soft shirts, a rifle, a shotgun,
two cameras, and a plenteous supply of food. Each fellow was equipped
with a haversack, in which were his eating tools and other necessary
articles, such as bachelor buttons, cartridges, films, and other things.
They carried their frying-pans, small buckets, and tincups suspended
from their belts. The handles of their safety axes extended from
hip-pockets, making their pockets bulge suspiciously.

Mr. Allen took the lead through Stratton Park, and headed for the short
cut that joined the old Stage Road just as it sneaked around the base of
Cheyenne Mountain on its way to the top of the Continental Divide; then
downward through mountain passes and clinging close to canyon walls until
it reached that most wonderful of all gold camps, the Cripple Creek
District.

"It's just two o'clock," said Chuck, in answer to an inquiry as to the
time. "And we will have to do some rapid walking if we are to get on top
of Cheyenne Mountain to-night. We ought to make three miles an hour from
here to the old road house. We'll have to rest there a little and have a
drink from Daddy Wright's spring. That's the best spring in the Rocky
Mountains, I do believe."

"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 yo