MYSTERY OF THE MUDHEN

"Dangitall," spouted the Bull of Granite Creek, "whacha reckon's gone wrong with them cussed tadpoles, Friday?" The Bull stood on the bank of Granite Creek near Prescott camp alongside his man Friday, the two of them gazing disconsolately into the six or eight inches of clear water rushing over bedrock on its way to the Agua Fria. For some reason or other there were no gold pellets lying on the clean sand at the water's edge, where the little wiggling polliwogs had been trained todeposit same for the small reward of a bait of their favorite cheese, crumbled and cast on the waters by the two partners. It might be well to tellyou that Friday and the Bull had traded cheese crumbs for gold which the amphibians would gather off bedrock and disgorge on the sands in exchange for bits of cheese, thereby saving much time and wet labor for the Bull and his pal. "They're gettin' too dang fat, if you're askin' me," opined Friday as he let cut a quart or so of tobacco juice on the rippling water, much to the disgust of the tadpoles. They tried starving the little fellows for a few days, but the little tykes were well organized - no cheese, no gold. The old boys were now in a quandary. They had plenty of gold in their buckskin pokes, but winter was coming on and the creeks would freeze and the tadpoles would shortly grow legs and would develop out of their appetites for cheese once they could hop out on the banks and gather bugs and flies. Cheese being to the young frog what milk is to a baby, as soon as they are able to walk around by themselves they want food with blood in it else they will not develop into real hemen or possibly bullfrogs. I've seen a lot of men that reminded me of overgrown bullfrogs; possibly they ate too much raw meat when they were crawling. "Mebbe they're tired of this kind of cheese," suggested the Bull. "We better change brands." "Hell," quoth Friday, "I done changed on 'em last week when we ran outa that hard cheese we bought off that goatherd." "That's it, that's it shore as shootin," orated the Bull. "They don't like the cheese."

Pell mell they rushed over the hills to the goatherd, but no cheese. The goats had all gone dry and there was no milk from which to make the cheese, and that particular cheese they must have, for it was quite evident that their little helpers had developed a peculiar taste for just that kind and would work for no other. They tried limburger, Swiss and every other brand of cheese obtainable in Prescott camp, but the little devils turned up their noses at the lot, nothing doing in the way of a dicker or even a compromise. Goat cheese or no gold was the ultimatum laid down by the tadpoles. In desperation the Bull tried chips off a cake of yellow German laundry soap. It served him right when the polliwogs turned sick and peeved at once. To get even with him, They started moving the gold off bedrock into a turbulent branch where, if the Bull did find it, it would indeed be impossible for him to garner the golden pellets. You might think that I'm stretching the long bow again, but later along in this true story you will see that I know whereof I speak. It took the men a couple of weeks before they discovered where the gold had gone, then the Bull decided to turn the water out of that creek and in that way circumvent the plansof the tadpoles. But he reckoned without the law of retribution and recompense. For while wading around in the icy water, he got rheumatism so bad he was laid on the shelf for weeks. But lying on his back did not affect the Bull's fertile brain one whit.

This innocent bird was planted in the creek with the tadpoles who were transporting the gold from crevice to cranny so the Bull and his partner would not find it.

He formulated a nefarious plan to play even with the tadpoles and straightaway detailed Friday to carry it out. Friday caught, after many weary, cold days at the Dells, a mudhen of the common helldiver variety. This innocent bird was planted in the creek with the tadpoles who were busily engaged in transporting the gold from crevice to cranny in their adopted creek so the Bull and his part-ner would not find it. It was a dirty trick to feed the innocent little fellers soap, so we can't blame them too much for retaliating in kind. But the men's plan back-fired with a big bang. The helldiver gobbled so many gold-laden tadpoles that he sank in deep water, never to rise again, and the secret of his whereabouts was never known, nor the cause of his demise, until last July, when the missus and me were summering in the Mile High city of Prescott.

fired with a big bang. The helldiver gobbled so many gold-laden tadpoles that he sank in deep water, never to rise again, and the secret of his whereabouts was never known, nor the cause of his demise, until last July, when the missus and me were summering in the Mile High city of Prescott.

I was digging into an alluvial bank that looked like it might have been placed thereby a freshet years ago, and it being likely looking gravel, I explored deeper than usual to find, among some tiny bones, a little leather poke full of nuggets. I kept the nuggets and sent the poke to the Smithsonian Institution only to learn that the poke was the age-old and thoroughly tanned gizzard of the Bull's helldiver. The mystery of that bird's disappearance is now, I hope, explained to the satisfaction of all curious and concerned.