Boy With the U. S. Survey Read online

  CHAPTER II

  A TENDERFOOT SNIPE-SHOOT

  "What do you think of a man," said Mitchon to Roger, as they started forField's office, "who can transform a festering tamarack swamp into abusy and prosperous farming country?"

  "He must be a daisy," answered the boy emphatically.

  "That's what Mr. Field has done in the last couple of years, and that'swhat you're to spend the next few weeks in doing. The Survey works forresults, and if turning square mile after square mile of rankly timberedbog into a fertile region dotted with busy homesteads isn't gettingresults, I don't know what is."

  "But how is it done?"

  "By drainage, my boy, as you will learn. Hundreds of thousands of acresare being reclaimed. That's what makes a country rich; it isn't the goldstored in vaults, but the gold waving on the fields at harvest time."

  "But it must take an awful lot of work."

  "Of course it takes work. Don't you remember Mr. Rivers told you thatthere would be no chance to loaf? You'll start on that tougheningprocess soon enough, all right, all right."

  Turning a corner of a hallway, Mitchon and the boy passed into a smalloffice, which was undergoing the throes of the annual tidying-up beforebeing left alone all through the summer.

  "Mr. Field," said the secretary, as he entered, "this is Roger Doughty,of whom I was speaking to you, who is to go out with you for a couple ofweeks until Roberts comes back from the tule swamps and rejoins yourparty. You will have just about the same men as last year, will younot?"

  The swamp surveyor extended a large loose-jointed hand to Roger.

  "Glad to see you, Mr. Doughty," he said, and then, in answer to thesecretary's question, continued, "I hope we do have the same men, Mr.Mitchon, it makes the work a lot lighter."

  "That's what you all say; but it doesn't make so much difference to youas it does to the parties away off from civilization, does it?"

  "Well," drawled the other, "Minnesota's civilization in that swampcountry doesn't hurt her much yet, I reckon. When you're eleven milesaway from the nearest road, and that only a 'corduroy,' in a swamp overwhich you can't take a horse, and through which you can't take a boat,you begin to think that other human beings live a thundering way off.Why," he said, "I've seen parts of that swamp so soft that we'd have tomake a sort of platform of brush and three or four of us pull out onechap who had sunk below his waist, and that with only half a packinstead of the full load. No," he added, turning to Roger, "Minnesota'snot so powerful civilized if it comes to that!"

  "Why, I hadn't any idea that it was so wild! Is there much of thatswamp?" asked the boy.

  "Well, the little piece of land we're working on now contains about2,500,000 acres."

  "That's the Chippewa land, isn't it?" asked the secretary.

  "Yes, all of it."

  "What's Chippewa land?" queried Roger.

  "It's land the Chippewa Indians ceded to the government to be held intrust and disposed of for their own benefit. It's worth just aboutnothing now, but when the land is all drained it'll be a mighty valuablesection of the State."

  "I saw a report on the crops from some of that reclaimed land," saidMitchon, "and it certainly was calculated to make the worked-out Easternfarms sit up. Well, I suppose I must get back, so I'll wish you goodluck, Roger, if I don't see you again. You start soon, do you not, Mr.Field?"

  "To-morrow morning."

  "So soon? That means hustling."

  "No, Mr. Mitchon, everything's ready, I reckon."

  "Well," replied the other, "I hope you'll have a pleasant summer, and,Roger, you write and let me know how you like it. Good-by." But he hadhardly gone three or four steps from the door when he turned backsuddenly and said, "By the way, Roger, there's something I wish youwould do for me."

  "I'll be only too glad, Mr. Mitchon, if I can," answered the boyreadily, eager to show his appreciation of his friend's kindness.

  "That's a great snipe country you're going to, and I'm very fond ofsnipe. I wish you would send me a couple of brace. You organize asnipe-shoot while Roger's with you, won't you, Mr. Field?"

  "Well, I'll try, anyway," answered the surveyor, "and we'll do the bestwe can to give you a feast."

  Mitchon nodded and disappeared down the hall, and Field turned to theboy.

  "Roger, your name is, isn't it?" he said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mr. Mitchon seems to think you're quite a shot."

  "I've done a little shooting, Mr. Field, but I wouldn't like to callmyself a crack shot."

  "That's all right. Much better not to brag. If Mr. Mitchon wants snipewe'll go out some night and get him so many that he won't know what todo with them."

  Roger's eyes glistened at the thought of a night shoot in a countrywhere birds were so plentiful, and he began to congratulate himself thatthe Survey was just as good as he had expected, and even better.

  "Now, son," said his new chief, "what kind of an outfit for the fieldhave you got?"

  The boy ran rapidly over the somewhat elaborate stock he had laid in forrough work, and when he came to describe the various shotguns and rifleswith which he was provided he dwelt on them in detail, as it had beenthat part of his outfit in which he had taken the most interest, and inthe completeness and excellence of which he felt great pride. But to hisannoyance, instead of seeming impressed, the older man chuckled.

  "You've got shooting irons enough for a regular stage brigand," he said;"you won't need all that truck, at least as long as you're with me. Takea shotgun, yes, and you can take a revolver along if you want to verymuch. You've been thinking more about your guns than you have about yourboots, though, and you'd better go down and get a pair of river-drivers'boots this afternoon. Ones something like these." He pulled out of adrawer a special catalogue, and opening it, passed it to Roger.

  "I've got a regular pair of fisherman's boots," volunteered the boy,"the kind that come 'way up to the hips. I should think they'd be justthe thing for swamp work."

  The surveyor shook his head,

  "No," he said, "that sort of thing won't do. Water and mud will get inthose. These others lace up tightly. Of course you'll be wet higher upmost of the time, but as long as your feet are tolerably dry, thatdoesn't matter. Now you get those and do anything else you want,"--thenhanding him a map--"you'd better look over this too; and meet me at theUnion Station to-morrow morning at 8 o'clock, and we'll take the 8.20for Red Lake."

  The trip out to Minnesota was the most enjoyable railroad journey Rogerhad ever spent. His leader proved as entertaining a companion as a boyneed ever meet, and his stories of the wonders of the water power of theUnited States were more fascinating than any story of adventure.

  "I was out in the dry part of South Dakota, one time," he said, "whensome people, knowing that I was on the Survey, asked me to locate anartesian well site for them. That was a dry country, I reckon. Why, thelittle water that was there was so ashamed of itself that it tasted bad.Well, after I had studied the lay of the land for some time, I told themwhere to sink the well. It was an unlikely looking spot, I'll admit, butI knew there was water there if they would go down deep enough."

  "But how did you know," asked Roger. "Did you use a divining rod?"

  "I'm not a seventh son of a seventh son," said the older man with alaugh. "No, indeed, that sort of thing is done to-day by science, not bymagic. You see, Roger, water will always be found in large quantitiesin porous rocks like sandstones, and none at all will be discovered inwhat are called impermeable rocks like shale and limestone."

  "Why not?" asked the boy, interrupting.

  "Because a porous rock is like a sponge, and will hold the water, and animpermeable rock isn't. So, you see, if a thick bed of shale isunderlaid by a thick bed of sandstone, you are pretty sure of gettingwater if you drive a well through the shale."

  "But I don't see how that helps," interjected Roger; "it seems to me itwould be as hard to tell that there was sandstone so far below ground asto tell that there was water there. You can't see
through rock!"

  "No, my boy, but if you know the general make-up of the country, and howthe rocks lie in the nearest mountains and in the ravines and so forth,you can tell. For example, if a river bed has been cut through the uppershale to the sandstone and through the sandstone to some other rockbeneath, you are sure to find that sandstone under that shaleeverywhere, until you strike a place where geology will show that therehas been some other change. In this particular case, the sandstone andthe limestone appear in successive layers in the foothills of theRockies, so that the water and snow from the mountains drains into thesandstone layer, which, being between two strata of harder rocks, can'tsink any further down, but must force its way through the pores of thatsandstone as far as the stratum runs. Of course things come up tocomplicate that, but such is the general plan.

  A LOFTY SPOUTER.

  Artesian Well at Woonsocket, South Dakota. Well throws a 3-in. stream toa height of 97 ft.

  _Photograph by U.S.G.S._]

  WATER ENOUGH FOR ALL.

  Artesian Well at Lynch, Nebraska. Flows more than 3,000 gallons aminute.

  _Photograph by U.S.G.S._]

  "Well, as I was saying, the spot that I picked out looked so little likewater, that the Burlington railroad people--it was the Burlington thathad asked me about it--called in Spearon, who really was the expert onthe work. He's an expert all right. He promptly approved the site I hadchosen, and told them to go down and they would strike good water at3,000 feet. At first they laughed at the idea of any man being able toguess at the existence of water, 3,000 feet distant through solid rock,but they knew that Survey statements usually are to be depended on andthey began. Some water was struck in an upper layer, but Spearon toldthem to go on. A dozen times the railroad was about to give up theproject as useless, but, being urged, at last they agreed to go down the3,000 feet, but not an inch further. At 2,920 feet they struck thesandstone, and boring on to 2,980 feet they struck water, and so,within twenty feet of the exact depth advised, they got a well flowinghalf a million gallons daily under a pressure of 75 pounds."

  "A couple of hundred years ago, they would have burned you at the stakefor a wizard," commented the boy.

  "They would, son, sure enough. But people never stop to think howimportant this very water is. Why, it is by far the most valuablemineral in the United States!"

  "More so than gold?"

  "A thousand times! More than coal, too, which is vastly more valuablethan gold. The coal's going to give out some day--by the way, remind meto tell you what the Survey's done on the coal question some time. I'dtell you now, but there's a man who got on at the last stop that I wantto see," and with a nod, Field rambled to the other end of the car.

  With stories and anecdotes of the Survey the time passed quickly, andRoger felt quite sorry the next day to find that they had arrived attheir journey's end. At the depot, a small frame station, the rest ofthe members of the party awaited them, with a big lumbering farm wagon,but a pair of the finest horses Roger had ever seen. He won the heartof the teamster immediately by noticing them, and had the satisfactionof knowing that he had made a favorable impression on his futurecompanions for the next few weeks by evincing a ready knowledge of thegood points of a horse.

  The drive that afternoon through the upper Minnesota country was Roger'sfirst experience of a corduroy road, that abomination of highways, whichconsists merely of logs laid down horizontally across a trail and somedirt and sand sifted on top of them. In course of time, the dirt allseeps through between the interstices of the logs, and the latterarrange themselves in positions more picturesque than comfortable;which, being ridden over in a springless wagon at a good fast clip, is amore energetic "bump the bumps" than any amusement park has thought ofinflicting on a suffering public.

  Roger was thoroughly tired that night, though not for the world would hehave shown it before his new-made friends; still he found much ado atsupper to keep his eyes open and his head from nodding, when suddenlyall his senses were galvanized into activity by the word "snipe."

  "Boys, I promised Mr. Mitchon," Field was saying, "that we would have asnipe-shoot just as soon as we were able. Now, if we wait until we getright into the thick of the work, no one will want to knock off. Supposewe try a shoot to-night."

  "Right you are," "Sure," "Just the thing;" a chorus of approval camefrom the members of the party and Roger was compelled to chime in withhis assent, and, what was harder, to force an enthusiasm which, owing tohis fatigue, he did not feel. Only one dissenting voice was heard, thatof the farmer at whose house they were to put up for the night.

  "There ain't no snipe round here," he said, "leastwise not this time ofyear."

  "Yes there are, lots," answered Field, "I saw a big flight of them as wedrove by that large slough a few miles out."

  Roger thought it strange that the farmer should be mistaken about thebird season on his own farm, but surely people who could discover aflowing well 3,000 feet below the ground with nothing to show where itwas, wouldn't be stopped for a few snipe. In fact, if any one had toldthe boy that the Survey had discovered the Fountain of Perpetual Youthor was making a detailed topographical map of Mars he would haveaccepted the statement without question or surprise.

  The farmer's muttered objections being silenced by the united voices ofthe party, the plan of operations was outlined by Field.

  "You see, Roger," he said, "as the youngest of the party you are alwaysthe guest of honor at the first few things the camp gets up, and so, asI promised, we'll let you have the best of the fun to-night. Remember,though, we expect you to get a big bag. It's a good dark night and youought to be able to pick out a whole lot."

  "But I don't see how you can work it at night," objected Roger. "Do yougo out with torches, or how?"

  "We'll show you how, when we get to that slough that I told you of.Bring that best gun of yours along, and we'll post you right where thebirds will come."

  There was a sense of strangeness about the whole affair which waspuzzling to Roger, but he attributed it as much to his fatigue as to anyother cause, and obediently fetched his gun out, saw that it was cleanand in good order, and prepared to accompany the party. They borrowed alight rig from the farmer and started out. It was a little after nineo'clock when they left the house and fairly cold, while, as one of themen remarked, "It was as dark as the inside of an empty tar-barrel withthe bung driven in."

  They drove and drove for what seemed to Roger an interminable time,though he could not help wondering at the sudden twists and turns in theroad, and several times, by the scraping of the underbrush against thebody of the rig, he knew they were on no road at all. The undergrowthgrew thicker and thicker and the ground more and more boggy, when, afterthey had been driving for at least two hours and Roger had fallen into alight doze, the horses were pulled up with a jerk.

  "Here we are," said Field loudly. "Tumble out, boys."

  The horses had been stopped at the very edge of an immense marsh, thatlooked almost like a lake in the dim light, but that its margin wasfringed with reeds and bulrushes, and although it was so early in theyear a scum was beginning to form. The place was not at all inviting,and Roger felt well satisfied that he was not there alone.

  "Now, son," said Field, lighting a large lantern which was part of thecamp outfit, "you stay right here and we will drive the horses away alittle distance so that the possible noise of their moving aboutrestlessly won't disturb the birds, and then we will circle the sloughin both ways and drive the birds to you. You see, they won't rise atnight, but keep to the ground, and if we start in opposite directionsfrom the other side of the slough all the birds will come together rightwhere you are. Then, when they find their escape cut off, they'll haveto hit the water or else take wing."

  "But it will be pretty hard to shoot them," protested Roger; "it'salmost pitch-dark."

  "They won't rise until they come into the circle of light shed by thelantern," said Field, "and then, if you're quick, you can get them asthey rise. Now, remember,
you've got to keep silent, or else, caughtbetween two fires, they will scatter back from the water; we will besilent, too, so as not to scare them too much. Keep still, and don'tshoot until the snipe begin to come into the light."

  With this Field jumped into the rig, and a minute or two later Rogerheard him stop the horses and speak loudly about tying them to a tree. Afew moments later, he returned with one of the men.

  "Harry and Jake have gone round to the south of the slough," he said,"and we will take the other side. Now remember, not a move until thebirds begin to come. Good sport to you," and they were gone.

  Roger sat patiently with his gun across his knees, waiting for the birdsto come. He had been sitting perhaps for a quarter of an hour, when avery faint "Coo-ee" was heard and he stiffened to attention. The men, hethought, must be beginning to drive the birds from cover. The night windwas chill on the edge of the marsh, and Roger, expecting every minutethat the birds would begin to come into the circle of light, dared notmove. His left foot became numb, but he did not rise to his feet untilthe numbness became unendurable, and then, as softly and silently as hecould, he stood up. The scene was even more lonely, viewed standing up.There was not a light to be seen, not a sound to be heard, save thehoarse croaking of the frogs and the booming of a bittern in the fardistance.

  The minutes passed into hours, until it became agony to refrain fromsleep, but Roger felt that he would be forever disgraced in the eyes ofhis comrades if he were found asleep at his post on the very firstoccasion they had given him a trial of endurance, and he promisedhimself that he would stay awake, no matter what it cost him.

  Then a faint mist began to wreathe upwards from the lake and took allsorts of fantastic shapes before the boy's tired eyes, and while, for alittle time, it afforded him occupation to watch their curlinggyrations, at the last this but added to the dreariness of the place.Once his eyes had closed and he dozed for a few seconds, when he wasaroused, and not only aroused but startled, by the far-off howl of awolf. Roger was no coward, and had all the boy's contempt for the coyoteof the prairies, but he was woodsman enough to know that the coyotetroubles timbered lands but little, and that the call was from thethroat of the dreaded timber wolf.

  What would not the boy have given for one of his rifles? But there hewas at the edge of a slough, not even knowing in what direction he couldretreat should flight prove necessary, with no weapon but a shotgunloaded with small bird-shot, and a timber wolf prowling near. Once,indeed he thought of shooting in order to attract attention, but themorbid fear of being thought timid and old-womanish restrained his handfrom the trigger.

  Again came the call, clear and unmistakable this time, and drawingnearer. All the wolf stories that he had read beside the fire at homerushed across his memory now--the Siberian wolves who chased across thesteppes that traveler who saved his unworthy life by sacrificing to thebeasts successively the three children intrusted to his care; the wolveswho picked clean the bones of all the inhabitants in the Siberianvillage who refused to help escaping prisoners; the were-wolf, who,half-maiden and half-brute, lives on the blood of men; until, in spiteof his courage, Roger found himself feeling far from at ease and deeplywishing that some of the others in the party were there to keep himcompany.

  Again the wolf howled, a long-drawn-out howl with a little "yap" beforeit. Had Roger but known, he need have had no fear, for such is not thecall of an angry or a hungry wolf, but merely the cry of the solitaryhunter not running with the pack. A wolf after his prey does not howl,but gives a succession of short, sharp barks. Presently the boy receiveda sensation as of movement among the bushes to his right. He lookedintently, but could see nothing. At one time, indeed, he thought hecould discern two specks of light that might have been the eyes of theintruder, but knowing how easily the eyesight is deceived when it isbeing strained, and also having the good sense of not making mattersworse by wounding a beast he feared he could not kill, Roger contentedhimself by keeping a lookout with every nerve strung. There was nolonger any thought of the snipe, they had paled into insignificancebefore what appeared to be--although it was not--a real danger.

  So Roger stood, watching the brush, the long night through, the littlelamp shedding its pale gleam upon the ground at his feet and glimmeringupon the waters of the lake, until in the east the first gray light ofthe false dawn began to appear. Gradually the light increased, and Rogerwith a sigh of relief took his eyes from the bush he had watchedanxiously so long. As the day began to break and to disperse the slightmist, objects in the distance seemed to take shape, and Roger couldhardly believe his eyes when he saw, but a few hundred yards away, thevery house where he had supped the night before, and from which he hadbeen taken a long two-hours' ride.

  In a moment it all flashed on him, the old farmer's incredulity at thepresence of snipe at that time of year, the readiness to put thenewcomer in the place of honor, the unanimity of all the members of theparty in falling in with the chief's suggestion, the folly of shootinganything on a pitch-black night, and he saw that he had been hoaxed. Hewas wet, incredibly weary and stiff from the strain, and Roger's firstimpulse was that of intense anger. As he would have phrased it himself,he was "good and mad." The boy soon reflected, however, that if this wasa regular performance on the tenderfoot--which appeared probable fromMitchon in Washington having been in the game--a good deal depended onthe way he took it. They would expect him to be angry or sulky. Well, hewould disappoint them.

  Just as he was about to walk into the barn, however, where he proposedto have a nap in the straw, who should meet him but Field and another ofthe men! They greeted him with a shout of laughter and satirical queriesas to the number of snipe he had shot. Roger schooled himself to laughin reply.

  "That was one on me, all right," he said, "but this is only my secondday. It's your turn now, but mine will come some other time."

  The chief laughed appreciatively.

  "That's the right way to take it, Roger," he said, "and now you'll knowenough not to go shooting snipe any more at night, I reckon. But, lad,it's early yet, and we won't start for a couple of hours, so you justturn in and we'll call you when we are ready to go."

  "I won't deny that I'll be glad of a nap," said Roger, yawning, "and I'mmighty glad that this part of my initiation is over with."