but never a real good one.  Keep your eyes open for more sticks like this, and for stumps along the stream.  This ought to be good beaver country, because it’s wild and quiet.”

“What do you suppose killed all those fine big trees in that valley?” asked Willis.

They turned aside to examine the great dead trees.

“Hold on, there,” said Ham in a whisper, as he held up his finger.  “There’s my stew for to-night.  Great Caesar’s ghost!  I’ll bet these dead trees are full of squirrels.  Still, now, a moment.”

The squirrel sat for an instant in plain view on a dead limb of a spruce; then he barked and scampered around in great excitement, his tail bobbing up and down in time to his movements.  He would run, hide behind the great tree trunk, then out again to jeer and scold and jerk his tail.  As they came nearer, a second one, perhaps his mate, joined him on the limb and seconded everything he had to say.  The barrel of Ham’s gun was making strange movements in the air.  “Hey, there, sit still, you jumping jack,” called Ham.  The squirrels sat up and listened to his voice in such a way that it appeared they perfectly understood the order to sit still.  Fat laughed a hearty laugh; the squirrels took it as a danger signal and were gone.  Ham lowered his gun.