Part 2

Not knowing just what card Ludlow had up his sleeve, the sheriff decided to make quick work of Cutler’s capture. He therefore sent a party of deputies to Malvern, the nearest telegraph station, and in the name of the law asked the county militia to send him some men with a mountain gun, the property of private individuals who practised soldiering as a pastime. Each State in America, it may be said in passing, possesses several such regiments, which are available in war-time, although in no way a part of the Government organization, and having no connection with the State militia. It would have been useless to attempt to dislodge Cutler as matters stood, but Benson believed that a few shots from a cannon might have the desired effect. When his message was received at Malvern it created a sensation. Business was for the nonce neglected and everybody--men, women, and children--made their way toward the sheriffs camp at Table Hill.

Several attempts were made to parley with Cutler, without success, and so three days went by. On the afternoon of the fourth day the refugee on the rock was thunderstruck to see a body of soldiers approaching from the south, with a field gun hauled by four horses. He did not know whether to laugh or to regard this seriously. Surely the officers of the law would not resort to bombarding him with a cannon? Soon the soldiers reached the camp, and about an hour later Cutler saw that the gun, a howitzer, was being trained on the hill where he lay enjoying a smoke. There was no chance of his getting away other than by the path by which he had come. Behind him there was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet into the gully far below. True, he could descend some distance down the mountain-side, but if the besiegers really meant business this would not help him much. Nothing was done that day, but Cutler kept vigilant watch all through the night. He had regularly built a huge fire some way down the mountain-side, which was protected by trees to some extent, but lit up the path for a considerable distance.

The next morning a party numbering a dozen came toward the hill again bearing a white flag. They stopped some distance off, one man only continuing--Benson, the Sheriff of Beulah County, himself. Cutler allowed him to approach much nearer than had Ludlow; then he covered the advancing sheriff with his rifle.

“Cutler, if we haven’t rushed this place,” said Benson, “it is only because I did not want to sacrifice human lives, knowing full well that sooner or later you must give up. I know you are on the square, so I’ve come up unarmed, being sure you wouldn’t take advantage of the white flag. I’m only doing my duty. I give you this chance to come back with me, otherwise I’m afraid they’ll blow this place up and you with it.”

“Regular war, isn’t it?” replied Cutler, smilingly.

“Looks like it,” admitted the sheriff.

“Well, seeing you are trying that game, I’ll just do a little in the war line myself,” said Cutler. “You walk up this path towards me, and if you so much as wink your eye I’ll put a hole in you that a tramcar could go through!”

The sheriff could hardly believe his ears. “Don’t be a fool, Cutler,” he said, angrily.

“Never mind about my being a fool; you do as you’re told or I’ll drop you quick.”

Benson evidently had no doubts about the matter, for, though beside himself with rage, he promptly did as Cutler ordered. The sheriff was forced to walk ahead, and no doubt, had his captor been almost any other man than Jim Cutler, there would have been one big fight on Table Hill, gun or no gun, but Benson knew that Cutler would do just as he said he would. Arrived at the top, Benson was forced to write a note saying that he was a captive, and that perhaps it would be just as well not to fire the cannon in the direction it was now trained. Furthermore, one man was to approach the hill with food, whisky, and tobacco. The note was then secured to a large stone by the aid of Sheriff Benson’s braces, and while Cutler “stood by” Benson was ordered to throw this stone toward the deputy in charge of the waiting horsemen below. This man, or one of those with him, picked up the stone, and read the message to the others. There was a great laugh below--plainly heard by the two men on the ledge--and, needless to say, the merriment of his assistants did not add to Benson’s peace of mind. Cutler now laid his rifle down, first having drawn a six-shooter. Then, approaching Benson, he searched him for concealed firearms, but the sheriff was unarmed. The latter was now told to sit down and make himself comfortable at the opening which led to the path, Cutler being thereby able to watch both his prisoner and the approach from below. Soon a solitary figure came from the camp, carrying the food “ordered.” It was brought as near as Cutler permitted it to be, and then Benson, under cover of the rifle, was sent to fetch it. It looked for a moment as though there might be a fight after all, but Cutler’s business-like demeanour soon caused his prisoner to change his mind.

With the food there was a note, reading, “Are we to wait for you or not?” This did not appeal to the sheriff’s sense of humour, and he tore the paper into shreds.

Just at sundown a large cloud of dust was noticed in the distance, which soon turned out to be a number of mounted men with a wagon, or “prairie schooner.” The new-comers were presently merged with those in camp, and not long afterwards two men, escorting a woman, rode slowly toward Table Hill. Again the white flag was raised, and a voice shouted from below, “Hi, Jim, it’s me--Ludlow.”

Cutler permitted his friend to approach, and when he gained the ledge Ludlow had a hard struggle to restrain his laughter at the unfortunate sheriff’s predicament.

“I’ve brought some news for you, Jim,” said Ludlow. “That school-ma’am is a brick, and no mistake. When I told her how things stood, she came right to the front, and not only saw Judge Nolan, but drove twenty miles to see Governor Hill, and here’s the result.”

Ludlow then handed Sheriff Benson an official communication paroling Cutler in his own recognizances pending investigation of Miss Thurloe’s story. Western men are nothing if not intensely chivalrous, and, if this girl’s story was correct, Cutler, in their estimation, deserved, not death, but a medal.

The amazed sheriff scratched his head and Cutler seemed undecided, but Ludlow grasped his hand eagerly. “Come on, old fellow, down to the sea-level,” he cried. This broke the tension, and all three men smiled.

“There is nothing for me to do but obey this, Cutler,” said the sheriff, slowly; “but I’ll tell you straight I don’t feel like doing it.”

Ludlow turned to Benson and informed him that Judge Nolan had made him a Court officer, the tenure of his office being thirty days, and that he would brook no interference from Benson or anyone else. That settled it. The trio walked down the path, where Miss Thurloe, with tears in her eyes, thanked Cutler for his brave and manly action on her behalf. She said that she had reason to believe he would be acquitted, and that, as no warrant had been issued for his arrest until after he had shot the men who had attempted to stop him, it must be a case of self-defence.

Cutler was received with cheers by the crowd in camp--the same men who were thirsting for his blood an hour before--and soon everybody was seeking the nearest way home, and the scene of action was shortly deserted. It is not possible to chronicle that Jim Cutler was triumphantly acquitted at his trial. His character went strongly against him--that is to say, the fact that he had previously figured in “shooting scrapes”--but, nevertheless, his sentence was a comparatively light one. The State’s attorney (analogous to counsel for the Crown) laid great stress on the fact of Cutler’s having visited Goldman’s shop, obviously seeking trouble, when he should have reported the attempt on his life to the authorities. He was sentenced to five years in the State prison, but was pardoned at the expiration of eleven months. He is now living in Butte, the capital of the State of Montana, where he has opened a saloon. Miss Thurloe left Three Corners, and is believed to be teaching in Pittsburg, U.S.A.

The local newspapers poked much fun at the soldiers who took their cannon miles out to bombard what they jocularly called “a one-man army”; but all the same they meant business, and had matters not ended as they did there would have been a change in the landscape just there, for the top of Table Hill would in all probability have been blown to pieces, and Jim Cutler with it.

Photographing a Volcano in Eruption.

BY FRANK DAVEY.

A vivid description of a photographer’s adventures in securing pictures of the eruption of Makuaweoweo, in Hawaii. With pen and camera Mr. Davey depicts the awe inspiring grandeur of the lake of fire in the crater of Mauna Loa, the pyrotechnic display afforded by the active cone on the mountain-side, and the horrors of night amid the lava-wastes, where death menaced the party on every hand.

On Tuesday, July 1, 1899, reports reached Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, that the volcano of Makuaweoweo, situated at the summit of Mauna Loa, thirteen thousand six hundred and seventy-five feet high, on the island of Hawaii, had burst forth with all the fury of years gone by. I was anxious to get some photographs of the eruption if possible, and so made all the haste I could to get my paraphernalia together and catch the steamer _W. H. Hall_, bound for Hawaii.

I left with the intention of reaching the scene of action from the Kau side of the island, but when, upon arriving at Kailua, Kona, I telegraphed to Mr. N. S. Monsarrat, at Kapapalu, I found that he had a house full of guests bent on the same journey, and that all his horses had been engaged. Rather than lose time, therefore, I decided to take the most difficult route of all--right over the great mountain from the Kona side. The obstacles to be overcome may perhaps be imagined when I state that Mauna Loa is a volcanic mountain, nearly fourteen thousand feet high, and that one has to make one’s way for the entire distance over every kind of lava formation.

It was with great difficulty that I managed to get horses and mules from the natives, who knew the condition of the country, for the animals inevitably get badly knocked about, their legs being terribly cut by the lava, which is divided into two classes--“Pahoehoe” and “A. A.” The former term is applied to tracts of comparatively smooth lava, which appears as though it had cooled while flowing quietly; the latter is applied to stretches of broken lava which seem to have cooled when tossing like an ocean in a bad storm, and to have afterwards been broken up by earthquakes. No words of description can convey an idea of its roughness and hardness, which may be faintly realized from an inspection of the above photograph.

During the time I was hunting for horses a number of gentlemen arrived and expressed their desire to join me in the expedition. I was only too pleased to have their company, so five travellers threw in their lot with me: Professor Ingalls, Colonel McCarthy, and Messrs. Sterns Buck, J. Ballard, and H. C. Klugel. These, with three guides, completed our party.

We were up early the next morning. The first part of the journey was one of the most delightful rides I ever had. We rode for hours through magnificent tropical growths. There were giant ferns, some of which must have been thirty or forty feet high and three feet in diameter, groves of guavas, coco-nuts, and other fruits, miles of wild mint and bright-coloured flowers, and orchids of most delicate shapes.

At dusk we reached the edge of the timber-line, in a drenching rain, a downpour such as is experienced only in the tropics, where the rain descends in sheets. We ate our supper and then spent the night huddled miserably together, trying in vain to keep dry.

We resumed our journey at daybreak, over the most terrible country that can be imagined. The sharp edges of the lava cut through our stout boots like broken glass, and the poor animals suffered greatly. Still, however, we persevered, and finally reached the summit just as it was getting dark. Near the centre of the mountain-top an area of about four square miles sinks to a depth of one thousand feet. This is the great crater of Makuaweoweo, which we had endured so much to see.

As I stood there in the cold, in the midst of those cheerless and God-forsaken wastes, I gazed down with speechless awe upon the untrammelled frolics of the God of Fire. The tempest-tossed lake of molten lava below the rim of the great cauldron was a typical workshop of Vulcan. The face of the lake of liquid fire alternated continually between black and white, like molten iron in a furnace. Oxidation and cooling of the fiery fluid would blacken the surface with a pall that covered it in darkest gloom; then a trembling, caused by further subterranean outbursts of steam, would break this ice-like oxide into a fretwork of tens of thousands of incandescent cracks, lighting up the smoke-charged pit with a fierce glare. Another moment, and in different parts of the lake geysers of fire of every imaginable colour would rise like fountains in a public garden.

The great forbidding-looking walls of this “home of everlasting fire” sparkled with the unusual light, and then, as the spouts of flame died away, the surface would again turn black, leaving the whole mass to all appearances dead.

We found that the worst outbreak was about five thousand feet farther down the mountain-side. Some of our party were seized with such a sickness of horror at the crater’s edge that they rolled themselves up in their blankets and refused to look down upon this fiery maelstrom--and that after two days of arduous effort to reach a point of view!

When the time came for sleep, another man and I turned into a “blowhole” in the lava; it was an immense bubble that had cooled and left an opening so that we could crawl in. We little thought that there was another hole at the other end, and the piercing wind blew through this like a funnel; but we had to stay there, for it is dangerous to wander about over the rifts and chasms of jagged lava in the darkness. Here, in this strange bed-chamber, we slept, or tried to sleep--shivering and shuddering through the chilly solitude of the night in those desolate mountain wastes.

Walking across the congealed masses of lava next morning, one began to think that at any moment one was liable to drop through to the very gates of Hades and be precipitated to the most horrible of deaths. Underneath one was a bottomless abyss of mud, sulphur, and rock; and to contemplate being cast into that fearsome-looking lake of fire and brimstone was not at all comfortable. The Biblical description of hell does not convey even a faint idea of that terrible lake of fire below us, which appeared to be fretting and fuming as though anxious to get loose and destroy everything in its path. The crater of Makuaweoweo at that time, without doubt, afforded the spectator a more awe-inspiring display of the forces of Nature than has been granted to man elsewhere on earth without the sacrifice of life.

Soon after daylight we prepared for the descent to the point that was throwing out molten lava at a white heat. It was practically impossible to take the horses farther, so we tethered them to stones near the yawning depths of Makuaweoweo, and left one of the guides to look after them. We were very thirsty, but it was some time before we could find water, though snow and ice were plentiful. Farther down, however, we discovered water in a deep crack in the lava, filled the canteens, and started on our downward journey. I was suffering from mountain sickness; my head felt as if it would burst and my stomach was upside down. We stumbled along with difficulty for about two miles, when I had to get the assistance of Mr. Buck to carry my camera. Two of our party who had started out in advance gave it up and returned--they could not stand the strain of the rough travelling. This left but four of us, with two guides.

Presently we reached a cone where the lava had piled up to the height of about one hundred feet, then, bursting out at the side, disappeared into the ground, to reappear about a quarter of a mile farther down and repeat its action. These cones averaged two hundred feet in width at the base and one hundred feet in height, and we passed five “dead” ones. A sixth was still smoking, but was not active. Two of the party tried to climb to the top of this cone, but were unable to do so.

We then pushed on to cone number seven, which was belching forth huge volumes of steam and sulphur. The fumes, most fortunately, were being blown away from us. At this stage one of the guides refused to go any farther; it was too dangerous, he said, so he proceeded to retrace his steps, while we others continued our journey toward cone number eight. This was the last and largest, and was, I should estimate, about two hundred feet high; in fact, a veritable miniature volcano, spouting red-hot lava a hundred feet in the air with a ripping boom that could be heard for miles. Boulders that must have weighed a ton were being hurled high into the air as if shot from a cannon. Others followed to meet those coming down, and as they met they burst like explosive shells, scattering molten matter on all sides. This flowed down the incline in cascades like water, showing red, yellow, blue, and all the colours of the rainbow.

It is impossible to describe the grandeur of the effect, and a knowledge of the force that was causing the display made one feel very small indeed. Some of the ejected masses were as large as a horse, and when they were belched forth were at a white heat. They went so high that they had time to cool and return to the vortex black.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when we reached this wonderful display. It had taken us nine hours to reach the volcano, and we were thirsty and well-nigh exhausted. We could not approach very near on account of the heat, but I made some photographic exposures, and then sat for an hour watching the wonderful sight. As the sun went down the magnificence of the scene increased. The ground shook at each explosion to such an extent as to make us sick. We found quantities of what is known as “Pele’s hair.”[1] It is caused by the wind blowing the liquid lava through the air, forming fine threads like human hair.

[Footnote 1: Pele, according to the native legends, is the goddess of the volcano, and dwells in the crater.]

As we approached cone number seven on our return journey the wind changed, and to our consternation we saw a cloud of sulphur blowing right across our path. These masses of vapour are so impregnated with sulphur and poisonous gases that it is impossible for any living thing to exist among them, and to get caught in their midst means death. Alarmed, we started to go around the other side, but found the lava was too hot; the surface was cool, but there was living fire beneath, and we dared not proceed. We kept on until the lava began to move under our feet, and then beat a retreat to face the sulphur again, for it was better to be smothered to death than slowly roasted.

We made a number of attempts to pass that deadly barrier of vapour, but were forced to return each time, nearly suffocated. It looked as though we should soon be choked to death--the fire at the back of us, the sulphur in front. Professor Ingalls remarked that we had better make the best of our time by taking notes, and then prepare for the worst. Just at this critical moment I happened to turn round and saw an arch, as it were, in the sulphur smoke, where the wind was blowing it up from the ground.

“Look! look!” I shouted, in great excitement. “Run for it!” And how we ran! Providence gave us the chance and fear lent us strength, for under ordinary circumstances we could never have run as we did, owing to the condition of our feet. The danger, however, made us forget the pain, and we ran for dear life. We had scarcely got through that arch of clear air when down came the cloud again, as though lowered by some great power. The only guide who had stayed with us fell exhausted at the edge of the vapour-mass. How I managed to drag him along I do not know; I hardly realized what I was doing, but I managed to save him.

Once past the danger-point we crawled along at our best pace, for at any moment the wind might turn in our direction, when we should be again overtaken by that terrible death-cloud. I had left my camera behind in our wild flight, but fortunately I saved several plates.

It was now night, and the only light we had was the lurid glare from the volcano. Suddenly, as we stumbled painfully along, we came upon a man sitting by the side of a dead cone; it was the guide who had returned. He said he did not expect to see us alive again, for he had seen the deadly smoke blow across the mountain.

If it had not been for the light from the volcano we should undoubtedly have perished of cold and thirst, as we should have been compelled to stop walking. As it was, we dared not halt for any length of time, or we should not have had warmth enough to keep the blood circulating. All that night we crawled over that terrible lava. We fell down at intervals of about twenty feet, often breaking through the black crust, sometimes up to our waists, cutting ourselves on the sharp projections until our hands and legs were woefully lacerated. Almost as soon as we fell we dropped asleep; then, as we got colder, we would wake up and force ourselves on again for a few dozen yards or so, only to fall asleep, wake, and struggle up once more. The agony of the situation and the pain of our wounds were enough to make a man go insane.

At last it began to get light, but still we had come across no water, and that in our canteens had long since been exhausted. Very few people, fortunately, know what it means to have their throats and lips so swollen and cracked that they are bleeding for want of water. I could scarcely speak. We hunted the depths and crevices of the lava, sometimes going down ten or fifteen feet, looking for water, only to be disappointed again and again. At last I got so weak that Mr. Buck had to take my package of plates off my back, where I had tied them.