Pluck on the Long Trail; Or, Boy Scouts in the Rockies
by Edwin L. Sabin · English · Gutenberg #20710 · 430,677 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Pluck on the Long Trail; Or, Boy Scouts in the Rockies
Author: Edwin L. Sabin
Illustrator: Clarence Rowe
Release date: February 28, 2007 [eBook #20710]
Most recently updated: January 1, 2021
Language: English
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PLUCK ON THE LONG TRAIL
Or
Boy Scouts in the Rockies
by
EDWIN L. SABIN
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BOY SCOUT SERIES
BOY SCOUTS IN THE MAINE WOODS
By James Otis. Illustrated by Charles Copeland.
ALONG THE MOHAWK TRAIL; OR, BOY SCOUTS ON LAKE CHAMPLAIN
By Percy K. Fitzhugh. Illustrated by Remington Schuyler.
PLUCK ON THE LONG TRAIL; OR, BOY SCOUTS IN THE ROCKIES
By Edwin L. Sabin. Illustrated by Clarence Rowe.
Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.25 postpaid.
A series of wholesome, realistic, entertaining stories for boys by
writers who have a thorough knowledge of Boy Scouts and of real scouting
in the sections of the country in which the scenes of their books are
laid.
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
NEW YORK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: See page 123. "'YOU GIT!' HE ORDERED."]
PLUCK ON THE LONG TRAIL
Or
Boy Scouts in the Rockies
by
EDWIN L. SABIN
Author of "Bar B Boys," "Range and Trail,"
"Circle K," Etc.
Illustrated by Clarence H. Rowe
It's honor Flag and Country dear, and hold them in the van;
It's keep your lungs and conscience clean, your body spick and span;
It's "shoulders squared" and "be prepared," and always "play the man";
Shouting the Boy Scouts forev-er!
New York
Thomas Y. Crowell Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1912, by
Thomas Y. Crowell Company
TO SCOUTS
Scouts in America have a high honor to maintain, for the American scout
has always been the best in the world. He is noted as being keen, quick,
cautious, and brave. He teaches himself, and he is willing to be taught
by others. He is known and respected. Even in the recent war in South
Africa between Great Britain and the Boers, it was Major Frederick
Russell Burnham, an American, once a boy in Iowa, who was the English
Chief of Scouts. Major Burnham is said to be the greatest modern scout.
The information in this book is based upon thoroughly American
scoutcraft as practiced by Indians, trappers, and soldiers of the
old-time West, and by mountaineers, plainsmen, and woodsmen of to-day.
As the true-hearted scout should readily acknowledge favor and help, so
I will say that for the diagram of the squaw hitch and of the diamond
hitch I am indebted to an article by Mr. Stewart Edward White in
_Outing_ of 1907, and one by Mr. I. J. Bush in _Recreation_ of 1911; for
the "medicine song" and several of the star legends, to that Blackfeet
epic, "The Old North Trail," by Walter McClintock; for medical and
surgical hints, to Dr. Charles Moody's "Backwoods Surgery and Medicine"
and to the American Red Cross "First Aid" text-book; for some of the
lore, to personal experiences; and for much of it, to various old army,
hunting, and explorer scout-books, long out of print, written when good
scouting meant not only daily food, travel, and shelter, but daily life
itself.
E. L. S.
BOOK KIT
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Long Trail 1
II. The Night Attack 11
III. The Big Trout 21
IV. The Beaver Man 31
V. Two Recruits 39
VI. A Disastrous Doze 54
VII. Held by the Enemy 69
VIII. A New Use for a Camera 85
IX. Jim Bridger on the Trail 98
X. The Red Fox Patrol 111
XI. The Man at the Dug-out 121
XII. Foiling the Fire 133
XIII. Orders from the President 146
XIV. The Capture of the Beaver Man 161
XV. General Ashley Drops Out 179
XVI. A Burro in Bed 185
XVII. Van Sant's Last Cartridge 199
XVIII. Fitz the Bad Hand's Good Throw 215
XIX. Major Henry says "Ouch" 230
XX. A Forty-mile Ride 244
XXI. The Last Dash 258
SCOUT NOTES
1. On Old-Time Scouts 277
2. On Taking a Message to Garcia 278
3. On Socks and Feet 279
4. On the Tarpaulin Bed-Sheet 279
5. On the Diamond Hitch 279
6. On the Indian Bow and Arrow 282
7. On the Lariat or Rope 282
8. On Neatness and the War-bag 283
9. On Tea 283
10. On the Medicine Kit 283
11. On the Straight-foot Walk 284
12. On Sign Language 284
13. On Sign for Bird Flying 286
14. On Making the Tarp Bed 286
15. On the Reflector Oven--and a Shovel 287
16. On a Whistle Code 287
17. On Brushing Teeth and Hair 287
18. On Snagging Fish 287
19. On Drying Boots 288
20. On Records and Maps 288
21. On Right or Left Footedness 288
22. On Weather Warnings 289
23. On Watching Teeth 290
24. On Lightning 290
25. On Bedding Place 290
26. On Cooking 290
27. On the Tarp Shelter Tent 291
28. On Guns 291
29. On Treating Pack-Animals 292
30. On the Scout Camp Place 292
31. On Camp-Law Protection 292
32. On Division of Guard Duty 292
33. On Trailing 292
34. On Marking the Trail 293
35. On Respecting the Enemy 293
36. On the Parole 293
37. On the Sign for Escape 294
38. On Tying a Prisoner 294
40. On Making a Fire 296
41. On the Clock of the Heavens 296
42. On Stars 298
43. On Sunday 300
44. On Smoke Signals 300
45. On Surgical Supplies 301
46. On Antiseptics 302
47. On Climbing Trees 303
48. On Wigwags and Other Motion Signaling 303
49. On Sprains 308
50. On Caches 309
51. On Use of Medicines 310
52. On Forest Fires 311
53. On Fire Fighting 312
54. On Deep Wounds 313
55. On the Squaw Hitch 314
56. On Picketing and Hobbling 315
57. On Respecting Nature 316
58. On Dislocations 316
59. On Litters for Wounded 317
60. On Jerked Meat 318
61. On Dressing Pelts 319
62. On Aluminum 320
63. On "Levez!" 320
64. On Appendicitis 320
65. On the Nose of Horse and Mule 321
66. On Being a Scout 321
[Transcriber's note: Note 39 was not referenced in this table.]
PICTURE SIGNS
"'You git!' he ordered" Frontispiece
OPPOSITE
PAGE
"Bill Duane went through him" 78
"It was our private Elk Patrol code" 178
"Like cave-men or trappers we descended" 214
THE ROLL CALL
THE ELK PATROL OF COLORADO:
First-class Scout Roger Franklin, or General William Ashley.
First-class Scout Tom Scott, or Major Andrew Henry.
First-class Scout Harry Leonard, or Kit Carson.
First-class Scout Chris Anderson, or Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand.
Second-class Scout "Little" Dick Smith, or Jedediah Smith.
Second-class Scout Charley Brown, or Jim Bridger.
THE RED FOX PATROL OF NEW JERSEY:
First-class Scout Horace Ward.
First-class Scout Edward Van Sant.
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES:
Sally and Apache, the Elk Totem Burros.
Bill Duane and his Town Gang, Who Make the Trail Worse.
Bat and Walt, the Renegade Recruits.
The Beaver Man.
The Game Warden, the Forest Ranger, the Cow-puncher,
the two Ranch Women, the Doctor; Pilot Peak, Creeks,
Valleys, Hills, Timber, and Sage and Meadows; Rain
and Fire and Flood; the Big Trout, the Mother Bear,
the Tame Ptarmigans, etc.
THE LONG TRAIL
Afoot, One Hundred Miles through a Wild Country and over the Medicine
Range. Described by Jim Bridger, with a Few Chapters by Major Henry.
PLUCK ON THE LONG TRAIL
CHAPTER I
THE LONG TRAIL
We are the Elk Patrol, 14th Colorado Troop, Boy Scouts of America. Our
sign is [Illustration] and our colors are dark green and white, like the
pines and the snowy range. Our patrol call is the whistle of an elk,
which is an "Oooooooooooo!" high up in the head, like a locomotive
whistle. We took the Elk brand (that is the same as totem, you
know, only we say "brand," in the West), because elks are the great
trail-makers in the mountains.
About the hardest thing that we have set out to do yet has been to carry
a secret message across the mountains, one hundred miles, from our town
to another town, with our own pack outfit, and finding our own trail,
and do it in fifteen days including Sundays. That is what I want to tell
about, in this book.
There were six of us who went; and just for fun we called ourselves by
trapper or scout names. We were:
First-class Scout Roger Franklin, or General William Ashley. He is our
patrol leader. He is fifteen years old, and red-headed, and his mother
is a widow and keeps a boarding-house.
First-class Scout Tom Scott, or Major Andrew Henry. He is our corporal.
He is sixteen years old, and has snapping black eyes, and his father is
mayor.
First-class Scout Harry Leonard, or Kit Carson. He is thirteen years
old, and before he came into the Scouts we called him "Sliver" because
he's so skinny. His father is a groceryman.
First-class Scout Chris Anderson, or Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand. He
is fifteen years old, and tow-headed and all freckled, and has only half
a left arm. He got hurt working in the mine. But he's as smart as any of
us. He can use a camera and throw a rope and dress himself, and tie his
shoe-laces and other knots. He's our best trailer. His father is a
miner.
Second-class Scout Richard Smith, or Jedediah Smith. He is only twelve,
and is a "fatty," and his father is postmaster.
Second-class Scout Charley Brown, or Jim Bridger the Blanket Chief.
That's myself. I'm fourteen, and have brown eyes and big ears, and my
father is a lawyer. When we started I had just been promoted from a
tenderfoot, so I didn't know very much yet. But we're all first-class
Scouts now, and have honors besides.
For Scout work we were paired off like this: Ashley and Carson; Henry
and Smith; Fitzpatrick and Bridger. (See Note 1, in back of book.)
Our trip would have been easier (but it was all right, anyway), if a
notice hadn't got into the newspaper and put other boys up to trying to
stop us. This is what the notice said:
The Elk Patrol of the local Boy Scouts is about to take a message
from Mayor Scott across the range to the mayor of Green Valley.
This message will be sealed and in cipher, and the boys will be
granted fifteen days in which to perform the trip over, about 100
miles, afoot; so they will have to hustle. They must not make use
of any vehicles or animals except their pack-animals, or stop at
ranches except through injury or illness, but must pursue their own
trail and live off the country. The boys who will go are Roger
Franklin, Tom Scott, Dick Smith, Harry Leonard, Chris Anderson, and
Charley Brown.
Of course, this notice gave the whole scheme away, and some of the other
town boys who pretended to make fun of us Scouts because we were trying
to learn Scoutcraft and to use it right planned to cut us off and take
the message away from us. There always are boys mean enough to bother
and interfere, until they get to be Scouts themselves. Then they are
ashamed.
We knew that we were liable to be interfered with, because we heard some
talk, and Bill Duane (he's one of the town fellows; he doesn't do much
of anything except loaf) said to me: "Oh, you'll never get through, kid.
The bears will eat you up. Bears are awful bad in that country."
But this didn't scare _us_. Bears aren't much, if you let them alone. We
knew what he meant, though. And we got an anonymous letter. It came to
General Ashley, and showed a skull and cross-bones, and said:
BEWARE!!! No Boy Scouts allowed on the Medicine
Range! Keep Off!!!
That didn't scare us, either.
When we were ready to start, Mayor Scott called us into his office and
told us that this was to be a real test of how we could be of service in
time of need and of how we could take care of ourselves; and that we
were carrying a message to Garcia, and must get it through, if we could,
but that he put us on our honor as Scouts to do just as we had agreed to
do. (See Note 2.)
Then we saluted him, and he saluted us with a military salute, and we
gave our Scouts' yell, and went.
Our Scouts' yell is:
B. S. A.! B. S. A.!
Elk! Elk! Hoo-ray!!
and a screech all together, like the bugling of an elk.
This is how we marched. The message was done up flat, between cardboard
covered by oiled silk with the Elk totem on it, and was slung by a
buckskin thong from the general's neck, under his shirt, out of sight.
We didn't wear coats, because coats were too hot, and you can't climb
with your arms held by coat-sleeves. We had our coats in the packs, for
emergencies. We wore blue flannel shirts with the Scouts' emblem on the
sleeves, and Scouts' drab service hats, and khaki trousers tucked into
mountain-boots hob-nailed with our private pattern so that we could tell
each other's tracks, and about our necks were red bandanna handkerchiefs
knotted loose, and on our hands were gauntlet gloves. Little Jed Smith,
who is a fatty, wore two pairs of socks, to prevent his feet from
blistering. That is a good scheme. (Note 3.)
General Ashley and Major Henry led; next were our two burros, Sally (who
was a yellow burro with a white spot on her back) and Apache (who was a
black burro and was named for Kit Carson's--the real Kit
Carson's--favorite horse). Behind the burros we came: the two other
first-class Scouts, and then the second-class Scouts, who were Jed
Smith and myself.
We took along two flags: one was the Stars and Stripes and the other was
our Patrol flag--green with a white Elk totem on it. They were fastened
to a jointed staff, the Stars and Stripes on top and the Patrol flag
below; and the butt of the staff was sharpened, to stick into the
ground. The flags flew in camp. We did not have tents. We had three
tarps, which are tarpaulins or cowboy canvas bed-sheets, to sleep in, on
the ground, and some blankets and quilts for over and under, too. (Note
4.) And these and our cooking things and a change of underclothes and
stockings, etc., were packed on the burros with panniers and top-packs
lashed tight with the diamond hitch. (Note 5.)
We decided to pack along one twenty-two caliber rifle, for rabbits when
we needed meat. One gun is enough in a camp of kids. This gun was under
the general's orders (he was our leader, you know), so that there
wouldn't be any promiscuous shooting around in the timber, and somebody
getting hit. It was for business, not monkey-work. We took one of our
bows, the short and thick Indian kind, and some of our two-feathered
arrows, in case that we must get meat without making any noise. (Note
6.) And we had two lariat ropes. (Note 7.) Each pair of Scouts was
allotted a war-bag, to hold their personal duds, and each fellow put in
a little canvas kit containing tooth-brush and powder, comb and brush,
needles and thread, etc. (Note 8.)
For provisions we had flour, salt, sugar, bacon, dried apples, dried
potatoes, rice, coffee (a little), tea, chocolate, baking-powder,
condensed milk, canned butter, and half a dozen cans of beans, for short
order. (Note 9.) Canned stuff is heavy, though, and mean to pack. We
didn't fool with raw beans, in bulk. They use much space, and at 10,000
and 12,000 feet they take too long to soak and cook.
We depended on catching trout, and on getting rabbits or squirrels to
tide us over; and we were allowed to stock up at ranches, if we should
pass any. That was legitimate. Even the old trappers traded for meat
from the Indians.
We had our first-aid outfits--one for each pair of us. I carried Chris's
and mine. We were supplied with camp remedies, too. (Note 10.) Doctor
Wallace of our town, who was our Patrol surgeon, had picked them out for
us.
General Ashley and Major Henry set the pace. The trail out of town was
good, and walking fast and straight-footed (Note 11) we trailed by the
old stage road four miles, until we came to Grizzly Gulch. Here we
turned off, by a prospectors' trail, up Grizzly. The old stage road
didn't go to Green Valley. Away off to the northwest, now, was the
Medicine Range that we must cross, to get at Green Valley on the other
side. It is a high, rough range, 13,000 and 14,000 feet, and has snow on
it all the year. In the middle was Pilot Peak, where we expected to
strike a pass.
The prospect trail was fair, and we hustled. We didn't stop to eat much,
at noon; that would have taken our wind. The going was up grade and you
can't climb fast on a full stomach. We had a long march ahead of us, for
old Pilot Peak looked far and blue.
Now and then the general let us stop, to puff for a moment; and the
packs had to be tightened after Sally's and Apache's stomachs had gone
down with exercise. We followed the trail single file, and about two
o'clock, by the sun, we reached the head of the gulch and came out on
top of the mesa there.
We were hot and kind of tired (especially little Jed Smith, our
"fatty"); but we were not softies and this was no place to halt long. We
must cross and get under cover again. If anybody was spying on us we
could be seen too easy, up here. When you're pursuing, you keep to the
high ground, so as to see; but when you're pursued you keep to the low
ground, so as not to be seen. That was the trappers' way.
I'll tell you what we did. There are two ways to throw pursuers off the
scent. We might have done as the Indians used to do. They would
separate, after a raid, and would spread out in a big fan-shape, every
one making a trail of his own, so that the soldiers would not know which
to follow; and after a long while they would come together again at some
point which they had agreed on. But we weren't ready to do this. It took
time, and we did not have any meeting-spot, exactly. So we left as big a
trail as we could, to make any town gang think that we were not
suspicious. That would throw them off their guard.
Single file we traveled across the mesa, and at the other side we dipped
into a little draw. Here we found Ute Creek, which we had planned to
follow up to its headwaters in the Medicine Range. A creek makes a good
guide. A cow-trail ran beside it.
"First-class Scout Fitzpatrick (that was Chris) and Second-class Scout
Bridger (that was I) drop out and watch the trail," commanded General
Ashley (that was Patrol Leader Roger Franklin). "Report at Bob Cat
Springs. We'll camp there for the night."
Chris and I knew what to do. We gave a big leap aside, to a flat rock,
and the other Scouts continued right along; and because they were single
file the trail didn't show any difference. I don't suppose that the town
gang would have noticed, anyway; but you must never despise the enemy.
From the flat rock Fitzpatrick and I stepped lightly, so as not to leave
much mark, on some dried grass, and made off up the side of the draw,
among the bushes. These grew as high as our shoulders, and formed a fine
ambuscade. We climbed far enough so that we could see both sides of the
draw and the trail in between; and by crawling we picked a good spot and
sat down.
We knew that we must keep still, and not talk. We kept so still that
field-mice played over our feet, and a bee lit on Fitzpatrick. He didn't
brush it off.
We could talk sign language; that makes no sound. Of course, Fitz could
talk with only one hand. He made the signs to watch down the trail, and
to listen; and I replied with men on horseback and be vigilant as a
wolf. (Note 12.)
It wasn't bad, sitting here in the sunshine, amidst the brush. The draw
was very peaceful and smelled of sage. A magpie flew over, his black and
white tail sticking out behind him; and he saw us and yelled. Magpies
are awful sharp, that way. They're a good sign to watch. Everything
tells something to a Scout, when he's an expert.
Sitting there, warm and comfortable, a fellow felt like going to sleep;
but Fitzpatrick was all eyes and ears, and I tried to be the same, as a
Scout should.
CHAPTER II
THE NIGHT ATTACK
We must have been squatting for an hour and a half, and the sun was down
close to the top of the draw, behind us, when Fitzpatrick nudged me with
his foot, and nodded. He made the sign of birds flying up and pointed
down the trail, below, us; so that I knew somebody was coming, around a
turn there. (Note 13.) We scarcely breathed. We just sat and watched,
like two mountain lions waiting.
Pretty soon they came riding along--four of them on horseback; we knew
the horses. The fellows were Bill Duane, Mike Delavan, Tony Matthews,
and Bert Hawley. They were laughing and talking because the trail we
made was plain and they thought that we all were pushing right on, and
if they could read sign they would know that the tracks were not extra
fresh.
We let them get out of sight; then we went straight down upon the trail,
and followed, alongside, so as not to step on top of their tracks and
show that we had come after.
We talked only by sign, and trailed slow, because they might be
listening or looking back. We wanted to find where they stopped. At
every turn we sneaked and Fitzpatrick stuck just his head around, to see
that the trail was clear. Suddenly he made sign to me that he saw them;
there were three on horseback, waiting, and one had gone on, walking, to
reconnoiter.
So we had to back-trail until we could make a big circle and strike the
trail on ahead. This wasn't open country here; there were cedars and
pinyons and big rocks. We circuited up and around, out of sight from the
trail, and came in, bending low and walking carefully so as not to crack
sticks, to listen and examine for sign. We found strange tracks--soles
without hob-nails, pointing one way but not coming back. We hid behind a
cedar, and waited. In about fifteen minutes Bill Duane walked right past
us, back to the other fellows.
Now we hurried on, for it was getting dark; and soon we smelled smoke,
and that meant camp. Fitzpatrick (who was a first-class Scout, while I
was only a second) reported to General Ashley the whereabouts of the
enemy.
"Very well," said General Ashley. "Corporal Andrew Henry (that was Tom
Scott) and Second-class Scout Jed Smith (that was Dick Smith) will go
back a quarter of a mile and picket the trail until relieved; the rest
of us will proceed with camp duties."
Major Henry and little Jed Smith set off. We finished establishing camp.
Two holes were dug for camp refuse; that was my business. Places for the
beds were cleared of sticks and things; that was Kit Carson's business.
General Ashley chopped a cedar stump for wood (cedar burns without soot,
you know); and Fitzpatrick cooked. The burros had been unpacked and the
flags planted before Fitzpatrick and I came in. We had to picket the
burros out, to graze, at first, or they might have gone back to town. Of
course, as we were short-handed, we had to do Henry's and Smith's work,
to-night, too: spread the beds before dark and bring water and such
things. (Note 14.)
For supper we had bacon and two cans of the beans and biscuits baked in
a reflector, and coffee. (Note 15.) Major Henry and Jed Smith were not
getting any supper yet, because they were still on picket duty. But when
we were through General Ashley said, "Kit Carson, you and Jim Bridger
relieve Henry and Smith, and tell them to come in to supper."
But just as we stood, to start, Major Henry walked in amongst us. He was
excited, and puffing, and he almost forgot to salute General Ashley, who
was Patrol leader.
"They're planning to come!" he puffed. "I sneaked close to them and
heard 'em talking!"
"Is this meant for a report?" asked General Ashley. And we others
snickered. It wasn't the right way to make a report.
"Yes, sir," answered Henry. "That is, I reconnoitered the enemy's camp,
sir, and they're talking about us."
"What did you hear?"
"They're going to rush us when we're asleep, and scare us."
"Very well," said General Ashley. "But you weren't ordered to do that.
You left your post, sir."
"I thought you'd like to know. They didn't hear me," stammered Major
Henry.
"You'd no business to go, just the same. Orders are orders. Where is
Smith?"
"Watching on picket."
"Did he go, too?"
"No, sir."
"You exceeded orders, and you ought to be court-martialed," said General
Ashley. And he was right, too. "But I'll give you another chance. When
is the enemy going to attack?"
"After we're asleep."
"What is he doing now?"
"Eating and smoking and waiting, down the trail."
"You can have some coffee and beans and bread, while we hold council.
Carson and Bridger can wait a minute."
The council didn't take long. General Ashley's plan was splendid, a joke
and a counter-attack in one. Major Henry ate as much as he could, but he
wasn't filled up when he was sent out again, into the dark, with Kit
Carson. They were ordered to tell Jed Smith to come in, but they were to
go on. You'll see what happened. This double duty was Henry's
punishment.
We cleaned up the camp, and then Jed Smith arrived. While he was eating
we made the beds. We drew up the tarpaulins, over blankets and quilts
rolled so that the beds looked exactly as if we were in them, our feet
to the fire (it was a little fire, of course) and our heads in shadow.
We tied the burros short; and then we went back into the cedars and
pinyons and sat down, quiet.
It wasn't pitchy dark. When the sky is clear it never gets pitchy dark,
in the open; and there was a quarter-moon shining, too. The night was
very still. The breeze just rustled the trees, but we could hear our
hearts beat. Once, about a mile away, a coyote barked like a crazy
puppy. He was calling for company. The stars twinkled down through the
stiff branches, and I tried to see the Great Dipper, but that took too
much squirming around.
We must not say a word, nor even whisper. We must just keep quiet, and
listen and wait. Down the trail poor Major Henry and Kit Carson were
having a harder time of it--but I would have liked to be along.
All of a sudden Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand nudged me gently with his
knuckles, and I nudged Jed Smith, and Jed passed it on, and it went
around from one to the other, so we all knew. Somebody was coming! We
could hear a stick snap, and a little laugh, off in the timber; it
sounded as though somebody had run into a branch. We waited. The enemy
was stealing upon our camp. We hid our faces in our coats and our hands
in our sleeves, so that no white should show. It was exciting, sitting
this way, waiting for the attack.
The gang tiptoed up, carefully, and we could just make out two of them
peering in at the beds. Then they all gave a tremendous yell, like
Indians or mountain lions, and rushed us--or what they thought was us.
They stepped on the beds and kicked at the tinware, and expected to
scare us stiff with the noise--but you ought to have seen how quick they
quit when nothing happened! We didn't pop out of the beds, and run! It
was funny--and I almost burst, trying not to laugh out loud, when they
stood, looking about, and feeling of the beds again.
"They aren't here," said Bill Duane. At a nudge from General Ashley we
had deployed, running low and swift, right and left.
"Poke the fire, so we can see," said Bert Hawley.
One of them did, so the fire blazed up--which was just what we wanted.
Now they were inside and we were outside. They began to talk.
"We'll pile up the camp, anyway."
"They're around somewhere."
"Let's take their burros."
"Take their flags."
Then General Ashley spoke up.
"No, you don't!" he said. "You let those things alone."
That voice, coming out of the darkness around, must have made them jump,
and for a minute they didn't know what to do. Then--
"Why?" asked Bill Duane, kind of defiantly.
"Wait a moment and we'll show you," answered General Ashley.
He whistled loud, our Scouts' signal whistle; and off down the trail
Major Henry or Kit Carson whistled back, and added the whistle that
meant "All right." (Note 16.)
"Hear that?" asked General Ashley. "That means we've got your horses!"
Hurrah! So we had. You see, Major Henry and Kit Carson had been sent
back to watch the enemy's camp; and when the gang had left, on foot, to
surprise us, our two scouts had gone in and captured the horses. We
couldn't help but whoop and yell a little, in triumph. But General
Ashley ordered "Silence!" and we quit.
"Aw, we were just fooling," said Tony Matthews. They talked together,
low, for a few moments; and Bill called: "Come on in. We won't hurt
you."
"Of course you won't," said General Ashley. "But _we_ aren't fooling. We
mean business. We'll keep the horses until you've promised to clear out
and let this camp alone."
"We don't want the horses. Two of 'em are hired and the longer you keep
them the more you'll have to pay." That was a lie. They didn't hire
horses. They borrowed.
"We can sleep here very comfortably, kid," said Mike Delavan.
"You'll not get much sleep in those beds," retorted General Ashley.
"Will they, boys!"
And we all laughed and said "No!"
"And after they've walked ten miles back to town, we'll bring in the
horses and tell how we took them."
The enemy talked together low, again.
"All right," said Bill Duane. "You give us our horses and we'll let the
camp alone."
"Do you promise?" asked General Ashley.
"Yes; didn't I say so?"
"Do you, Mike?"
"Sure; if you return those horses."
"Do you, Tony and Bert?"
"Uh huh."
That was the best way--to make each promise separately; for some one of
them might have claimed that he hadn't promised with the rest.
"Then go on down the trail, and you'll find the horses where you left
them."
"How do we know?"
"On the honor of a Scout," said General Ashley. "We won't try any
tricks, and don't you, for we'll be watching you until you start for
town."
They grumbled back, and with Bill Duane in the lead stumbled for the
trail. General Ashley whistled the signal agreed upon, for Major Henry
and Kit Carson to tie the horses and to withdraw. We might have followed
the enemy; but we would have risked dividing our forces too much and
leaving the camp. We were safer here.
So we waited, quiet; and after a time somebody signaled with the whistle
of the patrol. It was Kit Carson.
"They've gone, sir," he reported, when General Ashley called him.
"What did they say?"
"They're mad; but they're going into town and they'll get back at us
later."
"You saw them start, did you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where's Henry?"
"Waiting to see if they turn or anything."
"They won't. They know we'll be ready for them. Shall we move camp, or
post sentries, boys?"
We voted to post sentries. It seemed an awful job to move camp, at this
time of night, and make beds over again, and all that. It was only ten
o'clock by General Ashley's watch, but it felt later. So we built up the
fire, and set some coffee on, and called Major Henry in, and General
Ashley and Jed Smith took the first spell of two hours; then they were
to wake up Fitzpatrick and me, for the next two hours; and Major Henry
and Kit Carson would watch from two till four, when it would be growing
light. But we didn't have any more trouble that night.
CHAPTER III
THE BIG TROUT
It was mighty hard work, turning out at five o'clock in the morning.
That was regulations, while on the march--to get up at five. The ones
who didn't turn out promptly had to do the dirty work--police the camp,
which is to clean it, you know.
Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand cooked; I helped, by opening packages,
preparing potatoes (if we had them), tending fire, etc.; Major Henry
chopped wood; Kit Carson and little Jed Smith looked after the burros,
Apache and Sally, and scouted in a circle for hostile sign; General
Ashley put the bedding in shape to pack.
But first it was regulations to take a cold wet rub when we were near
water. It made us glow and kept us in good shape. Then we brushed our
teeth and combed our hair. (Note 17.) After breakfast we policed the
camp, and dumped everything into a hole, or burned it, so that we left
the place just about as we had found it. We stamped out the fire, or put
dirt and water on it, of course. Then we packed the burros. General
Ashley, Jed Smith, and Kit Carson packed Sally; Major Henry, Thomas
Fitzpatrick, and I packed Apache. And by six-thirty we were on our way.
This morning we kept on up Ute Creek. It had its rise in Gray Bull
Basin, at the foot of old Pilot Peak, about forty miles away. We thought
we could make Gray Bull Basin in three days. Ten or twelve miles a day,
with burros, on the trail, up-hill all the way, is about as fast as
Scouts like us can keep going. Beyond Gray Bull we would have to find
our own trail over Pilot Peak.
Everything was fine, this morning. Birds were hopping among the cedars
and spruces, and in some places the ground was red with wild
strawberries. Pine squirrels scolded at us, and we saw two rabbits; but
we didn't stop to shoot them. We had bacon, and could catch trout higher
up the creek. Here were some beaver dams, and around the first dam lived
a big trout that nobody had been able to land. The beaver dams were
famous camping places for parties who could go this far, and everybody
claimed to have hooked the big trout and to have lost him again. He was
a native Rocky Mountain trout, and weighed four pounds--but he was
educated. He wouldn't be caught. He had only one eye; that was how
people knew him.
We didn't count upon that big trout, but we rather counted upon some
smaller ones; and anyway we must hustle on and put those ten miles
behind us before the enemy got in touch with us again. Our business was
to carry that message through, and not to stop and hunt or lose time
over uncalled-for things.
The creek foamed and rushed; its water was amber, as if stained by pine
needles. Sometimes it ran among big bowlders, and sometimes it was
crossed by fallen trees. Thomas Fitzpatrick picked up a beaver cutting.
That was an aspen stick (beavers like aspen and willow bark best) about
as large as your wrist and two feet long. It was green and the ends were
fresh, so there were beavers above us. And it wasn't water-soaked, so
that it could not have been cut and in the water very long. We were
getting close.
We traveled right along, and the country grew rougher. There were many
high bowlders, and we came to a canyon where the creek had cut between
great walls like a crack. There was no use in trying to go through this
canyon; the trail had faded out, and we were about to oblique off up the
hill on our side of the creek, to go around and strike the creek above
the canyon, when Kit Carson saw something caught on a brush-heap half in
the water, at the mouth of the canyon.
It was a chain. He leaned out and took hold of the chain, and drew it in
to shore. On the other end was a trap, and in the trap was a beaver. The
chain was not tied to the brush; it had just caught there, so it must
have been washed down. Then up above somebody was trapping beaver, which
was against the law. The beaver was in pretty bad condition. He must
have been drowned for a week or more. The trap had no brand on it.
Usually traps are branded on the pan, but this wasn't and that went to
show that whoever was trapping knew better. The sight of that beaver,
killed uselessly, made us sick and mad both. But we couldn't do anything
about it, except to dig a hole and bury trap and all, so that the creek
would wash clean, as it ought to be. Then we climbed up the steep hill,
over rocks and flowers, and on top followed a ridge, until ahead we saw
the creek again. It was in a little meadow here, and down we went for
it.
This was a beautiful spot. On one side the pines and spruces covered a
long slope which rose on and on until above timber line it was bare and
reddish gray; and away up were patches of snow; and beyond was the tip
of Pilot Peak. But on our side a forest fire had burned out the timber,
leaving only black stumps sticking up, with the ground covered by a new
growth of bushes. There was quite a difference between the two sides;
and we camped where we were, on the bare side, which was the safest for
a camp fire. It would have been a shame to spoil the other side, too.
We were tired, after being up part of the night and climbing all the
morning, and this was a good place to stop. Plenty of dry wood, plenty
of water, and space to spread our beds.
The creek was smooth and wide, here, about the middle of the park. The
beaver had been damming it. But although we looked about, after locating
camp and unpacking the burros, we couldn't find a fresh sign. We came
upon camp sign, though, two days old, at least. Somebody had trapped
every beaver and then had left.
That seemed mean, because it was against the law to trap beaver, and
here they weren't doing any harm. But the fire had laid waste one shore
of the pond, and animal killers had laid waste the pond itself.
We decided to have a big meal. There ought to be wild raspberries in
this burnt timber; wild raspberries always follow a forest fire--and
that is a queer thing, isn't it? So, after camp was laid out (which is
the first thing to do), and our flags set up, while Fitzpatrick the Bad
Hand and Major Henry built a fire and got things ready for dinner,
General Ashley and Kit Carson went after berries and little Jed Smith
and I were detailed to catch trout.
We had lines and hooks, but we didn't bother to pack rods, because you
almost always can get willows. (Note 18.) Some fellows would have cut
green willows, because they bend. We knew better. We cut a dead willow
apiece. We were after meat, and not just sport; and when we had a trout
bite we wanted to yank him right out. A stiff, dead willow will do that.
Grasshoppers were whirring around, among the dried trunks and the grass.
That is what grasshoppers like, a place where it's hot and open. As a
rule you get bigger fish with bait than you do with a fly, so we put on
grasshoppers. I hate sticking a hook into a grasshopper, or a worm
either; and we killed our grasshoppers quick by smashing their heads
before we hooked them.
It was going to be hard work, catching trout around this beaver pond.
The water was wide and smooth and shallow and clear, and a trout would
see you coming. When a trout knows that you are about, then the game is
off. Besides, lots of people had been fishing the pond, and the beaver
hunters must have been fishing it lately, according to sign. But that
made it all the more exciting. Little trout are caught easily, and the
big ones are left for the person who can outwit them.
After we were ready, we reconnoitered. We sat down and studied to see
where we'd prefer to be if we were a big trout. A big trout usually
doesn't prowl about much. He gets a lair, in a hole or under a bank, and
stays close, eating whatever comes his way, and chasing out all the
smaller trout. Sometimes he swims into the ripples, to feed; but back he
goes to his lair again.
So we studied the situation. There was no use in wading about, or
shaking the banks, and scaring trout, unless we had a plan. It looked to
me that if I were a big trout I'd be in a shady spot over across, where
the water swept around a low place of the dam and made a black eddy
under the branches of a spruce. Jed Smith said all right, I could try
that, and he would try where the bank on our side stuck out over the
water a little.
I figured that my hole would be fished by about everybody from the
water. Most persons would wade across, and cast up-stream to the edge of
it; and if a trout was still there he would be watching out for that. So
the way to surprise him would be to sneak on him from a new direction. I
went down below, and crossed (over my boot-tops) to the other side, and
followed up through the timber.
I had to crawl under the spruce--and I was mighty careful not to shake
the ground or to make any noise, for we needed fish. Nobody had been to
the hole from this direction; it was too hard work. By reaching out with
my pole I could just flip the hopper into the water. I tried twice; and
the second time I landed him right in the swirl. He hadn't floated an
inch when a yellowish thing calmly rose under him and he was gone!
I jerked up with the willow, and the line tightened and began to tug. I
knew by the color and the way he swallowed the hopper without any fuss
that he was a king trout, and if I didn't haul him right in he'd break
the pole or tear loose. I shortened pole like lightning and grabbed the
line; but it got tangled in the branches of the spruce, and the trout
was hung up with just his nose out of water.
Jiminy! but he was making the spray fly. He looked as big as a beaver,
and the hook was caught in the very edge of his lip. That made me hurry.
In a moment he'd be away. I suppose I leaned out too far, to grab the
line again, or to get him by the gills, for I slipped and dived
headfirst into the hole.
Whew, but the water was cold! It took my breath--but I didn't care. All
I feared was that now I'd lost the fish. He weighed four pounds, by this
time, I was sure. As soon as I could stand and open my eyes I looked for
him. When I had dived in I must have shaken loose the line, for it was
under water again, and part of the pole, too. I sprawled for the pole
and grabbed it as it was sliding out. The line tightened. The trout was
still on.
Now I must rustle for the shore. So I did, paying out the pole behind me
so as not to tear the hook free; and the minute I scrambled knee-deep,
with a big swing I hustled that trout in and landed him in the brush
just as he flopped off!
I tell you, I was glad. Some persons would have wanted a reel and light
tackle, to play him--but we were after meat.
"I've got one--a big one!" I yelled, across to where Jed Smith was.
"So have I!" yelled little Jed back.
I had picked my trout up. He wasn't so awful big, after all; only about
fifteen inches long, which means two pounds. He was an Eastern brook
trout. They grow larger in the cold water of the West than they do in
their own homes. But I looked for Jed--and then dropped my trout and
waded over to help _him_.
He was out in the water, up to his waist, and something was jerking him
right along.
"I can't get him out!" he called, as I was coming. "How big is yours?"
"Fifteen inches."
"This one's as big as I am--big native!" And you should have heard Jed
grunt, as the line just surged around, in the current.
"Want any help?" I asked.
"Uh uh. If he can lick me, then he ought to get away."
"Where'd you catch him?"
"Against the bank."
"Swing him down the current and then lift him right in shore!"
"Look out he doesn't tear loose!"
"He'll break that pole!"
Fitzpatrick and Major Henry were yelling at us from the fire; and then
Jed stubbed his toe on a rock and fell flat. He didn't let the pole go,
though. He came up sputtering and he was as wet as I.
"Swing him down and then lift him right in!" kept shouting Fitz and
Major Henry. That was the best plan.
"All right," answered Jed. "You take the pole and start him," he said to
me. "I'd have to haul him against the current." I was below him, of
course, so as to head the trout up-stream.
He tossed the butt at me and I caught it. That was generous of Jed--to
let me get the fish out, when he'd been the one to hook it. But we were
Scouts together, and we were after meat for all, not glory for one.
I took the pole and with a swing downstream kept Mr. Trout going until
he shot out to the edge of the pond, and there Fitz tumbled on top of
him and grabbed him with one hand by the gills.
When we held him up we gave our Patrol yell:
B. S. A.! B. S. A.!
Elks! Elks! Hoo-ray!
Oooooooooooo!
CHAPTER IV
THE BEAVER MAN
For he was a great one, that trout! He was the big fellow that everybody
had been after, because he was twenty-six inches long and weighed four
pounds and had only one eye! That was good woodcraft, for a boy twelve
years old to sneak up on him and catch him with a willow pole and a line
tied fast and a grasshopper, when regular fishermen with fine outfits
had been trying right along. Of course they'll say we didn't give him
any show--but after he was hooked there was no use in torturing him. The
hooking is the principal part.
Jed showed us how he had worked. He hadn't raised anything in the first
hole, by the bank, and he had gone on to another place that looked good.
Lots of people had fished this second place; there was a regular path to
it through the weeds, on the shore side; and below it, along the
shallows, the mud was full of tracks. But Jed had been smart. A trout
usually lies with his head up-stream, so as to gobble whatever comes
down. But here the current set in with a back-action, so that it made a
little eddy right against the bank--and a trout in that particular spot
would have his nose _downstream_. So Jed fished from the direction
opposite to that from which other persons had fished. He went around,
and approached from up-stream, awfully careful not to make any noise or
raise any settlings. Then he reached far and bounced his hopper from the
bank into the edge--as if it had fallen of itself--and it was gobbled
quick as a wink and the old trout pulled Jed in, too.
So in fishing as in other scouting, I guess, you ought to do what the
enemy isn't expecting you to do.
My trout was just a minnow beside of Jed's; and the two of them were all
we could eat, so we quit; Jed and I stripped off our wet clothes and
took a rub with a towel and sat in dry underclothes, while the wet stuff
was hung up in the sun. We felt fine.
That was a great dinner. We rolled the trout in mud and baked them
whole. And we had fried potatoes, hot bread (or what people would call
biscuits), and wild raspberries with condensed milk. General Ashley and
Kit Carson had brought in a bucket of them. They were thick, back in the
burnt timber, and were just getting ripe.
After the big dinner and the washing of the dishes we lay around
resting. Jed Smith and I couldn't do much until our clothes were dry. We
stuffed our boots with some newspapers we had, to help them dry. (Note
19.) While we were resting, Fitzpatrick made our "Sh!" sign which said
"Watch out! Danger!" and with his hand by his side pointed across the
beaver pond.
We looked, with our eyes but not moving, so as not to attract attention.
Yes, a man had stepped out to the edge of the timber, at the upper end
of the pond and across, and was standing. Maybe he thought we didn't see
him, but we did. And he saw us, too; for after a moment he stepped back
again, and was gone. He had on a black slouch hat. He wasn't a large
man.
We pretended not to have noticed him, until we were certain that he
wasn't spying from some other point. Then General Ashley spoke, in a low
tone: "He acted suspicious. We ought to reconnoiter. Scouts Fitzpatrick
and Bridger will circle around the upper end of the pond, and Scout Kit
Carson and I will circle the lower. Scouts Corporal Henry and Jed Smith
will guard camp."
My boots were still wet, but I didn't mind. So we started off, in pairs,
which was the right way, Fitz and I for the upper end of the pond. I
carried a pole, as if we were going fishing, and we didn't hurry. We
sauntered through the brush, and where the creek was narrow we crossed
on some rocks, and followed the opposite shore down, a few yards back,
so as to cut the spy's tracks. I might not have found them, among the
spruce needles; but Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand did. He found a heel mark,
and by stooping down and looking along we could see a line where the
needles had been kicked up, to the shore. Marks show better, sometimes,
when you look this way, along the ground; but we could have followed,
anyhow, I think.
The footprints were plain in the soft sand; if he had stood back a
little further, and had been more careful where he stepped, we might not
have found the tracks so easily; but he had stepped on some soft sand
and mud. We knew that he was not a large man, because we had seen him;
and we didn't believe that he was a prospector or a miner, because his
soles were not hobbed--or a cow-puncher, because he had no high heels to
sink in; he may have been a rancher, out looking about.
"He must be left-handed," said Fitz.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, see?" and then he told me.
Sure enough. That was smart of Fitz, I thought. But he's splendid to
read sign.
Now we followed the tracks back. The man had come down and had returned
by the same route. And up in the timber about fifty yards he had had a
horse. We read how he had been riding through, and had stopped, and got
off and walked down to the pond, and stood, and walked back and mounted
again and ridden on. All that was easy for Fitz, and I could read most
of it myself.
We trailed the horse until the tracks surely went away from the pond
into the timber country; then we let it go, and met General Ashley, to
report. General Ashley and Kit Carson also examined the prints in the
sand, and we all agreed that the man probably was left-handed.
Now, why had he come down to the edge of the pond, on purpose, and
looked at it and at us, and then turned up at a trot into the timber? It
would seem as if he might have been afraid that we had seen him, and he
didn't want to be seen. But all our guesses here and after we reached
camp again didn't amount to much, of course.
We decided to stay for the night. It was a good camp place, and we
wouldn't gain anything, maybe, by starting on, near night, and getting
caught in the timber in the dark. And this would give the burros a good
rest and a fill-up before their climb.
The burned stretch where we were was plumb full of live things--striped
chipmunks, and pine squirrels, and woodpecker families. Fitzpatrick
started in to take chipmunk pictures--and you ought to see how he can
manage a camera with one hand. He holds it between his knees or else
under his left arm, to draw the bellows out, and the rest is easy.
He scouted about and got some pictures of chipmunks real close, by
waiting, and a picture of a woodpecker feeding young ones, at a hole in
a dead pine stump. This was a good place for bear to come, after the
berries; and we were hoping that one would amble in while we were there
so that Fitz could take a picture of it, too. Bears don't hurt people
unless people try to hurt them; and a bear would sooner have raspberries
than have a man or boy, any day. Fitzpatrick thought that if he could
get a good picture of a bear, out in the open, that would bring him a
Scout's honor. Of course, chipmunk pictures help, too. But while we were
resting and fooling and taking pictures, and General Ashley was bringing
his diary and his map up to date, for record, we had another visitor.
(Note 20.)
A man came riding a dark bay horse, with white nose and white right fore
foot, along our side of the beaver pond, and halted at our camp. The
horse had left ear swallow-tailed and was branded with a Diamond Five on
the right shoulder. The man wasn't the man we had seen across the pond,
for he wore a sombrero, and was taller and had on overalls, and
cow-puncher boots.
[Illustration]
"Howdy?" he said.
"How are you?" we answered.
He sort of lazily dismounted, and yawned--but his sharp eyes were taking
us and our camp all in.
"Out fishing?" he asked.
"No, sir. Passing through," said General Ashley.
"Going far?"
"Over to Green Valley."
"Walking?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good place for beaver, isn't it?"
"A bad place."
"That so? Used to be some about here. Couldn't catch any, eh?"
"We aren't trying. But it seems a bad place for beaver because the only
one we have seen is a dead one in a trap."
The man waked up. "Whose trap?"
"We don't know." And the general went on to explain.
The man nodded. "I'm a deputy game warden," he said at last. "Somebody's
been trapping beaver in here, and it's got to stop. Haven't seen any one
pass through?"
We had. The general reported.
"Smallish man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Roan hoss branded quarter circle D on the left hip? Brass-bound
stirrups?"
"We didn't see the horse; but we think the man was left-handed," said
the general.
"Why?"
"He was left-footed, because there was a hole in the sole of the left
shoe, and that would look as though he used his left foot more than his
right. So we think he may be left-handed, too." (Note 21.)
The game warden grunted. He eyed our flag.
"You kids must be regular Boy Scouts."
"We are."
"Then I reckon you aren't catching any beaver. All right, I'll look for
a left-footed man, maybe left-handed. But it's this fellow on the roan
hoss I'm after. He's been trying to sell pelts. There's no use my
trailing him, to-day. But I'll send word ahead, and if you lads run
across him let somebody know. Where are you bound for?"
The general told him.
"By way of Pilot Peak?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll tell you a short cut. You see that strip of young timber
running up over the ridge? That's an old survey trail. It crosses to the
other side. Over beyond you'll strike Dixon's Park and a ruined
saw-mill. After that you can follow up Dixon's Creek."
We thanked him and he mounted and rode away.
CHAPTER V
TWO RECRUITS
When we got up in the morning, the mountains still had their night-caps
on. White mist was floating low about their tips, and lying in the
gulches like streams and lakes. Above timber-line, opposite us, was a
long layer of cloud, with the top of old Pilot Peak sticking through.
This was a weather sign, although the sun rose clear and the sky was
blue. Nightcaps are apt to mean a showery day. (Note 22.) We took our
wet rub, ate breakfast, policed the camp and killed the fire, and
General Ashley put camphor and cotton against little Jed Smith's back
tooth, to stop some aching. Maybe there was a hole in the tooth, or
maybe Jed had just caught cold in it, after being wet; but he ought to
have had his teeth looked into before he started out on the scout.
(Note 23.) Anyway, the camphor stopped the ache--and made him dance,
too.
We crossed the creek, above the beaver pond, and struck off into the old
survey trail that cut over the ridge. The brush was thick, and the trees
had sprung up again, so that really it wasn't a regular trail unless
you had known about it. The blazes on the side trees had closed over.
But all the same, by watching the scars, and by keeping in the line
where the trees always opened out, and by watching the sky as it showed
before, we followed right along.
After we had been traveling about two hours, we heard thunder and that
made us hustle the more, to get out of the thin timber, so that we would
not be struck by lightning. (Note 24.) The wind moaned through the
trees. The rain was coming, sure.
The trail was diagonally up-hill, all the way, and if we had been
cigarette smokers we wouldn't have had breath enough to hit the fast
pace that General Ashley set. The burros had to trot, and it made little
Jed Smith, who is kind of fat, wheeze; but we stuck it out and came to a
flat place of short dried grass and bushes, with no trees. Here we
stopped. We were about nine thousand feet up.
From where we were we could see the storm. It was flowing down along a
bald-top mountain back from our camp at the beaver pond, and looked like
gray smoke. The sun was just being swallowed. Well, all we could do was
to wait and take it, and see how bad it was. We tied Sally and Apache to
some bushes, but we didn't unpack them, of course. The tarps on top
would keep the grub from getting wet.
The storm made a grand sight, as it rolled toward us, over the timber.
And soon it was raining below us, down at the beaver pond--and then,
with a drizzle and a spatter, the rain reached us, too.
We sat hunched, under our hats, and took it. We might have got under
blankets--but that would have given us soaked blankets for night, unless
we had stretched the tarps, too; and if we had stretched the tarps then
the rest of our packs would have suffered. The best way is to crawl
under a spruce, where the limbs have grown close to the ground. But not
in a thunder storm. And it is better to be wet yourself and have a dry
camp for night, than to be dry yourself and have a wet camp for night.
Anyway, the rain didn't hurt us. While it thundered and lightened and
the drops pelted us well, we sang our Patrol song--which is a song like
one used by the Black feet Indians:
"The Elk is our Medicine,
He makes us very strong.
The Elk is our Medicine,
The Elk is our Medicine,
The Elk is our Medicine,
He makes us very strong.
Ooooooooooooooooooooooo!"
And when the thunder boomed we sang at it:
"The _Thunder_ is our Medicine--"
to show that we weren't afraid of it.
The squall passed on over us, and when it had about quit we untied the
burros and started on again. In just a minute we were warm and sweating
and could shed our coats; and the sun came out hot to dry us off.
We crossed the ridge, and on the other side we saw Dixon's Park. We knew
it was Dixon's Park, because the timber had been cut from it, and
Dixon's Park had had a saw-mill twenty years ago.
Once this park had been grown over with trees, like the side of the
ridge where we had been climbing; but that saw-mill had felled
everything in sight, so that now there were only old stumps and dead
logs. It looked like a graveyard. If the mill had been watched, as most
mills are to-day, and had been made to leave part of the trees, then the
timber would have grown again.
Down through the graveyard we went, and stopped for nooning at the
little creek which ran through the bottom. There weren't any fish in
this creek; the mill had killed the timber, and it had driven out the
fish with sawdust. It was just a dead place, and there didn't seem to be
even chipmunks.
We had nooning at the ruins of the mill. Tin cans and old boot soles and
rusted pipe were still scattered about. We were a little tired, and more
rain was coming, so we made a fire by finding dry wood underneath slabs
and things, and had tea and bread and butter. That rested us. Little
Jed Smith was only twelve years old, and we had to travel to suit him
and not just to suit us bigger boys. I'm fourteen and Major Henry is
sixteen. All the afternoon was showery; first we were dry, then we were
wet; and there wasn't much fun about sloshing and slipping along; but we
pegged away, and climbed out of Dixon's Park to the ridge beyond it. Now
we could see old Pilot Peak plain, and keeping to the high ground we
made for it. It didn't look to be very far away; but we didn't know,
now, all the things that lay between.
The top of this ridge was flat, and the forest reserve people had been
through and piled up the brush, so that a fire would not spread easily.
That made traveling good, and we hiked our best. Down in a gulch beside
us there was a stream: Dixon's Creek. But we kept to the high ground,
with our eyes open for a good camping spot, for the dark would close in
early if the rain did not quit. And nobody can pick a good camping place
in the dark.
Regular rest means a great deal when you are traveling across country.
Even cowboys will tell you that. They bed down as comfortably as they
can, every time, on the round-up.
After a while we came to a circular little spot, hard and flat, where
the timber had opened out. And General Ashley stopped and with a whirl
dug in his heel as sign that we would camp here. There was wood and
drainage and grass for the burros, and no danger of setting fire to the
trees if we made a big fire. We had to carry water up from the creek
below, but that was nothing.
Now we must hustle and get the camp in shape quick, before the things
get wet. While Fitzpatrick picked out a spot for his fire and Major
Henry chopped wood, two of us unpacked each burro. We put the things
under a tarp, and I started to bring up the water, but General Ashley
spoke.
"We're out of meat," he said. "You take the rifle and shoot a couple of
rabbits. There ought to be rabbits about after the rain."
This suited me. He handed me the twenty-two rifle and five cartridges;
out of those five cartridges I knew I could get two rabbits or else I
wasn't any good as a hunter. The sun was shining once more, and the
shadows were long in the timber, so I turned to hunt against the sun,
and put my shadow behind me. Of course, that wouldn't make _very_ much
difference, because rabbits usually see you before you see them; but I
was out after meat and must not miss any chances. There always is a
right way and a wrong way.
This was a splendid time to hunt for rabbits, right after a rain. They
come out then before dark, and nibble about. And you can walk on the
wetness without much noise. Early morning and the evening are the best
rabbit hours, anyway.
I walked quick and straight-footed, looking far ahead, and right and
left, through the timber, to sight whatever moved. Yet I might be
passing close to a rabbit, without seeing him, for he would be
squatting. So I looked behind, too. And after I had walked about twenty
minutes, I did see a rabbit. He was hopping, at one side, through the
bushes; he gave only about three hops, and squatted, to let me pass. So
I stopped stock-still, and drew up my rifle. He was about thirty yards
away, and was just a bunch like a stone; but I held my breath and aimed
at where his ears joined his head, and fired quick. He just kicked a
little. That was a pretty good shot and I was glad, for I didn't want to
hurt him and we had to have meat.
I hunted quite a while before I saw another rabbit. The next one was a
big old buck rabbit, because his hind quarters around his tail were
brown; young rabbits are white there. He hopped off, without stopping,
and I whistled at him--wheet! Then he stopped, and I missed him. I shot
over him, because I was in a hurry. I went across and saw where the
bullet had hit. And he had ducked.
He hopped out of sight, through the brush; so I must figure where he
probably would go. On beyond was a hilly place, with rocks, and probably
he lived here--and rabbits usually make up-hill when they're
frightened. So I took a circle, to cut him off; and soon he hopped again
and squatted. This time I shot him through the head, where I aimed; so I
didn't hurt him, either. I picked him up and was starting back for camp,
because two rabbits were enough, when I heard somebody shouting. It
didn't sound like a Scout's shout, but I answered and waited and kept
answering, and in a few minutes a strange boy came running and walking
fast through the trees. He carried a single-barrel shotgun.
He never would have seen me if I hadn't spoken; but when he wasn't more
than ten feet from me I said: "What's the matter?"
He jumped and saw me standing. "Hello," he panted. "Was it you who was
shooting and calling?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you come on, then?" he scolded. He was angry.
"Because you were coming," I said. "I stood still and called back, to
guide you."
"What did you shoot at?"
"Rabbits."
He hadn't seen them before, but now he saw them on the ground. "Aw,
jiminy!" he exclaimed. "We've got something better than that, but we
can't make a fire and our matches are all wet and so are our blankets,
and we don't know what to do. There's another fellow with me. We're
lost."
He was a sight; wet and dirty and sweaty from running, and scared.
"What are you doing? Camping?" I asked.
He nodded. "We started for Duck Lake, with nothing but blankets and what
grub we could carry; but we got to chasing around and we missed the
trail and now we don't know where we are. Gee, but we're wet and cold.
Where's your camp?"
"Back on the ridge."
"Got a fire?"
"Uh huh," I nodded. "Sure."
"Come on," he said. "We'll go and get the other fellow and then we'll
camp near you so as to have some fire."
"All right," I said.
He led off, and I picked up the rabbits and followed. He kept hooting,
and the other boy answered, and we went down into the gulch where the
creek flowed. Now, that was the dickens of a place to camp! Anybody
ought to know better than to camp down at the bottom of a narrow gulch,
where it is damp and nasty and dark. They did it because it was beside
the water, and because there was some soft grass that they could lie on.
(Note 25.)
The other boy was about seventeen, and was huddled in a blanket, trying
to scratch a match and light wet paper. He wore a big Colt's
six-shooter on a cartridge belt about his waist.
"Come out, Bat," called the boy with me. "Here's a kid from another
camp, where they have fire and things."
Bat grunted, and they gathered their blankets and a frying-pan and other
stuff.
"Lookee! This beats rabbit," said the first boy (his name was Walt); and
he showed me what they had killed. It was four grouse!
Now, that was mean.
"It's against the law to kill grouse yet," I told him.
"Aw, what do we care?" he answered. "Nobody knows."
"It's only a week before the season opens, anyhow," spoke Bat. "We got
the old mother and all her chickens. If we hadn't, somebody would,
later."
Fellows like that are as bad as a forest fire. Just because of them,
laws are made, and they break them and the rest of us keep them.
We climbed out of the gulch, and I was so mad I let them carry their own
things. The woods were dusky, and I laid a straight course for camp. It
was easy to find, because I knew that I had hunted with my back to it,
in sound of the water on my left. All we had to do was to follow through
the ridge with the water on our right, and listen for voices.
I tell you, that camp looked good. The boys had two fires, a big one to
dry us by and a little one to cook by. (Note 26.) One of the tarps had
been laid over a pole in crotched stakes, about four feet high, and tied
down at the ends (Note 27), for a dog-tent, and spruce trimmings and
brush had been piled behind for a wind-break and to reflect the heat.
Inside were the spruce needles that carpeted the ground and had been
kept dry by branches, and a second tarp had been laid to sleep on, with
the third tarp to cover us, on top of the blankets. The flags had been
set up. Fitzpatrick was cooking, Major Henry was dragging more wood to
burn, the fellows were drying damp stuff and stacking it safe under the
panniers, or else with their feet to the big blaze were drying
themselves, the burros were grazing close in. It was as light as day,
with the flames reflected on the trees and the flags, and it seemed just
like a trappers' bivouac.
Then we walked into the circle; and when the fellows saw the rabbits
they gave a cheer. After I reported to General Ashley and turned the two
boys over to him, I cleaned the rabbits for supper.
The two new boys, Bat and Walt, threw down their stuff and sat by the
fire to get warm. Bat still wore his big six-shooter. They dropped
their grouse in plain sight, but nobody said a word until Bat (he was
the larger one) spoke up, kind of grandly, when I was finishing the
rabbits:
"There's some birds. If you'll clean 'em we'll help you eat 'em."
"No, thanks. We don't want them," answered General Ashley.
"Why not?"
"It's against the law."
"Aw, what difference does that make now?" demanded Walt. "There aren't
any game wardens 'round. And it's only a week before the law goes out,
anyway."
"But the grouse are dead, just the same," retorted General Ashley. "They
couldn't be any deader, no matter how long it is before the law opens,
or if a game warden was right here!" He was getting angry, and when he's
angry he isn't afraid to say anything, because he's red-headed.
"You'd like to go and tell, then; wouldn't you!" they sneered.
"I'd tell if it would do any good." And he would, too; and so would any
of us. "The game laws are made to be kept. Those were our grouse and you
stole them."
"Who are you?"
"Well, we happen to be a bunch of Boy Scouts. But what I mean is, that
we fellows who keep the law let the game live on purpose so that
everybody will have an equal chance at it, and then fellows like you
come along and kill it unfairly. See?"
Humph! The two kids mumbled and kicked at the fire, as they sat; and Bat
said: "We've got to have something to eat. I suppose we can cook our own
meat, can't we?"
"I suppose you can," answered General Ashley, "if it'll taste good to
you."
So, while Fitz was cooking on the small fire, they cleaned their own
birds (I didn't touch them) and cooked over some coals of the big fire.
But Fitz made bread enough for all, and there was other stuff; and the
general told them to help themselves. We didn't want to be mean. The
camp-fire is no place to be mean at. A mean fellow doesn't last long,
out camping.
They had used bark for plates. They gave their fry-pan a hasty rub with
sticks and grass, and cleaned their knives by sticking them into the
ground; and then they squatted by the fire and lighted pipes. After our
dishes had been washed and things had been put away for the night, and
the burros picketed in fresh forage, we prepared to turn in. The clouds
were low and the sky was dark, and the air was damp and chilly; so
General Ashley said:
"You fellows can bunk in with us, under the tarps. We can make room."
But no! They just laughed. "Gwan," they said. "We're used to traveling
light. We just roll up in a blanket wherever we happen to be. We aren't
tenderfeet."
Well, we weren't, either. But we tried to be comfortable. When you are
uncomfortable and sleep cold or crampy, that takes strength fighting it;
and we were on the march to get that message through. So we crawled into
bed, out of the wind and where the spruce branches partly sheltered us,
and our tarps kept the dampness out and the wind, too. The two fellows
opened their blankets (they had one apiece!) by the fire and lay down
and rolled up like logs and seemed to think that they were the smarter.
We let them, if they liked it so.
The wind moaned through the trees; all about us the timber was dark and
lonesome. Only Apache and Sally, the burros, once in a while grunted as
they stood as far inside the circle as they could get; but snuggled in
our bed, low down, our heads on our coats, we were as warm as toast.
During the night I woke up, to turn over. Now and then a drop of rain
hit the tarp tent. The fire was going again, and I could hear the two
fellows talking. They were sitting up, feeding it, and huddled Injun
fashion with their blankets over their shoulders, smoking their old
pipes, and thinking (I guessed) that they were doing something big,
being uncomfortable. But it takes more than such foolishness--wearing a
big six-shooter when there is nothing to shoot, and sleeping out in the
rain when cover is handy--to make a veteran. Veterans and real Scouts
act sensibly. (Note 28.)
When next I woke and stretched, the sun was shining and it was time to
get up.
CHAPTER VI
A DISASTROUS DOZE
The two fellows were sound asleep when we turned out. They were lying in
the sun, rolled up and with their faces covered to keep the light away.
We didn't pay any attention to them, but had our wet rub and went ahead
attending to camp duties. After a while one of them (Walt, it was)
turned over, and wriggled, and threw the blanket off his face, and
blinked about. He was bleary-eyed and sticky-faced, as if he had slept
too hard but not long enough. And I didn't see how he had had enough air
to breathe.
But he grinned, and yawned, and said: "You kids get up awful early. What
time is it?"
"Six o'clock."
He-haw! And he yawned some more. Then he sat up and let his blanket go
and kicked Bat. "Breakfast!" he shouted.
That made Bat grunt and grumble and wriggle; and finally uncover, too.
They acted as if their mouths might taste bad, after the pipes.
We hadn't made a big fire, of course; but breakfast was about ready, on
the little fire, and Fitz our cook sang out, according to our
regulations: "Chuck!"
That was the camp's signal call.
"If you fellows want to eat with us, draw up and help yourselves,"
invited General Ashley.
"Sure," they answered; and they crawled out of their blankets, and got
their pieces of bark, and opened their knives, and without washing their
faces or combing their hair they fished into the dishes, for bacon and
bread and sorghum and beans.
That was messy; but we wanted to be hospitable, so we didn't say
anything.
"Where are you kids bound for, anyway?" asked Bat.
"Over the Divide," told General Ashley.
"Why can't we go along?"
That staggered us. They weren't our kind; and besides, we were all Boy
Scouts, and our party was big enough as it was. So for a moment nobody
answered. And then Walt spoke up.
"Aw, we won't hurt you any. What you afraid of? We aren't tenderfeet,
and we'll do our share. We'll throw in our grub and we won't use your
dishes. We've got our own outfit."
"I don't know. We'll have to vote on that," said General Ashley. "We're
a Patrol of Boy Scouts, traveling on business."
"What's that--Boy Scouts?" demanded Bat.
We explained, a little.
"Take us in, then," said Walt. "We're good scouts--ain't we, Bat?"
But they weren't. They didn't know anything about Scouts and Scouts'
work.
"We could admit you as recruits, on the march," said General Ashley.
"But we can't swear you in."
"Aw, we'll join the gang now and you can swear us in afterwards," said
Bat.
"Well," said General Ashley, doubtfully, "we'll take a vote."
We all drew off to one side, and sat in council. It seemed to me that we
might as well let them in. That would be doing them a good turn, and we
might help them to be clean and straight and obey the laws. Boys who
seem mean as dirt, to begin with, often are turned into fine Scouts.
"Now we'll all vote just as we feel about it," said General Ashley. "One
black-ball will keep them out. 'N' means 'No'; 'Y' means 'Yes.'"
The vote was taken by writing with a pencil on bits of paper, and the
bits were put into General Ashley's hat. Everything was "Y"--and the
vote was unanimous to let them join. So everybody must have felt the
same about it as I did.
General Ashley reported to them. "You can come along," he said; "but
you've got to be under discipline, the same as the rest of us. And if
you prove to be Scouts' stuff you can be sworn in later. But I'm only a
Patrol leader and I can't swear you."
"Sure!" they cried. "We'll be under discipline. Who's the boss? You?"
We had made a mistake. Here started our trouble. But we didn't know. We
thought that we were doing the right thing by giving them a chance. You
never can tell.
They volunteered to wash the dishes, and went at it; and we let them
throw their blankets and whatever else they wanted to get rid of in with
the packs. We were late; and anyway we didn't think it was best to start
in fussing and disciplining; they would see how Scouts did, and perhaps
they would catch on that way. Only--
"You'll have to cut that out," ordered General Ashley, as we were ready
to set out. He meant their pipes. They had stuck them in their mouths
and had lighted them.
"What? Can't we hit the pipe?" they both cried.
"Not with us," declared the general. "It's against the regulations."
"Aw, gee!" they complained. "That's the best part of camping--to load up
the old pipe."
"Not for a Scout. He likes fresh air," answered General Ashley. "He
needs his wind, too, and smoking takes the wind. Anyway, we're traveling
through the enemy's country, and a pipe smells, and it's against Scout
regulations to smoke."
They stuffed their pipes into their pockets.
"Who's the enemy?" they asked.
"We're carrying a message and some other boys are trying to stop us.
That's all."
"We saw some kids, on the other side of that ridge," they cried.
"They're from the same town you are. Are they the ones?"
"What did they look like?" we asked.
"One was a big kid with black eyes--" said Bat.
"Aw, he wasn't big. The big kid had blue eyes," interrupted Walt.
"How many in the party?" we asked.
"Four," said Bat.
"Five," said Walt.
"Any horses?"
"Yes."
"What were the brands?"
"We didn't notice," they said.
"Was one horse a bay with a white nose, and another a black with a bob
tail?"
"Guess so," they said.
So we didn't know much more than we did before; we could only suspect.
Of course, there were other parties of boys camping, in this country. We
weren't the only ones. If Bat and Walt had been a little smart they
might have helped us. They didn't use their eyes.
We followed the ridge we were on, as far as we could, because it was
high and free from brush. General Ashley and Major Henry led, as usual,
with the burros behind (those burros would follow now like dogs, where
there wasn't any trail for them to pick out), and then the rest of us,
the two recruits panting in the rear. Bat had belted on his big
six-shooter, and Walt carried the shotgun.
We traveled fast, as usual, when we could; that gave us more time in the
bad places. Pilot Peak stuck up, beyond some hills, ahead. We kept an
eye on him, for he was our landmark, now that we had broken loose from
trails. He didn't seem any nearer than he was the day before.
The ridge ended in a point, beyond which was a broad pasture-like
meadow, with the creek winding in a semicircle through it. On across was
a steep range of timber hills--and Pilot Peak and some other peaks rose
beyond, with snow and rocks. In the flat a few cattle were grazing, like
buffalo, and we could see an abandoned cabin which might have been a
trapper's shack. It was a great scene; so free and peaceful and wild and
gentle at the same time.
We weren't tired, but we halted by the stream in the flat to rest the
burros and to eat something. We took off the packs, and built a little
fire of dry sage, and made tea, while Sally and Apache took a good roll
and then grazed on weeds and flowers and everything. This was fine,
here in the sunshine, with the blue sky over and the timber sloping up
on all sides, and the stream singing.
After we had eaten some bread and drunk some tea we Scouts rested, to
digest; but Bat and Walt the two recruits loafed off, down the creek,
and when they got away a little we could see them smoking. On top of
that, they hadn't washed the dishes. So I washed them.
After a while they came back on the run, but they weren't smoking now.
"Say!" they cried, excited. "We found some deer-tracks. Let's camp back
on the edge of the timber, and to-night when the deer come down to drink
we'll get one!"
That was as bad as shooting grouse. It wasn't deer season. They didn't
seem to understand.
"Against the law," said General Ashley. "And we're on the march, to go
through as quick as we can. It's time to pack."
"I'll pack one of those burros. I'll show you how," offered Bat. So we
let them go ahead, because they might know more than we. They led up
Sally, while Major Henry and Jed Smith and Kit Carson began to pack
Apache. The recruits threw on the pack, all right, and passed the rope;
but Sally moved because they were so rough, and Bat swore and kicked her
in the stomach.
"Get around there!" he said.
"Here! You quit that," scolded Fitzpatrick, first. "That's no way to
treat an animal." He was angry; we all were angry. (Note 29.)
"It's the way to treat this animal," retorted Bat. "I'll kick her head
off if she doesn't stand still. See?"
"No, you won't," warned General Ashley.
"If you can pack a burro so well, pack her yourself, then," answered
Walt.
"Fitzpatrick, you and Jim Bridger help me with Sally," ordered the
general; and we did. We threw the diamond hitch in a jiffy and the pack
stuck on as if it were glued fast.
The two recruits didn't have much more to say; but when we took up the
march again they sort of sulked along, behind. We thought best to follow
up the creek, through the flat, instead of making a straight climb of
the timber beyond. That would have been hard work, and slow work, and
you can travel a mile in the open in less time than you can travel half
a mile through brush.
A cattle trail led up through the flat. This flat closed, and then
opened by a little pass into another flat. We saw plenty of tracks where
deer had come down to the creek and had drunk. There were tracks of
bucks, and of does and of fawns. Walt and Bat kept grumbling and
talking. They wanted to stop off and camp, and shoot.
Pilot Peak was still on our left; but toward evening the trail we were
following turned off from the creek and climbed through gooseberry and
thimbleberry bushes to the top of a plateau, where was a park of cedars
and flowers, and where was a spring. General Ashley dug in with his
heel, and we off-packs, to camp. It was a mighty good camping spot,
again. (Note 30.) The timber thickened, beyond, and there was no sense
in going on into it, for the night. Into the heel mark we stuck the
flagstaff.
We went right ahead with our routine. The recruits had a chance to help,
if they wanted to. But they loafed. There was plenty of time before
sunset. The sun shone here half an hour or more longer than down below.
We were up pretty high; some of the aspens had turned yellow, showing
that there had been a frost, already. So we thought that we must be up
about ten thousand feet. The stream we followed had flowed swift,
telling of a steep grade.
Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand got out his camera, to take pictures. He never
wasted any time. Not ordinary camp pictures, you know, but valuable
pictures, of animals and sunsets and things. Jays and speckled
woodpeckers were hopping about, and a pine-squirrel sat on a limb and
scolded at us until he found that we were there to fit in and be company
for him. One side of the plateau fell off into rocks and cliffs, and a
big red ground-hog was lying out on a shelf in the sunset, and
whistling his call.
Fitz was bound to have a picture of him, and sneaked around, to stalk
him and snap him, close. But just as he was started--"Bang!" I jumped
three feet; we all jumped. It was that fellow Bat. He had shot off his
forty-five Colt's, at the squirrel, and with it smoking in his hand he
was grinning, as if he had played a joke on us. He hadn't hit the
squirrel, but it had disappeared. The ground-hog disappeared, the jays
and the woodpeckers flew off, and after the report died away you
couldn't hear a sound or see an animal. The gun had given notice to the
wild life to vacate, until we were gone. And where that bullet hit,
nobody could tell.
Fitzpatrick turned around and came back. He knew it wasn't much use
trying, now. We were disgusted, but General Ashley was the one to speak,
because he was Patrol leader.
"You ought not to do that. Shooting around camp isn't allowed," he said.
"It's dangerous, and it scares things away."
"I wanted that squirrel. I almost hit him, too," answered Bat.
"Well, he was protected by camp law." (Note 31.)
"Aw, all you kids are too fresh," put in Walt, the other. "We'll shoot
as much as we please, or else we'll pull out."
"If you can't do as the rest of us do, all right: pull," answered the
general.
"Let them. We don't want them," said Major Henry. "We didn't ask them in
the first place. What's the sense in carrying a big revolver around, and
playing tough!"
"That will do, Henry," answered the general. "I'm talking for the
Patrol."
"Come on, Walt. We'll take our stuff and pull out and make our own
camp," said Bat. "We won't be bossed by any red-headed kid--or any
one-armed kid, either." He was referring to the gun and to the burro
packing, both.
Major Henry began to sputter and growl. A black-eyed boy is as spunky as
a red-headed one. And we all stood up, ready, if there was to be a
fight. But there wasn't. It wasn't necessary. General Ashley flushed
considerably, but he kept his temper.
"That's all right," he said. "If you can't obey discipline, like the
rest, you don't camp with us."
"And we don't intend to, you bet," retorted Walt. "We're as good as you
are and a little better, maybe. We're no tenderfeet!"
They gathered their blankets and their frying-pan and other outfit, and
they stalked off about a hundred yards, further into the cedars, and
dumped their things for their own camp.
Maybe they thought that we'd try to make them get out entirely, but we
didn't own the place; it was a free camp for all, and as long as they
didn't interfere with us we had no right to interfere with them. We made
our fire and they started theirs; and then I was sent out to hunt for
meat again.
I headed away from camp, and I got one rabbit and a great big
ground-hog. Some people won't eat ground-hog, but they don't know what
is good; only, he must be cleaned right away. Well, I was almost at camp
again when "Whish! Bang!" somebody had shot and had spattered all around
me, stinging my ear and rapping me on the coat and putting a couple of
holes in my hat. I dropped flat, in a hurry.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Look out there! What you doing?"
But it was "Bang!" again, and more shot whizzing by; this time none hit
me. Now I ran and sat behind a rock. And after a while I made for camp,
and I was glad to reach it.
I was still some stirred up about being peppered, and so I went straight
to the other fire. The two fellows were there cleaning a couple of
squirrels.
"Who shot them?" I asked.
"Walt."
"And he nearly filled me full of holes, too," I said. "Look at my hat."
"Who nearly filled you full of holes?" asked Walt.
"You did."
"Aw, I didn't, either. I wasn't anywhere near you."
"You were, too," I answered, hot. "You shot right down over the hill,
and when I yelled at you, you shot again."
Walt was well scared.
"'Twasn't me," he said. "I saw you start out and I went opposite."
"Well, you ought to be careful, shooting in the direction of camp," I
said.
"Didn't hurt you."
"It might have put my eyes out, just the same." And I had to go back and
clean my game and gun. We had a good supper. The other fellows kept to
their own camp and we could smell them smoking cigarettes. With them
close, and with news that another crowd was out, we were obliged to
mount night guard.
There was no use in two of us staying awake at the same time, and we
divided the night into four watches--eight to eleven, eleven to one, one
to three, three to five. The first watch was longest, because it was the
easiest watch. We drew lots for the partners who would sleep all night,
and Jed Smith and Major Henry found they wouldn't have to watch. We four
others would.
Fitz went on guard first, from eight to eleven. At eleven he would wake
Carson, and would crawl into Carson's place beside of General Ashley.
At one Carson would wake me, and would crawl into my place where I was
alone. And at three I would wake General Ashley and crawl into his place
beside Fitz again. So we would disturb each other just as little as
possible and only at long intervals. (Note 32.)
It seemed to me that I had the worst watch of all--from one to three; it
broke my night right in two. Of course a Scout takes what duty comes,
and says nothing. But jiminy, I was sleepy when Carson woke me and I had
to stagger out into the dark and the cold. He cuddled down in a hurry
into my warm nest and there I was, on guard over the sleeping camp, here
in the timber far away from lights or houses or people.
The fire was out, but I could see by star shine. Low in the west was a
half moon, just sinking behind the mountains there. Down in the flat
which we had left coyotes were barking. Maybe they smelled fawns.
Somebody was snoring. That was fatty Jed Smith. He and Major Henry were
having a fine sleep. So were all the rest, under the whity tarps which
looked ghostly and queer.
And I went to sleep, too!
That was awful, for a Scout on guard. I don't know why I couldn't keep
awake, but I couldn't. I tried every way. I rubbed my eyes, and I dipped
water out of the spring and washed my face, and I dropped the blanket I
was wearing, so that I would be cold. And I walked in a circle. Then I
thought that maybe if I sat down with the blanket about me, I would be
better off. So I sat down. If I could let my eyes close for just a
second, to rest them, I would be all right. And they did close--and when
I opened them I was sort of toppled over against the tree, and was stiff
and astonished--and it was broad morning and I hadn't wakened General
Ashley!
I staggered up as quick as I could. I looked around. Things seemed to be
O. K. and quiet and peaceful--but suddenly I missed the flags, and then
I missed the burros!
Yes, sir! The flagstaff was gone, leaving the hole where it had been
stuck. And the burros were gone, picket ropes and all! The place where
they ought to be appeared mighty vacant. And now I sure was frightened.
I hustled to the camp of the two boys, Bat and Walt, and they were gone.
That looked bad.
My duty now was to arouse our camp and give the alarm, so I must wake
General Ashley. You can imagine how I hated to. I almost was sore
because he hadn't waked up, himself, at three o'clock, instead of
waiting for me and letting me sleep.
But I shook him, and he sat up, blinking. I saluted. "It's after four
o'clock," I reported, "and I slept on guard and the flags and the burros
are gone." And then I wanted to cry, but I didn't.
CHAPTER VII
HELD BY THE ENEMY
"Oh, the dickens!" stammered General Ashley; and out he rolled, in a
hurry. He didn't stop to blame me. "Have you looked for sign?"
"The burros might have strayed, but the flags couldn't and only the hole
is there. And those two fellows of the other camp are gone, already."
General Ashley began to pull on his shoes and lace them.
"Rouse the camp," he ordered.
So I did. And to every one I said: "I slept on guard and the flags and
the burros are gone."
I was willing to be shot, or discharged, or anything; and I didn't have
a single solitary excuse. I didn't try to think one up.
The general took Fitzpatrick, who is our best trailer, and Major Henry,
and started in to work out the sign, while the rest of us hustled with
breakfast. The ground about the flag hole was trampled and not much
could be done there; and not much could be done right where the burros
had stood, because we all from both camps had been roaming around. But
the general and Fitz and Major Henry circled, wider and wider, watching
out for burro tracks pointing back down the trail, or else out into the
timber. The hoofs of the burros would cut in, where the feet of the two
fellows might not have left any mark. Pretty soon the burro tracks were
found, and boot-heels, too; and while Fitzpatrick followed the trail a
little farther the general and Major Henry came back to the camp.
Breakfast was ready.
"Fitzpatrick and Jim Bridger and I will take the trail of the burros,
and you other three stay here," said General Ashley. "If we don't come
back by morning, or if you don't see smoke-signals from us that we're
all right, you cache the stuff and come after us."
That was splendid of the general to give me a chance to make good on the
trail. It was better than if he'd ordered me close in camp, or had not
paid any attention to me.
Fitz returned, puffing. He had followed the trail a quarter of a mile
and it grew plainer as the two fellows had hurried more. We ate a big
breakfast (we three especially, I mean), and prepared for the trail. We
tied on our coats in a roll like blankets, but we took no blankets, for
we must travel light. We stuffed some bread and chocolate into our coat
pockets, and we were certain that we had matches and knife. I took the
short bow and arrows, as game getter; but we left the rifle for the
camp. We would not have used a rifle, anyway. It made noise; and we must
get the burros by Scoutcraft alone. But those burros we would have, and
the flags. The general slung one of the Patrol's ropes about him, in
case we had to rope the burros.
We set right out, Fitzpatrick leading, as chief trailer. Much depended
upon our speed, and that is why we traveled light; for you never can
follow a trail as fast as it was made, and we must overtake those
fellows by traveling longer. They were handicapped by the burros,
though, which helped us.
We planned to keep going, and eat on the march, and by night sneak on
the camp.
The trail wasn't hard to follow. Burro tracks are different from cow
tracks and horse tracks and deer tracks; they are small and
oblong--narrow like a colt's hoof squeezed together or like little mule
tracks. The two fellows used the cattle trail, and Fitzpatrick read the
sign for us.
"They had to lead the burros," he said. "The burros' tracks are on top
of the sole tracks."
We hurried. And then--
"Now they're driving 'em," he said. "They're stepping on top of the
burro tracks; and I think that they're all on the trot, too, by the way
the burros' hind hoofs overlap the front hoofs, and dig in."
We hurried more, at Scout pace, which is trotting and walking mixed. And
next--
"Now they've got on the burros," said Fitz. "There aren't any sole
tracks and the burros' hoofs dig deeper."
The fellows surely were making time. I could imagine how they kicked and
licked Sally and Apache, to hasten. And while we hastened, too, we must
watch the signs and be cautious that we didn't overrun or get ambushed.
Where the sun shone we could tell that the sign was still an hour or
more old, because the edges of the hoof-marks were baked hard; and
sticks and stones turned up had dried. And in the shade the bits of
needles and grass stepped on had straightened a little. And there were
other signs, but we chose those which we could read the quickest. (Note
33.)
We were high up among cedars and bushes, on a big mesa. There were
cattle, here, and grassy parks for them. Most of the cattle bore a Big W
brand. The trail the cattle had made kept dividing and petering out, and
we had to pick the one that the burros took. The fellows were riding,
still, but not at a trot so much. Maybe they thought that we had been
left, by this time. Pretty soon the burros had been grabbing at branches
and weeds, which showed that they were going slower, and were hungry;
and the fellows had got off and were walking. The sun was high and the
air was dry, so that the signs were not so easy to read, and we went
slower, too. The country up here grew open and rocky, and at last we
lost the trail altogether. That was bad. The general and I circled and
scouted, at the sides, and Fitz went on ahead, to pick it up beyond,
maybe. Pretty soon we heard him whistle the Elks' call.
He had come out upon a rocky point. The timber ended, and before and
right and left was a great rolling valley, of short grasses and just a
few scattered trees, with long slopes holding it like a cup. The sun was
shining down, and the air was clear and quivery.
"I see them," said Fitz. "There they are, General--in a line between us
and that other point of rocks."
Hurrah! This was great news. Sure enough, when we had bent low and
sneaked to the rocks, and were looking, we could make out two specks
creeping up the sunshine slope, among the few trees, opposite.
That was good, and it was bad. The thieves were not a mile ahead of us,
then, but now we must scout in earnest. It would not do for us to keep
to the trail across that open valley. Some fellows might have rushed
right along; and if the other fellows were sharp they would be looking
back, at such a spot, to watch for pursuers. So we must make a big
circuit, and stay out of sight, and hit the trail again on the other
side.
We crept back under cover, left a "warning" sign on the trail (Note
34), and swung around, and one at a time we crossed the valley higher
up, where it was narrower and there was brush for cover. This took time,
but it was the proper scouting; and now we hurried our best along the
other slope to pick up the trail once more.
It was after noon, by the sun, and we hadn't stopped to eat, and we were
hungry and hot and pretty tired.
As we never talked much on the trail, especially when we might be near
the enemy, Fitzpatrick made a sign that we climb straight to the top of
the slope and follow along there, to strike the trail. And if the
fellows had turned off anywhere, in gulch or to camp, we were better
fixed above them than below them.
We scouted carefully along this ridge, and came to a gulch. A path led
through, where cattle had traveled, and in the damp dirt were the burro
tracks. Hurrah! They were soft and fresh.
The sun was going to set early, in a cloud bank, and those fellows would
be camping soon. It was no use to rush them when they were traveling;
they had guns and would hang on to the burros. The way to do was to
crawl into their camp. So we traveled slower, in order to give them time
to camp.
After a while we smelled smoke. The timber was thick, and the general
and I each climbed a tree, to see where that smoke came from. I was away
at the top of a pine, and from that tree the view was grand. Pilot Peak
stood up in the wrong direction, as if we had been going around, and
mountains and timber were everywhere. I saw the smoke. And away to the
north, ten miles, it seemed to me I could see another smoke, with the
sun showing it up. It was a column smoke, and I guessed that it was a
smoke signal set by the three Scouts we had left, to show us where camp
was.
But the smoke that we were after rose in a blue haze above the trees
down in a little park about a quarter of a mile on our right. We left a
"warning" sign, and stalked the smoke.
Although Fitzpatrick has only one whole arm, he can stalk as well as any
of us. We advanced cautiously, and could smell the smoke stronger and
stronger; we began to stoop and to crawl and when we had wriggled we
must halt and listen. We could not hear anybody talking.
The general led, and Fitz and I crawled behind him, in a snake scout. I
think that maybe we might have done better if we had stalked from three
directions. Everything was very quiet, and when we could see where the
fire ought to be we made scarcely a sound. The general brushed out of
his way any twigs that would crack.
It was a fine stalk. We approached from behind a cedar, and parting the
branches the general looked through. He beckoned to us, and we wriggled
along and looked through. There was a fire, and our flags stuck beside
it, and Sally and Apache standing tied to a bush, and blankets thrown
down--but not anybody at home! The two fellows must be out fishing or
hunting, and this seemed a good chance.
The general signed. We all were to rush in, Fitz would grab the flag,
and I a burro and the general a burro, and we would skip out and travel
fast, across country.
I knew that by separating and turning and other tricks we would outwit
those two kids, if we got any kind of a start.
We listened, holding our breath. Nobody seemed near. Now was the time.
The general stood, Fitz and I stood, and in we darted. Fitz grabbed the
flag, and I was just hauling at Sally while the general slashed the
picket-ropes with his knife, when there rose a tremendous yell and laugh
and from all about people charged in on us.
Before we could escape we were seized. They were eight to our three. Two
of them were the two kids Bat and Walt, and the other six were town
fellows--Bill Duane, Tony Matthews, Bert Hawley, Mike Delavan, and a
couple more.
How they whooped! We felt cheap. The camp had been a trap. The two kids
Bat and Walt had come upon the other crowd accidentally, and had told
about us and that maybe we were trailing them, and they all had ambushed
us. We ought to have reconnoitered more, instead of thinking about
stalking. We ought to have been more suspicious, and not have
underestimated the enemy. (Note 35.) This was just a made-to-order
camp. The camp of the town gang was about three hundred yards away,
lower, in another open place, by a creek. They tied our arms and led us
down there.
"Aw, we thought you fellers were Scouts!" jeered Bat. "You're easy."
He and Walt took the credit right to themselves.
"What do you want with us?" demanded General Ashley, of Bill Duane. "We
haven't done anything to harm you."
"We'll show you," said Bill. "First we're going to skin you, and then
we're going to burn you at the stake, and then we're going to kill you."
Of course we knew that he was only fooling; but it was a bad fix, just
the same. They might keep us, for meanness; and Major Henry and Kit
Carson and Jed Smith wouldn't know exactly what to do and we'd be
wasting valuable time. That was the worst: we were delaying the message!
And I had myself to blame for this, because I went to sleep on guard. A
little mistake may lead to a lot of trouble.
And now the worst happened. When they got us to the main camp Bill Duane
walked up to General Ashley and said: "Where you got that message, Red?"
"What message?" answered General Ashley.
"Aw, get out!" laughed Bill. "If we untie you will you fork it over or
do you want me to search you?"
"'Tisn't your message, and if I had it I wouldn't give it to you. But
you'd better untie us, just the same. And we want those burros and our
flags."
"Hold him till I search him, fellows," said Bill. "He's got it, I bet.
He's the Big Scout."
Fitz and I couldn't do a thing. One of the gang put his arm under the
general's chin and held him tight, and Bill Duane went through him. He
didn't find the message in any pockets; but he saw the buckskin thong,
and hauled on it, and out came the packet from under the general's
shirt.
Bill put it in his own pocket.
"There!" he said. "Now what you going to do about it?"
The general was as red all over as his hair and looked as if he wanted
to fight or cry. Fitz was white and red in spots, and I was so mad I
shook.
"Nothing, now," said the general, huskily. "You don't give us a chance
to do anything. You're a lot of cowards--tying us up and searching us,
and taking our things."
[Illustration: "BILL DUANE WENT THROUGH HIM."]
Then they laughed at us some more, and all jeered and made fun, and said
that they would take the message through for us. I tell you, it was
humiliating, to be bound that way, as prisoners, and to think that we
had failed in our trust. As Scouts we had been no good--and I was to
blame just because I had fallen asleep at my post.
They were beginning to quit laughing at us, and were starting to get
supper, when suddenly I heard horse's hoofs, and down the bridle path
that led along an edge of the park rode a man. He heard the noise and he
saw us tied, I guess, for he came over.
"What's the matter here?" he asked.
The gang calmed down in a twinkling. They weren't so brash, now.
"Nothin'," said Bill.
"Who you got here? What's the rumpus?" he insisted.
"They've taken us prisoners and are keeping us, and they've got our
burros and flags and a message," spoke up the general.
He was a small man with a black mustache and blackish whiskers growing.
He rode a bay horse with a K Cross on its right shoulder, and the saddle
had brass-bound stirrups. He wore a black slouch hat and was in black
shirt-sleeves, and ordinary pants and shoes.
"What message?" he asked.
"A message we were carrying."
"Where?"
"Across from our town to Green Valley."
"Why?"
"Just for fun."
"Aw, that's a lie. They were to get twenty-five dollars for doing it on
time. Now we cash it in ourselves," spoke Bill. "It was a race, and they
don't make good. See?"
That was a lie, sure. We weren't to be paid a cent--and we didn't want
to be paid.
"Who's got the message now?" asked the man.
"He has," said the general, pointing at Bill.
"Let's see it."
Bill backed away.
"I ain't, either," he said. Which was another lie.
"Let's see it," repeated the man. "I might like to make that twenty-five
dollars myself."
Now Bill was sorry he had told that first lie. The first is the one that
gives the most trouble.
"Who are you?" he said, scared, and backing away some more.
"Never you mind who I am," answered the man--biting his words off short;
and he rode right for Bill. He stuck his face forward. It was hard and
dark and mean. "Hand--over--that--message. Savvy?"
Bill was nothing but a big bluff and a coward. You would have known
that he was a coward, by the lies he had told and by the way he had
attacked us. He wilted right down.
"Aw, I was just fooling," he said. "I was going to give it back to 'em.
Here 'tis. There ain't no prize offered, anyhow." And he handed it to
the man.
The man turned it over in his fingers. We watched. We hoped he'd make
them untie us and he'd pass it to us and tell us to skip. But after he
had turned it over and over, he smiled, kind of grimly, and stuck it in
his hip pocket.
"I reckon I'd like to make that twenty-five dollars myself," he said.
And then he rode to one side, and dismounted; he loosened the cinches
and made ready as if to camp. And they all let him.
Now, that was bad for us, again. The gang had our flags and our burros,
and he had our message.
"That's our message. We're carrying it through just for fun and for
practice," called the general. "It's no good to anybody except us."
"Bueno," said the man--which is Mexican or Spanish for "Good." He was
squatting and building a little fire.
"Aren't you going to give it to us and make them let us go?"
He grunted. "Don't bother me. I'm busy."
That was all we could get out of him. Now it was growing dark and cold.
The gang was grumbling and accusing Bill of being "bluffed" and all
that, but they didn't make any effort to attack the man. They all were
afraid of him; they didn't have nerve. They just grumbled and talked of
what Bill ought to have done, and proceeded to cook supper and to loaf
around. Our hands were behind our backs and we were tied like dogs to
trees.
And suddenly, while watching the man, I noticed that he was doing things
left-handed, and quick as a wink I saw that the sole of his left shoe
was worn through! And if he wasn't riding a roan horse, he was riding a
saddle with brass-bound stirrups, anyway. A man may trade horses, but he
keeps to his own saddle. This was the beaver man! We three Scouts
exchanged signs of warning.
"You aren't going to tie us for all night, are you?" demanded
Fitzpatrick.
"Sure," said Bill.
"We'll give you our parole not to try to escape," offered General
Ashley.
"What's that?"
"We'll promise," I explained.
Then they all jeered.
"Aw, promise!" they laughed. "We know all about your promises."
"Scouts don't break their promises," answered the general, hot. "When
we give our parole we mean it. And if we decided to try to escape we'd
tell you and take the parole back. We want to be untied so we can eat."
"All right. We'll untie you," said Bill; and I saw him wink at the other
fellows.
They did. They loosened our hands--but they put ropes on our feet! We
could just walk, and that is all. And Walt (he and Bat were cooking)
poked the fire with our flagstaff. Then he sat on the flags! I tell you,
we were angry!
"This doesn't count," sputtered the general, red as fury.
"You gave us your parole if we'd untie you," jeered Bill. "And we did."
"But you tied us up again."
"We didn't say anything about that. You said if we'd untie you, so you
could eat, you wouldn't run away. Well, we untied you, didn't we?"
"That isn't fair. You know what we meant," retorted Fitz.
"We know what you said," they laughed.
"Aw, cut it out," growled the man, from his own fire. "You make too much
noise. I'm tired."
"Chuck," called Walt, for supper.
They stuck us between them, and we all ate. Whew, but it was a dirty
camp. The dishes weren't clean and the stuff to eat was messy, and the
fellows all swore and talked as bad as they could. It was a shame--and
it seemed a bigger shame because here in the park everything was
intended to be quiet and neat and ought to make you feel _good_.
After supper they quarreled as to who would wash the dishes, and finally
one washed and one wiped, and the rest lay around and smoked pipes and
cigarettes. Over at his side of the little park the man had rolled up
and was still. But I knew that he was watching, because he was smoking,
too.
We couldn't do anything, even if we had planned to. We might have untied
the ropes on our feet, but the gang sat close about us. Then, they had
the flags and the burros, and the man had the message; and if they had
been wise they would have known that we wouldn't go far. Of course, we
might have hung about and bothered them.
They made each of us sleep with one of them. They had some dirty old
quilts, and we all rolled up.
CHAPTER VIII
A NEW USE FOR A CAMERA
We were stiff when we woke in the morning, but we had to lie until the
rest of them decided to get up, and then it was hot and late. That was a
lazy camp as well as a dirty one. The early morning is the best part of
the day, out in the woods, but lots of fellows don't seem to think so.
I had slept with Bat, and he had snored 'most all night. Now as soon as
I could raise my head from the old quilts I looked over to see the man.
He wasn't there. His horse wasn't there and his fire wasn't burning. The
spot where he had camped was vacant. He had gone, with our message!
I wriggled loose from Bat and woke him, and he swore and tried to make
me lie still, but I wouldn't. Not much!
"Red!" I called, not caring whether I woke anybody else or not. "Red!
General!" I used both names--and I didn't care for that, either.
He wriggled, too, to sit up.
"What?"
"The man's gone. He isn't there. He's gone with the message!"
The general exclaimed, and worked to jerk loose from Bill; and Fitz's
head bobbed up. There wasn't any more sleep for that camp, now.
"Oh, shut up!" growled Bill.
"You fellows turn us loose," we ordered. "We've got to go. We've got to
follow that man."
But they wouldn't, of course. They just laughed, and said: "No, you
don't want to go. You've given us your parole; see?" and they pulled us
down into the quilts again, and yawned and would sleep some more, until
they found it was no use, and first one and then another kicked off the
covers and sat up, too.
The sun was high and all the birds and bees and squirrels were busy for
the day. At least two hours had been wasted, already.
Half of the fellows didn't wash at all, and all we Scouts were allowed
to do was to wash our faces, with a lick and a promise, at the creek,
under guard. We missed our morning cold wet rub. The camp hadn't been
policed, and seemed dirtier than ever. Tin cans were scattered about,
and pieces of bacon and of other stuff, and there was nothing sanitary
or regular. Our flags were dusty and wrinkled; and that hurt. The only
thing homelike was Apache and Sally, our burros, grazing on weeds and
grass near the camp. But they didn't notice us particularly.
We didn't have anything more to say. The fellows began to smoke
cigarettes and pipes as soon as they were up, and made the fire and
cooked some bacon and fried some potatoes, and we all ate, with the
flies buzzing around. A dirty camp attracts flies, and the flies stepped
in all sorts of stuff and then stepped in our food and on us, too. Whew!
Ugh!
We would have liked to make a smoke signal, to let Major Henry and Jed
Smith and Kit Carson know where we were, but there seemed no way. They
would be starting out after us, according to instructions, and we didn't
want them to be captured. We knew that they would be coming, because
they were Scouts and Scouts obey orders. They can be depended upon.
I guess it was ten o'clock before we were through the messy breakfast,
and then most of the gang went off fishing and fooling around.
"Aren't you going to untie our feet?" asked the general.
"Do you give us your promise not to skip?" answered Bill.
"We'll give our parole till twelve o'clock."
We knew what the general was planning. By twelve o'clock something might
happen--the other Scouts might be near, then, and we wanted to be free
to help them.--
"Will you give us your parole if we tie your feet, loose, instead of
your hands?"
"Yes," said the general; and Fitzpatrick and I nodded. Jiminy, we didn't
want our hands tied, on this hot day.
So they hobbled our feet, and tethered us to a tree. They tied the knots
tight--knot after knot; and then they went off laughing, but they left
Walt and Bat to watch us! That wasn't fair. It broke our parole for us,
really, for they hadn't accepted it under the conditions we had offered
it. (Note 36.)
"Don't you fellows get to monkeying, now," warned Bat, "or we'll tie you
tighter. If you skip we've got your burros and your flags."
That was so.
"We know that," replied the general, meekly; but I could see that he was
boiling, inside.
It was awful stupid, just sitting, with those two fellows watching. Bat
wore his big revolver, and Walt had his shotgun. They smoked their
bad-smelling pipes, and played with an old deck of cards. Camping
doesn't seem to amount to much with some fellows, except as a place to
be dirty in and to smoke and play cards. They might as well be in town.
"Shall we escape?" I signed to the general. (Note 37.)
"No," he signed back. "Wait till twelve o'clock." He was going to keep
our word, even if we did have a right to break it.
"Hand me my camera, will you, please?" asked Fitz, politely.
"What do you want of it?" demanded Walt.
"I want to use it. We haven't anything else to do."
"Sure," said Walt; he tossed it over. "Take pictures of yourselves, and
show folks how you smart Scouts were fooled."
I didn't see what Fitz could use his camera on, here. And he didn't seem
to be using it. He kept it beside him, was all. There weren't any
animals around this kind of a camp. But the general and I didn't ask him
any questions. He was wise, was old Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand, and
probably he had some scheme up his sleeve.
We just sat. The two fellows played cards and smoked and talked rough
and loud, and wasted their time this way. The sun was mighty hot, and
they yawned and yawned. Tobacco smoking so much made them stupid. But we
yawned, too. The general made the sleep sign to Fitz and me, and we
nodded. The general and I stretched out and were quiet. I really was
sleepy; we had had a hard night.
"You fellows going to sleep?" asked Walt.
We grunted at him.
"Then we'll tie your hands and we'll go to sleep," he said. "Come on,
Bat. Maybe it's a put-up job."
"No, sir; that wasn't in the bargain," objected the general.
"Aw, we got your parole till twelve o'clock, but we're going to tie you
anyway," replied that Walt. "We didn't say how long we'd leave your
hands loose. We aren't going to sit around and keep awake, watching you
guys. When we wake up we untie you again."
We couldn't do anything; and they tied the general's hands and my hands,
but Fitzpatrick begged off.
"I want to use my camera," he claimed. "And I've got only one hand
anyway. I can't untie knots with one hand."
They didn't know how clever Fitz was; so they just moved him and
fastened him by the waist to a tree where he couldn't reach us.
"We'll be watching and listening," they warned. "And if you try any
foolishness you'll get hurt."
They stretched out, and pretended to snooze. I didn't see, myself, how
Fitz could untie those hard knots with his one hand, in time to do any
good. They were hard knots, drawn tight, and the rope was a
clothes-line; and he was set against a tree with the rope about his
body and the knots behind him on the other side of the tree. I didn't
believe that Bat and Walt would sleep hard; but while I waited to see
what would happen next, I dozed off, myself.
Something tapped me on the head, and I woke up in a jiffy. Fitz must
have tossed a twig at me, because when I looked over at him he made the
silence sign. He was busy; and what do you think? He had taken his
camera apart, and unscrewed the lenses, and had focused on the rope
about him. He had wriggled so that the sun shone on the lenses, and a
little spire of smoke was rising from him. Bat and Walt were asleep;
they never made a move, but they both snored. And Fitz was burning his
rope in two, on his body.
It didn't take very long, because the sun was so hot and the lenses were
strong. The rope charred and fumed, and he snapped it; and then he began
on his feet. Good old Fitz! If only he got loose before those two
fellows woke. The general was watching him, too.
Walt grunted and rolled over and bleared around, and Fitz quit
instantly, and sat still as if tied and fooling with his camera. Walt
thought that everything was all right and rolled over; and after a
moment Fitz continued. Pretty soon he was through. And now came the most
ticklish time of all.
He waited and made a false move or two, to be certain that Walt and Bat
weren't shamming; and then he snapped the rope about his body and
gradually unwound it and then he snapped the rope that bound together
his feet. Now he began to crawl for the two fellows. Inch by inch he
moved along, like an Indian; and he never made a sound. That was good
scouting for anybody, and especially for a one-armed boy, I tell you!
The general and I scarcely breathed. My heart thumped so that I was
afraid it would shake the ground.
When he got near enough, Fitz reached cautiously, and pulled away the
shotgun. Like lightning he opened the breech and shook loose the shell
and kicked it out of the way--and when he closed the breech with a jerk
Bat woke up.
"You keep quiet," snapped Fitz. His eyes were blazing. "If either of you
makes a fuss, I'll pull the trigger." He had the gun aiming straight at
them both. Walt woke, too, and was trying to discover what happened. "Be
quiet, now!"
Those two fellows were frightened stiff. The gun looked ugly, with its
round muzzle leveled at their stomachs, and Fitz behind, his cheeks red
and his eyes angry and steady. But it was funny, too; he might have
pulled trigger, but nothing would have happened, because the gun wasn't
loaded. Of course none of us Scouts would have shot anybody and had
blood on our hands. Fitz had thrown away the shell on purpose so that
there wouldn't be any accident. It's bad to point a gun, whether loaded
or not, at any one. This was a have-to case. Bat and Walt didn't know.
They were white as sheets, and lay rigid.
"Don't you shoot. Look out! That gun might go off," they pleaded; we
could hear their teeth chatter. "If you won't point it at us we'll do
anything you say."
"You bet you'll do anything I say," snapped Fitz, very savage. "You had
us, and now we have you! Unbuckle that belt, you Bat. Don't you touch
the revolver, though. I'm mad and I mean business."
Bat's fingers trembled and he fussed at the belt and unbuckled it, and
off came belt and revolver, and all.
"Toss 'em over."
He tossed them. Fitz put his foot on them.
"Aw, what do you let that one-armed kid bluff you for?" began Walt; and
Fitz caught him up as quick as a wink.
"What are _you_ talking about?" he asked. "I'll give you a job, too. You
take your knife and help cut those two Scouts loose."
"Ain't got a knife," grumbled Walt.
"Yes, you have. I've seen it. Will you, or do you want me to pull
trigger?"
"You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I? You watch this finger."
"Look out, Walt!" begged Bat. "He will! I know he will! See his finger?
He might do it by accident. Quit, Fitz. We'll cut 'em."
"Don't get up. Just roll," ordered Fitz.
They rolled. He kept the muzzle right on them. Walt cut me free (his
hands were shaking as bad as Bat's), and Bat cut the general free.
We stood up. But there wasn't time for congratulations, or anything like
that. No. We must skip.
"Quick!" bade Fitz. "Tie their feet. My rope will do; it was a long
one."
"How'd _you_ get loose?" snarled Walt.
"None of your business," retorted Fitz.
We pulled on the knots hard--and they weren't any granny knots, either,
that would work loose. We tied their feet, and then with a bowline noose
tied their elbows behind their backs--which was quicker than tying their
wrists. (Note 38.)
Fitz dropped the shotgun and grabbed his camera.
"You gave your parole," whined Bat.
"It's after twelve," answered the general.
And then Walt uttered a tremendous yell--and there was an answering
whoop near at hand. The rest of the gang were coming back.
"Run!" ordered the general. "Meet at the old camp."
We ran, and scattered. We didn't stop for the burros, or anything more,
except that as I passed I grabbed up the bow and arrows and with one
jerk I ripped our flags loose from the pole, where it was lying.
This delayed me for a second. Walt and Bat were yelling the alarm, and
feet were hurrying and voices were answering. I caught a glimpse of the
general and Fitz plunging into brush at one side, and I made for another
point.
"There they go! Stop 'em!" were calling Walt and Bat.
Tony Matthews was coming so fast that he almost dived into me; but I
dodged him and away I went, into the timber and the brush, with him
pelting after. Now all the timber was full of cries and threats, and
"Bang! Bang!" sounded a gun. But I didn't stop to look around. I
scudded, with Tony thumping behind me.
"You halt!" ordered Tony. "Head him off!" he called.
I dodged again, around a cedar, and ran in a new direction, up a slope,
through grass and just a sprinkling of trees. Now was the time to prove
what a Scout's training was good for, in giving him lungs and legs and
endurance. So I ran at a springy lope, up-hill, as a rabbit does. Two
voices were panting at me; I saved my breath for something better than
talk. The puffing grew fainter, and finally when I couldn't hear it, or
any other sound near, I did halt and look around.
The pursuit was still going on behind and below, near where the gang's
camp was. I could hear the shouts, and "Bang! Bang!" but shouts and
shooting wouldn't capture the general and Fitz, I knew. Tony and the
other fellow who had been chasing me had quit--and now I saw the general
and Fitz. They must have had to double and dodge, because they had not
got so far away: but here they came, out from the trees, into an open
space, across from me, and they were running strong and swift for the
slope beyond. If it was a case of speed and wind, none of that smoking,
flabby crowd could catch them.
Fitz was ahead, the general was about ten feet behind, and much farther
behind streamed the gang, Bill Delaney leading and the rest lumbering
after. Tony and the other fellow had flopped down, and never stirred to
help. They were done for.
It was quite exciting, to watch; and as the general and Fitz were
drawing right away and escaping, I wanted to cheer. They turned sharp to
make straight up-hill--and then the general fell. He must have slipped.
He picked himself up almost before he had touched the ground and plunged
on, but down he toppled, like a wounded deer. Fitzpatrick, who was
climbing fast off at one side, saw.
"Hurt?" I heard him call.
"No," answered the general. "Go on."
But Fitz didn't keep on. He turned and came right to him, although the
enemy was drawing close. The general staggered up, and sat down again.
I knew what was being said, now, although I couldn't hear anything
except the jeers of the gang as they increased speed. The general was
hurt, and he was telling Fitz to go and save himself, and Fitz wouldn't.
He sat there, too, and waited. Then, just as the gang closed in, and
Bill Delaney reached to grab Fitz, the general saw me and made me the
sign to go on, and the sign of a horse and rider.
Yes, that was my part, now. I was the one who must follow the beaver
man, who had taken our message. The message was the most important
thing. We must get that through no matter what happened. And while Fitz
and the general could help each other, inside, I could be trailing the
message, and maybe finding Henry and Carson and Smith, outside.
So I started on. The enemy was leading the general, who could just
hobble, and Fitz, back to the camp. Loyal old Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand,
who had helped his comrade instead of saving himself!
CHAPTER IX
JIM BRIDGER ON THE TRAIL
I turned, and climbed the hill. It was a long hill, and hot, but I
wanted to get up where I could see. The top was grassy and bare, and
here I stopped, to find out where things were.
Off in one direction (which was southwest, by the sun) rose Pilot Peak,
rocky and snowy, with the main range stretching on either side of it.
But between Pilot Peak and me there lay a big country of heavy timber.
Yes, in every direction was heavy timber. I had run without thinking,
and now it was pretty hard to tell exactly where I was.
I stood for a minute and tried to figure in what direction that beaver
man probably had ridden. He had come in on our left, as we sat, and had
probably gone along toward our right. I tried to remember which way the
shadows had fallen, in the sunset, and which way west had been, from our
right or left as we were sitting.
Finally I was quite certain that the shadows had fallen sort of
quartering, from right to left, and so the man probably had made toward
the west. It was a good thing that I had noticed the shadows, but to
notice little things is a Scout's training.
I stuffed the flags inside my shirt, and tied my coat about me; only one
arrow was left, out of six; the five others must have fallen when I was
running. And I was hungry and didn't have a thing to eat, because when
the gang had captured us they had taken our bread and chocolate, along
with our match-boxes and knives and other stuff. That was mean of them.
But with a look about for smoke signals I took my bow and started across
the top of the hill.
It was to be the lone trail and the hungry trail for Jim Bridger. But he
had slept on post, and he was paying for it. Now if he (that was I, you
know) only could get back that message, and thus make good, he wouldn't
mind lonesomeness or hunger or thirst or tiredness or wet or anything.
I wasn't afraid of the gang overtaking me or finding me, if I kept my
wits about me. And after I was over the brow of the hill I swung into
the west, at Scouts' pace of trot and walk mixed. This took me along the
top of the hill, to a draw or little valley that cut through. The draw
was thick with spruces and pines and was brushy at the bottom, so I went
around the head of it. That was easier than climbing down and up
again--and the draw would have been a bad place to be cornered in.
I watched out for trails, but I did not cross a thing, and I began to
edge down to strike that stream which passed the gang's camp. Often
trails follow along streams, where the cattle and horses travel. The man
who had our message might have used this trail but although I edged and
edged, keeping right according to the sun, I didn't strike that stream.
Up and down and up again, through the trees and through the open places
I toiled and sweated; and every time I came out upon a ridge, expecting
to be at the top of somewhere, another ridge waited; and every time I
reached the bottom of a draw or gulch, expecting that here was my stream
or a trail, or both, I found that I was fooled again.
This up and down country covered by timber is a mighty easy country to
be lost in. I wasn't lost--the stream was lost. No, I wasn't lost; but
when I came out upon a rocky ridge, and climbed to the top of a bunch of
granite there, the world was all turned around. Pilot Peak had changed
shape and was behind me when it ought to have been before. West was
west, because the sun was setting in it, but it seemed queer. You see, I
had been zigzagging about to make easy climbs out of draws and gulches,
and to dodge rocks and brush--and here I was. (Note 39.)
You may believe that now I was mighty hungry and thirsty, and I was
tired, too. This was a fine place to see from, and I sat on a ledge and
looked about, mapping the country. That was Pilot Peak, away off on the
left; and that was the Medicine Range, on either side of it. It was the
range that we Scouts must cross, if ever we got to it. But between me
and the range lay miles of rolling timber, and all about below me lay
the timber, with here and there bare rocky points sticking up like the
tips of breakers in an ocean and here and there little winding valleys,
like the oily streaks in the ocean. Away off in one valley seemed to be
a cleared field where grain had been cut; but no ranch house was there.
It was just a patch. In all this big country I was the only
inhabitant--I and the wild things.
Well, I must camp for the night. The sun was setting behind the
mountains. If I tried traveling blind by night I might get all tangled
up in the timber and brush and be in a bad fix. Up here it was dry and
open and the rocks would shelter me from the wind. I tried to be calm
and reasonable and use Scout sense; and I decided to stay right where I
was, till morning.
But jiminy, I was hungry and thirsty, and I wanted a fire, too. This was
pretty good experience, to be lost without food or drink or matches, or
even a knife--it was pretty good experience if I managed right.
There were plenty of dead dried branches scattered here among the
rocks, and pack-rats had made a nest of firewood. But first, as seemed
to me, I must get a drink and something for supper. I had only that one
arrow to depend on, for game, and if I waited much longer then I might
lose it in the dusk. Not an easy shot had shown itself, either, during
all the time I had been traveling.
Water was liable to be down there somewhere, in those valleys, and I
looked to see which was the greenest or which had any willows. To the
greenest it seemed a long way. Then I had a clue. I saw a flock of
grouse. They sailed out from the timber and across and slanted down into
a gulch. More followed. They acted as if they were bound somewhere on
purpose, and I remembered that grouse usually drink before they go to
bed.
These were so far away, below me, that I couldn't make out whether they
were sage grouse, or the blue grouse, or the fool grouse. If they were
sage grouse, I might not get near enough to them to shoot sure with my
one arrow. If they were blue grouse, that would be bad, too, for blue
grouse are sharp. If they were fool grouse, I ought to get one. I marked
exactly where they sailed for, and down I went, keeping my eye on the
spot. Now I must use Scoutcraft for water and food. If I couldn't manage
a fire, I could chew meat raw.
Yes, I remembered that it was against the law to kill grouse, yet. I
thought about it a minute; and decided that the law did not intend that
a starving person should not kill just enough for meat when he had
nothing else. I was willing to tell the first ranger or game warden, and
pay a fine--but I must eat. And I hoped that what I was trying to do was
all right. Motives count, in law, don't they?
Down I went, as fast as I could go. The sun was just sinking out of
sight. It was the lonesome time of day for a fellow without fire or food
or shelter, in the places where nobody lived, and I wouldn't have
objected much if I'd been home at the supper table.
I reached the bottom of the hill. It ended at the edge of some aspens.
Their white trunks were ghostly in the twilight. Across through the
aspens I hurried, straight as I could go; and I came out into a grassy,
boggy place--a basin where water from the hills around was seeping!
Hurrah! It was a regular spring, and the water ran trickling away, down
through a gulch.
Grasses grew high: wild timothy and wild oats and gama grass, mingled
with flowers. Along the trickle were willows, too. With the aspens and
the willows and the seed grasses and the water this was a fine place for
grouse. I looked for sign, on the edge of the wetness, and I saw where
birds had been scratching and taking dust baths, in a patch of sage.
Stepping slowly, and keeping sharp lookout, I reconnoitered about the
place; I was so excited that I didn't stop to drink. And
suddenly--whirr-rr-rr! With a tremendous noise up flew two grouse, and
three more, and lit in the willows right before me. I guess I was
nervous, I wanted them so bad; for I jumped back and stumbled and fell,
and broke the arrow square in two with my knee.
That made me sick. Here was my supper waiting for me, and I had spoiled
my chances. I wanted to cry.
Those acted like fool grouse. They sat with their heads and necks
stretched, watching me and everything else. I picked up the two pieces
of my arrow; and then I looked about for a straight reed or willow twig
that might do. Something rustled right before me, and there was another
grouse! It had been sitting near enough to bite me and I hadn't seen it.
By the feathers I knew it was a fool grouse. Was it going to fly, or
not? I stood perfectly still, and then I squatted gradually and gave it
time. After it had waggled its head around, it moved a little and began
to peck and cackle; and I could hear other cackles answering. If I only
could creep near enough to hit it with a stick.
I reached a dead willow stick, and squatting as I was I hitched forward,
inch by inch. Whenever the grouse raised its silly head I scarcely
breathed. The grass was clumpy, and once behind a clump I wriggled
forward faster. With the clump between me and the grouse I approached as
close as I dared. The grouse was only four or five feet away. It must be
now or never, for when once the grouse began to fly for their night's
roost mine would go, too.
Fool grouse you can knock off of limbs with a stone, or with a club when
they are low enough and when they happen to be feeling in the mood to be
knocked. Behind my clump I braced my toes, and out I sprang and swiped
hard, but the grouse fluttered up, just the same, squawking. I hit
again, hard and quick, and struck it down, and I pounced on it and had
it! Yes, sir, I had it! All around me grouse were flying and whirring
off, and those in the tree joined them; but I didn't care now.
I lay on my stomach and took a long drink of water, and back I hustled
for camp.
Down here the dark had gathered; but up on the hill the light stayed,
and of course the top of the hill, where my camp was, would be light
longest. Now if I only could manage a fire. I had an idea--a good Scout
idea.
First I picked out a place for the night. In one spot the faces of two
rocks met at an angle. The grass here was dead and softish, and the wind
blowing off the snowy range on the west didn't get in. I gathered a
bunch of the grass, and tore my handkerchief with my teeth and mixed
some ravelings of that in and tied a nest, with a handle to it. Then I
got some of the dry twigs lying about, and had them ready. Then I found
a piece of flinty rock--I think it was quartzite; and I took off a shoe
and struck the rock on the hob nails, over the nest of grass.
It worked! The sparks flew and landed in the loose knot, and I blew to
start them. After I had been trying, I saw a little smoke, and smelled
it; and so I grabbed the nest by its handle and swung it. It caught
fire, and in a jiffy I had it on the ground, with twigs across it--and I
was fixed. A fire makes a big difference. I wasn't lonesome any more.
This camp was home. (Note 40.)
I was so hungry that I didn't more than half cook the grouse by holding
pieces on a stick over the blaze, trapper style. While I gnawed I went
out around the rocks and watched the sunset. It was glorious, and the
pink and gold lasted, with the snowy range and old Pilot Peak showing
sharp and cold against it. Up here I was right in the twilight, while
below the timber and the valleys were dark.
I must collect wood while I could see, beginning with the pieces
furthest away. Down at the bottom of the hill I had marked a big branch;
and out I hiked and hauled it up. That camp looked grand when I came in
again; the bottom of the hill was gloomy, but here I had a fire.
The sunset was done; everything was dark; the stars were shining all
through the sky; from the timber below queer cries and calls floated up
to me, but there was nothing to be afraid of. I was minding my business,
and animals would be minding theirs. So I moved the fire forward a
little from the angle of the rocks, and sat in the angle myself. Wow,
but it was warm and nice! I couldn't make a big fire, because I didn't
want to run out of fuel; but the little fire was better, as long as it
was large enough to be cheerful and to warm me. I spliced my broken
arrow with string.
This was real Scout coziness. Of course, I sort of wished that Fitz or
little Jed Smith or somebody else was there, for company; but I'd done
pretty well. I tried to study the stars--but as I sat I kept nodding and
dozing off, and waking with a jerk, and so I pulled the thick part of
the branch across the fire and shoved in the scattered ends. Then I
wrapped the flags about my neck and over my head, and sitting flat with
my back against the rock I went to sleep. Indians say that they keep
warm best by covering their shoulders and head, even if they can't cover
their legs.
Something woke me with a start. I lay shivering and listening. The fire
flickered low, the sky was close above me, darkness was around about,
and behind me was a rustle, rustle, patter, patter. At first I was silly
and frightened; but with a jump I quit that and ordered, loud:
"Get out of there!"
Wild animals are especially afraid of the human voice; and whatever this
was it scampered away. Then I decided that it was only a pack-rat.
Anyhow, there would be nothing out here in these hills to attack a human
being while he slept. Even the smell of a human being will keep most
animals off. They're suspicious of him. And I thought of the hundreds of
old-time trappers and hunters, and of the prospectors and ranchers and
range-riders, who had slept right out in the timber, in a blanket, and
who never had been molested at all. So I didn't reckon that anything was
going to climb this hill to get _me_!
I stirred about and built the fire, and got warm. The Guardians of the
Pole had moved around a quarter of the clock, at least, and the moon was
away over in the west, so I knew that I must have slept quite a while.
(Note 41.)
The night was very quiet. Here on the hill I felt like a Robinson Crusoe
marooned on his island. I stood and peered about; everywhere below was
the dark timber; the moon was about to set behind the snowy range;
overhead were the stars--thousands of them in a black sky, which curved
down on all sides.
The Milky Way was plain. The Indians say that is the trail the dead
warriors take to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I could see the North Star,
of course, and I could see the Papoose on the Squaw's back, in the
handle of the Great Dipper; so I had Scout's eyesight. In the west was
the evening star--Jupiter, I guessed. Off south was the Scorpion, and
the big red star Antares. I wished that the Lost Children were dancing
in the sky, but they had not come yet. (Note 42.)
It made me calm, to get out this way and look at the stars. I'd been
lucky, so far, to have fire and supper and a good camp, and I decided
that I would get that message--or help get it. Somewhere down in that
world of timber were Major Henry and Kit Carson and little Jed Smith, on
the trail; and General Ashley and wise Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand,
planning to escape; and the man who had the message. And here was I, on
detail that seemed to have happened, and yet seemed to have been
ordered, too. And watchful and steady as the stars, above us was the
Great Commander, who knew just how things would come out, here in the
hills the same as in the cities. It's kind of comforting, when a fellow
realizes that he can't get lost entirely, and that Somebody knows where
he is and what he is doing, and what he wants to do.
In the morning I would strike off southwest, and keep going until I came
to a trail where the beaver man had traveled, or until I had some sight
of him or news of him.
By the Pointers it was midnight. So after thinking things over I fed the
fire and warmed my back; then I hunched into the angle and with the two
flags about my shoulders and over my head I started to snooze off. Some
animal kept rustling and pattering, but I let it rustle and patter.
Just as I was snoozing, I remembered that to-morrow--that _to-day_ was
Sunday! Yes; I counted, and we had left town on Monday and we had been
out six days. I supposed that I ought to rest on Sunday; but I didn't
see how I could, fixed as I was; and I hoped that if I took the trail I
would be understood. (Note 43.)
CHAPTER X
THE RED FOX PATROL
When I woke up I was safe and sound, but I had thrown off the flags and
I was stiff and cold. Now I could see all about me--see the rocks and
the grass and the ashes of the fire; so morning had come. That was good.
After I had yawned and stretched and straightened out, I gave a little
dance to start my circulation. Then I built the fire from the coals that
were left, and cooked the rest of the grouse, and had breakfast, chewing
well so as to get all the nourishment that I could. I climbed on a rock,
in the sun, like a ground-hog, to eat, and to look about at the same
time. And I saw smoke!
The smoke was lifting above the timber away off, below. This was a fine
morning; a Sunday morning, peaceful and calm, and the smoke rose in a
little curl, as if it were from a camp or a chimney. I took that as a
good omen. Down I sprang, to my own fire; and heaped on damp stuff and
dirt, and using my coat made the private smoke signal of the Elk Patrol:
one puff, three puffs, and one puff. (Note 44.) But the other smoke
didn't answer.
Then I thought of making the signal meaning "I am lost. Help"; but I
said to myself: "No, you don't. You're not calling for help, yet. You'd
be a weak kind of a Scout, to sit down and call for help. There's a sign
for you. Maybe that smoke is the beaver man. Sic him." And trampling out
my own fire, and stuffing the flags into my shirt and tying my jacket
around me, lining that other fire by a dead pine at the foot of the
hill, away I went.
When I got to the dead pine I drew another bee-line ahead as far as I
could see, with a stump as the end, and followed that. But this was an
awful rough, thick country. First I got into a mess of fallen timber,
where the dead trunks were criss-crossed like jackstraws; and they were
smooth and hard and slippery, and I had to climb over and crawl under
and straddle and slide, and turn back several times, and I lost my
bee-line. But I set my direction again by the sun on my face. Next I ran
into a stretch of those small black-jacks, so thick I could scarcely
squeeze between. And when I came out I was hot and tired, I tell you!
Now I was hungry, too, and thirsty; and I found that fire meant a whole
lot to me. If it didn't mean the man with the message, it meant food and
somebody to talk to, perhaps. The fallen timber and the black-jack
thicket had interfered with me so that I wasn't sure, any more, that I
was heading straight for the fire. Down into a deep gulch I must plunge,
and up I toiled, on the other side. It was about time that I climbed a
tree, or did something else, to locate that fire. When next I reached a
ridgy spot I chose a good pine and shinned it. From the top nothing was
visible except the same old sea of timber with island rocks spotting it
here and there, and with Pilot Peak and the snowy range in the wrong
quarter again.
Of course, by this time the breakfast smoke would have quit. That made
me desperate. I shinned down so fast that a branch broke and I partly
fell the rest of the way along the trunk, and tore my shirt and scraped
a big patch of skin from my chest. This hurt. When I landed in a heap I
wanted to bawl. But instead, I struck off along the ridge, keeping high
so that if there was smoke I would see it, yet.
The ridge ended in another gulch. I had begun to hate gulches. A
fellow's legs grow numb when he hasn't had much to eat. But into the
gulch I must go, and so down I plunged again. And when almost at the
bottom I _smelled_ smoke! I stopped short, and sniffed. It was wood
smoke--camp smoke. I must be near that camp-fire. And away off I could
hear water running. That was toward my left, so probably the smoke was
on my left, for a camp would be near water. It is hard to get direction
just by smell, but I turned and scouted along the side of the gulch,
halfway up, sniffing and looking.
The brush was bad. It was as thick as hay and full of stickers, but I
worked my way through. If the camp was the camp of the beaver man with
the message, I must reconnoiter and scheme; if it was the camp of
somebody else, I would go down; and if I didn't know whose camp it was,
I must wait and find out.
The brush held me and tripped me and tore my trousers and shirt, and was
wet and hot at the same time. Keeping high, I worked along listening and
sniffing and spying--_feeling_ for that camp, if it was a camp. Pretty
soon I heard voices. That was encouraging--unless the beaver man had
company. The brush thinned, and the gulch opened, and I was at the mouth
of it, with the water sounding louder. On my stomach I looked out and
down--and there was the place of the camp, at the mouth of the gulch,
where the pines and spruces met a creek, and two boys were just leaving
it. They had packs on their backs, and they were dressed in khaki and
were neat and trim.
Down I went, sliding and leaping, head first or feet first, I didn't
care which, as long as I got there in time. The boys heard and turned
and stared, wondering. With my hands and face scratched, and my chest
skinned and my shirt and trousers torn, bearing my bow and my broken
arrow, like a wild boy I burst out upon them. Then suddenly I saw on the
sleeves of their khaki shirts the Scout badge. My throat was too dry and
my breath was too short for me to say a word, but I stopped and made the
Scout sign. They answered it; and they must have thought that I was
worse than I really was, because they came running.
"The Elk Patrol, Colorado," I wheezed.
"The Red Fox Patrol, New Jersey," they replied. "What's the matter?"
"I'm glad to meet you," I said, silly after the run I had made on an
empty stomach; and we laughed and shook hands hard.
They were bound to hold me up or examine me for wounds or help me in
some way, but I sat down of my own accord, to get my breath.
They were First-class Scouts of the Red Fox Patrol of New Jersey, and
were traveling through this way on foot, from Denver, to meet the rest
of their party further on at the railroad, to do Salt Lake and then the
Yellowstone. They had had a late breakfast and a good clean-up, because
this was Sunday; and now they were starting on, for a walk while it was
cool, before they lay by again and waited till Monday morning. I had
reached them just in time; I think I'd have had tough work trailing
them. They looked as if they could travel some.
Their clothes were the regulation Scouts uniform. One of them had a
splendid little twenty-two rifle, and the other had a camera. The name
of the boy with the rifle was Edward Van Sant; the name of the Scout
with the camera was Horace Ward. They seemed fine fellows--as Scouts
usually are.
I don't know how they knew that I was hungry or faint, for I didn't say
that I was. But the first thing I did know Van Sant had unstrapped his
pack, and Ward had taken a little pan and had brought water from the
creek. Then a little alcohol stove appeared, and while we talked the
water was boiling, in a jiffy. Ward dropped into the water a cube, and
stirred--and there was a mess of soup, all ready!
They made me drink it, although I kept telling them I was all right. It
tasted mighty good. They got out some first-aid dope, and washed my
skinned chest with a carbolic smelling wash and shook some surgical
powder over it, and put a bandage around, in great shape. Then they
washed my scratches and even sewed the worst of the tears in my clothes.
(Note 45.)
By this time they knew my story.
"Was he a dark-complexioned man, with a small face and no whiskers or
mustache?"
"He was dark, but he had a mustache and fresh whiskers," I answered.
"On a bay horse?"
"On a bay, with a blazed forehead. Why?"
"A man rode by here, last evening, along the trail across the creek. He
was dark-complexioned, he wore a black hat, and he rode a bay with a
mark on its shoulders like this--" and Ward drew in the dirt a K+.
"That's a K Cross," I exclaimed. And I thought it was right smart of
them to notice even the brand. "He's the man, sure. He's shaved off his
mustache and whiskers, but he's riding the same horse." And I jumped up.
I felt strong and ready again. "Which way did he go?"
Scout Van Sant pointed up the creek. "There's a trail on the other
side," he said. "You'll find fresh hoof marks in it."
"Bueno," I said; and I extended my hand to shake with them, for I must
light right out. "I'm much obliged for everything, but I've got to catch
him. If you meet any of my crowd please tell 'em you saw me and I'm
O. K.; and if you're ever in Elk country don't fail to look us up. The
lodge door is always open."
"Hold on," laughed Scout Ward. "You can't shoo us this way, unless
you'd rather travel alone. What's the matter with our going, too?"
"Sure," said Scout Van Sant.
"But your trail lies down creek, you said."
"Not now. As long as you're in trouble your trail is our trail."
Wasn't that fine! But--
"You'll miss your connections with the rest of your party," I objected.
"What if we do? We're on the Scout trail, now, for business,--and
pleasure can wait. You couldn't handle that man alone--could you?"
Well, I was going to try. But they wouldn't listen. And they wouldn't
let me carry anything. They slung their packs on their backs, we crossed
the creek on some stones, and taking the trail on the other side we
followed fast and steady, the horse's hoof-prints pointing up the creek.
One shoe had a bent nail-head.
The Red Fox Scouts stepped along without asking any odds, although I was
traveling light. They walked like Indians. Scout Van Sant took the lead,
Scout Ward came next, and I closed the rear. Pretty soon Scout Van Sant
dropped back, behind me, and let Ward have the lead. I surmised he did
this to watch how I was getting on; but I had that soup in me, and my
second wind, and I didn't ask any odds, either.
The hoof-prints were plain, and the trail was first rate; sometimes in
the timber and sometimes in little open patches, but always close to the
foaming creek.
After we had traveled for about two hours, or had gone seven miles, we
stopped and rested fifteen minutes and had a dish of soup. The creek
branched, and one part entered a narrow, high valley, lined with much
timber. The other part, which was the main part, continued more in the
open.
The hoofs with the bent nail-head quit, here; and as they didn't turn
off to the left, into the open country, they must have crossed to take
the gulch branch. An old bridge had been washed out, but the water was
shallow, and Scout Van Sant was over in about three jumps. After a
minute of searching he beckoned, and we skipped over, too. A small trail
followed the branch up the gulch, and the hoof-prints showed in it.
Now we all smelled smoke again. It seemed to me that I had been smelling
it ever since that first time, but you know how a smell sometimes sticks
in the nose. Still, we all were smelling it, now, and we kept our eyes
and ears open for other sign of a camp.
The water made a big noise as it dashed down; the gulch turned and
twisted, and was timbered and rocky; it grew narrower; and as we
advanced with Scout caution, looking ahead each time as far as we could,
on rounding an angle suddenly we came out into a sunny little park,
with flowers and grass and aspens and bowlders, the stream dancing
through at one edge, and an old dug-out beside the stream.
It was an abandoned prospect claim, because on the hill-slope were some
old prospect holes and a dump. By the looks, nobody had been working
these holes for a year or two; but from the chimney of the dug-out a
thin smoke was floating. We instantly sat down, motionless, to
reconnoiter.
CHAPTER XI
THE MAN AT THE DUG-OUT
We couldn't see any sign, except those hoof-marks, and that fire. Nobody
was stirring, the sun shone and the chipmunks scampered and the aspens
quivered and the stream tinkled, and the place seemed all uninhabited by
anything except nature. We grew tired of waiting.
"I'll go on to that dug-out," whispered Scout Ward. "If the man sees me
he won't know me, especially. I can find out if he's there, or who is
there."
That sounded good; so he dumped his pack and while Scout Van Sant and I
stayed back he walked out, up the trail. We saw him turn in at the
dug-out and rap on the door. Nobody came. He hung about and eyed the
trail and the ground, and rapped again.
"There's plenty of sign," he called to us; "and there's a loose horse
over across the creek."
"Well, what of it?" growled a voice; and he looked, and we looked, and
we saw a man sitting beside a bowlder on the little slope behind the
dug-out.
The man must have been watching, half hid, without moving. It was the
beaver man. He had an automatic pistol in his hand. This was my
business, now. So, just saying, "There he is!" I stood up and went right
forward. But Scout Van Sant followed.
"I want that message," I said, as soon as I could.
"What message?" he growled back, from over his gun.
"That Scouts' message you took from the fellow who took it from us."
"Oh, hello!" he grinned. "Were you there? They let you go, did they?"
"No; I got away to follow you. I want that message."
"Why, sure," he said. "If that's all you want." And he seemed relieved.
"Come and get it." He stuck his free hand behind him and fumbled, and
then he held up the package.
I started right up, but Scout Ward sprang ahead of me. "I'll get it. You
and Van stay behind," he bade.
He didn't wait for us to say yes, but walked for the rock; and just as
he reached it, and was stretching to take the package, the man, with a
big oath, jumped for him.
Jumped for him, and grabbed for him, sprawling out like a black cougar.
Van Sant and I yelled, sharp; Ward dodged and tripped and went rolling;
and as the man jumped for him again I shot my arrow at him. I couldn't
help it, I was so mad. The arrow was crooked, where it had been mended
(I really didn't try to hurt him), and maybe it _went_ crooked; but
anyway it hit him in the calf of the leg and stayed there. I didn't
think I had shot so hard.
The man uttered a quick word, and sat down. His face was screwed and he
glared about at us, with his pistol muzzle wavering and sweeping like a
snake's tongue. That arrow probably hurt. It hadn't gone in very far,
but it was stuck.
"I'll kill one of you for that," he snarled.
"No, you won't," answered Scout Ward, scrambling up and facing him. "If
you killed one you'd have to kill all three, and then you'd be hanged
anyway."
"You got just what was coming to you for acting so mean," added Scout
Van Sant. "You grabbed for Ward and we had to protect him."
They weren't afraid, a particle, either of them; but I was the one who
had shot the arrow, and all I could say was: "It isn't barbed. You can
pull it out."
"Yes, and I'll get blood poisonin', mebbe," snarled the man. He kept us
covered with his revolver muzzle. "You git!" he ordered.
With his other hand he worked at the arrow and pulled it out easily.
The point was red, but not very far up.
"You'd better cut your trousers open, over that wound," called Scout Van
Sant. "Did you have on colored underdrawers?"
"None o' your business," snarled the man. "You git, all of you."
"Wait a minute. Don't use that old handkerchief," spoke Scout Ward. And
away he ran for the packs. They were very busy Scouts, those two, and
right up to snuff. The arrow wound seemed to interest them. He came
back, and I saw what he had. "Here," he called; "if you'll promise not
to grab me I'll come and dress that in first-class shape. You're liable
to have an infection, from dirt."
"I'll infect _you_, if I ketch you," snarled the man, fingering his
wounded leg and dividing his glances between it and us.
"Well, if you won't promise, I'll lay this on this rock," continued
Scout Ward, as cool as you please. "You ought to cut the cloth away from
that wound; then you dissolve this bichloride of mercury tablet in a
quart of water, and flush that hole out thoroughly; then you moisten a
pad of this cloth in the water and bind it on the hole with this
surgical bandage. See?" (Note 46.)
"I'll bind you on a hole, if I ketch you," snarled the man. That hole
ached, I reckon.
But Scout Ward advanced and laid the first-aid stuff on a stone about
ten feet from the man, so that he could crawl and get it.
"Now hadn't you better give us that message? It's no good to you, and
it's done you harm enough," said Scout Van Sant.
"Give you nothin', except a dose of lead, if you don't git out pronto,"
snarled the man. "You git! Hear me? GIT! If you weren't kids, you'd git
something else beside jes' git. But I'm not goin' to tell you many more
times. GIT!"
The Red Fox Patrol Scouts looked at me and I looked at them, and we
agreed--for the man was growing angrier and angrier. There was no sense
in badgering him. A fellow must use discretion, you know.
"All right; we'll 'git,'" answered Scout Ward. "But we'll keep on your
trail till you turn over that message. You've no business with it."
The man just growled, and as we turned away he began to pull his
trouser-leg up further and to fuss with his dirty sock and his pink
underdrawers there. Those were no things to have about an open wound.
"You'd better use that first-aid wash and bandage," called back Scout
Ward.
We went to the packs and the Red Fox Patrol Scouts slung them on. They
wouldn't let me carry one. We didn't know exactly what to do, now:
whether to go on and wait, or wait here, while we watched. Only--
"You Scouts take the trail for your rendezvous," I said. Rendezvous, you
know, is the place where Scouts come together; and these two boys were
on their way to meet the rest of their party, for Salt Lake and the
Yellowstone, when I had come in on them.
"No," they said; "your trail is our trail. Scouts help each other. We
can meet our party somewhere later, and still be in time."
Scouts mean what they say, so I didn't argue, and I was mighty glad to
have them along. We decided to follow the trail we were on for a little
way, and then to climb the side of the gulch and make Sunday camp where
we could watch the man's movements.
We passed the dug-out; up back of it the beaver man was tying his
bandanna handkerchief around his leg! He didn't look at us, and he
hadn't touched the first-aid stuff on the rock.
As we hiked on, I kept noticing that smell of smoke--a piny smoke; and
it did not come from the dug-out, surely. Now I remembered that I had
been smelling that piny smoke all day, and I laid it to the two
camp-fires, but I must have been mistaken. Or else there was another
fire, still--or I had the smell in my nose and couldn't get it out. When
you are in the habit of smelling for something, you keep thinking that
it is there, all the time. A Scout must watch his imagination, and not
be fooled by it.
We climbed the side of the gulch, through the trees; the Red Fox boys
carried their packs right along, without resting any more than I did.
They were toughened to the long trail. The sun began to be clouded and
hazy. When we halted halfway up, and looked back and down, at the
dug-out, the man had hobbled across from the dug-out and was leading
back his horse.
Just then Scout Ward spoke up. "It is smoke!" he exclaimed, puffing and
sniffing. "Boys, it's a forest fire somewhere."
So they had been smelling it, too.
I looked at the sun. The haze clouding it was the smoke!
"Climb on top, so we can see," I said; and away we went.
The timber was thick with spruces and pines. Up we went, among them, for
the top of the ridge. We came out into an open space; beyond, the ridge
fell away in a long slope of the timber, for the snowy range; and old
Pilot Peak was right before us, to the west. The sun was getting low,
and was veiled by smoke drifting across it. And on the right, distant a
couple of miles, up welled a great brownish-black mass from the fire
itself.
A forest fire, and a big one! The smell was very strong.
The Red Fox Scouts looked at me. "What ought we to do?" asked Scout Van
Sant. "Maybe you know more about these forest fires than we do."
Maybe I did. The Rockies are places for big forest fires, all right, and
I'd heard the Guards and Rangers talk, in our town. The timber was dry
as a bone, at this time of year. The smoke certainly was drifting our
way. And fire travels up-hill faster than it travels down-hill. So this
ridge, surrounded by the timber, was a bad spot to be caught in,
especially if that fire should split and come along both sides. No
timber ridge for us!
"Turn back and make for the creek; shall we?" proposed Scout Ward.
That didn't sound good to me, somehow. The creek was beginning to pinch
out, this high up the gulch, and a fire would jump it in a twinkling.
And if anything should happen to us, down there,--one of us hurt
himself, you know, in hurrying,--we should be in a trap as the fire
swept across. Out of the timber was the place for us.
But away across, an opposite slope rose to bareness, where were just
grass and rocks; and between was a long patch of aspens or willows, down
in the hollow. If we couldn't make the bareness, those aspens or willows
would be better than the pines and evergreens. They wouldn't burn so;
and if they were willows, they might be growing in a bog.
"No," I said. "Let's strike across," and I explained.
"But the man. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn't know," said Scout Van
Sant; and away he raced, down and back for the dug-out.
We followed, for of course we wouldn't let him go alone. As we ran we
all shouted, and at the dug-out we shouted, looking; but all that we saw
was the beaver man far off across the creek, riding through the timber.
He did not glance back; he kept on, riding slowly, headed for the fire.
That seemed bad. He was so angry that perhaps his judgment wasn't
working right, and he didn't pay much attention to the smell of smoke.
So all we could do was to race up the ridge again, get the packs, and
plunge down over for sanctuary.
The wind was blowing toward the fire, as if sucked in. But I knew that
this would not hold the fire, because there would be another breeze,
low, carrying it along. With a big fire there always is a wind, sucked
in from all sides, as the hot air rises.
Those Red Fox Scouts hiked well, loaded with their packs. I set the
pace, in a bee-line for the willows and aspens, and I was traveling
light, but they hung close behind. The altitude made them puff; they
fairly wheezed as we zigzagged down, among the trees; but we must get
out of this brush into the open.
"Will we make it?" puffed Ward.
"Sure," I said. But I was mighty anxious. It seemed to me that the
distance lengthened and lengthened and that I could feel the air getting
warm in puffs. This was imagination.
"Look!" cried Van Sant. "What's that?" He stopped and panted and
pointed.
"Bunch of deer!" cried Ward.
It was. Not a bunch, exactly, but two does and three fawns, scampering
through the timber below, fleeing from the fire. They were bounding over
brush and over logs, their tails lifted showing the white--and next they
were out of sight in a hollow. They made a pretty sight, but--
"Frightened by the fire, aren't they?" asked Scout Van Sant, quietly, as
we jogged on.
"Yes," I had to say.
This looked serious. The fire might not be coming, and again it might.
Animals are wise.
The smoke certainly was worse. The air certainly was warmer. The breeze
was changing, or else we were down into another breeze. Next I saw a
black, shaggy creature lumbering past, before, and I pointed without
stopping. They nodded.
"Bear?" panted Ward.
I nodded. The bear was getting out of the way, too.
"Will we make it?" again asked Ward.
"Sure," I answered. We _had_ to.
On we plowed. We were almost at the bottom of the slope and we ought to
be reaching those willows and aspens. The brush was not so bad, now; but
the brush does not figure much in a forest fire when the flames leap
from tree-top to tree-top and make a crown fire. That is the worst of
all. This was hot enough to be a crown fire, if a breeze helped it.
We saw lots of animals--rabbits and squirrels and porcupines and more
deer, and the birds were calling and fluttering. The smoke rasped our
throats; the air was thick with it and with the smell of burning pine.
And how we sweat.
Then, hurrah! We were into the aspens. I tell you, their white trunks
and their green leaves looked good to me; but ahead of us was that other
slope to climb, before we were into the bareness.
"Shall we go on?" asked Scout Van Sant.
He coughed; we all coughed, as we wheezed. That had been a hard hike.
The air was hot, we could _feel_ the fire as the wind came in strong
puffs; everywhere animals were running and flying, and the aspens were
full of wild things, panicky. We had to decide quickly, for the fire was
much closer.
"Are you good for another pull?" I asked.
They grinned, out of streaming faces and white lips.
"We'll make it if you can."
But I didn't believe that we could. Up I went into an aspen, to
reconnoiter.
"Be looking for wetness, or willows," I called down. They dropped their
packs and scurried.
CHAPTER XII
FOILING THE FIRE
I don't know what a record I made in climbing that tree--an aspen's bark
is slick--but in a jiffy I was at the top and could peer out. (Note
47.) All the sky was smoke, veiling the upper end of the valley and of
the ridge. The ridge must be afire; the fire was spreading along our
side; and if we tried for the opposite slope and the bare spot we might
be caught halfway! Something whisked through the trees under me. It was
a coyote. And as I slid down like lightning, thinking hard as to what we
must do and do at once, I heard a calling and Van Sant and Ward came
rushing back.
"We've found a place!" they cried huskily. "A boggy place, with willows.
Let's get in it."
We grabbed the packs. I carried one, at last. Scout Ward led straight
for the place. Willows began to appear, clustering thick. That was a
good sign. The ground grew wet and soft, and slushed about our feet. I
tell you, it felt fine!
"Will it do?" gasped Scout Ward, back.
"Great!" I said.
"It's occupied, but I guess we can squeeze in," added Van Sant.
And sure enough. Animals had got here first; all kinds--coyotes,
rabbits, squirrels, skunks, porcupines, a big gray wolf, and a brown
bear, and one or two things whose names I didn't know. But we didn't
care. We forced right in, to the very middle; nothing paid much
attention to us, except to step aside and give us room. Of course the
coyotes snarled and so did the wolf; but the bear simply lay panting, he
was so fat. And we lay panting, too.
We weren't any too soon. The air was gusty hot and gusty coolish, and
the smoke came driving down. We dug holes, so that the water would
collect, and so that we could dash it over each other if necessary. I
could reach with my hand and pet a rabbit, but I didn't. Nothing
bothered anything else. Even the coyotes and the wolf let the rabbits
alone. This was a sanctuary. There was a tremendous crashing, and a big
doe elk bolted into the midst of us. She was thin and quivery, and her
tongue was hanging out and her eyes staring. But she didn't stay; with
another great bound she was off, outrunning the fire. She probably knew
where she was going.
We others lay around, flat, waiting.
"Wish we were on her back," gasped Van Sant.
"We're all right," I said.
"Think so?"
"Sure," I answered.
They were game, those Red Fox Scouts. They never whimpered. We had done
the best we could, and after you've done the best you can there is
nothing left except to take what comes. And take it without kicking. As
for me, I was full of thought. I never had been in a forest fire,
before, but it seemed to me our chances were good. Only, I wondered
about General Ashley and Fitzpatrick, in the hands of that careless
gang; and about Major Henry and Jed Smith and Kit Carson, and about the
beaver man with the wounded leg. He'd have the hardest time of all.
Now the smoke was so heavy and sharp that we coughed and choked. The air
was scorching. We could hear a great crackling and snapping and the
breeze withered the leaves about us. We burrowed. The animals around us
cringed and burrowed. The fire was upon us--and a forest fire in the
evergreen country is terrible.
There was a constant dull roar; our willows swayed and writhed; the
rabbit crept right against me and lay shivering, and the coyotes
whimpered. I flattened myself, and so did the Red Fox Scouts; and with
my face in the ooze I tried to find cool air.
The roaring was steady; and the crackling and snapping was worse than
any Fourth of July. Sparks came whisking down through the willows and
sizzled in the wetness. One lit on a coyote and I smelled burning hair;
and then one lit on me and I had to turn over and wallow on my back to
put it out. "Ouch!" exclaimed Van Sant; and one must have lit on him,
too.
But that was not bad. If we could stand the heat, and not swallow it and
burn our lungs, we needn't mind the sparks; and maybe in ten or fifteen
minutes the worst would be over, when the branches and the brush had
burned.
Of course the first few moments were the ticklish ones. We didn't know
what might happen. But we never said a word. Like the animals we just
waited, and hoped for the best. When I found that we weren't being
burned, and that the roaring and the crackling weren't harming us, I
lifted my head. I sat up; and the Red Fox Scouts sat up, cautiously. We
were still all right. The air was smoky, but the _fire_ hadn't got at
us--and now it probably wouldn't. But this was not at all like Sunday!
The Red Fox Scouts were pale, under their mud; and so was I, I suppose.
I felt pale, and I felt weak and shaky--and I felt thankful. That had
been a mighty narrow escape for us. If we had not found the willows and
the wet, we would have died, it seemed to me.
"How about it?" asked Scout Ward, huskily, and his voice trembled, but
I didn't blame him for that. "It's gone past, hasn't it?"
"Yes," said I. And--
"We're still here," said Scout Van Sant.
"Well," said Ward, soberly--and smiling, too, with cracked lips, "I know
how I feel, and I guess you fellows feel the same way. God was good to
us, and I want to thank Him."
And we kept silent a moment, and did.
The roaring had about quit and the crackling was not nearly so bad. The
air was not fiery hot, any more; it was merely warm. The attack had
passed, and we were safe. The rabbit beside me hopped a few feet and
squatted again, and the fat bear sat up and blinked about him with his
piggish eyes. It seemed to me that the animals were growing uneasy and
that perhaps the truce was over with. In that case, unpleasant things
were likely to happen, so we had better move out.
"Shall we try it?" asked Van Sant.
We picked up the packs and sticking close together moved on--dodging
another gray wolf and a coyote, and an animal that looked like a
carcajou or wolverine, which snarled at us and wouldn't budge.
Of course, it was a little doubtful whether we could travel through
burned timber so soon after the fire had swept it. The ground would be
thick with coals and hot ashes, and trees would still be blazing. But
when we came out at the opposite edge of the willows and could see
through the aspens, the timber beyond did not look bad, after all. There
were a few burned places, but the fire had skirted the aspens on this
side only in spots, where cinders had lodged.
So if we had kept going instead of having stopped in the willows we
might have reached the place beyond all right; but it would have been
taking an awful risk, and we decided that we had done the correct thing.
Smoke still hung heavy and the smell of burning pine was strong, as we
threaded our way among the hot spots, making for the ridge beyond. That
bare place would be a good lookout, and we rather hankered for it,
anyway. We had crossed the valley, and as we climbed the slope we could
look back. The fire had covered both sides of the first ridge, and the
top, and if we had stayed there we would have been goners, sure, the way
matters turned out. It was a dismal sight, and ought to make anybody
feel sorry. Thousands of acres of fine timber had been killed--just
wasted.
"What do you suppose started it?" asked Scout Ward.
A camp-fire, probably. Lots of people, camping in the timber, either
don't know anything or else are out-and-out careless, like that gang
from town, or those two recruits who had not made good. And I more than
half believed that the fire might have started from their camps.
All of a sudden we found that we were hungry. I had been hungry before
the fire, because I hadn't had much to eat for twenty-four hours; but
during the fire I had forgotten about it; and now we all were hungry.
However, after that fire we were nervous, in the timber, and we knew
that if we camped there we wouldn't sleep. So we pushed on through, to
camp on top, in the bare region, where we would be out of danger and
could see around. The Red Fox canteens would give us water enough.
We came out on the bare spot. Away off to the right, along the side of
the ridge, figures were moving. They were human figures, not more wild
animals: two men and a pack burro. They were moving toward us, so we
obliqued toward them, with our shadows cast long by the low sun. The
grass was short and the footing was hard gravel, so that we could hurry;
and soon I was certain that I knew who those three figures were. One was
riding.
The side of the ridge was cut by a deep gulch, like a canyon, with rocky
walls and stream rolling through along the bottom. We halted on our
edge, and the three figures came on and halted on their edge. They were
General Ashley and Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand, and Apache the black burro.
The general was riding Apache. I was glad to see them.
"They're the two Elk Scouts who were captured," I said, to the Red Fox
Scouts; and I waved and grinned, and they waved back, and we all
exchanged the Scout sign.
But that gorge lay between, and the water made such a noise that we
couldn't exchange a word.
"Can they read Army and Navy wigwags?" asked Scout Ward.
"Sure," I said. "Can you?"
"Pretty good," he answered. "Shall I make a talk, or will you?"
But I wasn't very well practiced in wigwags, yet; I was only a
Second-class Scout.
"You," I said. "Do you want a flag?"
But he said he'd use his hat. (Note 48.)
He made the "attention" signal; and Fitzpatrick answered. Then he went
ahead, while Scout Van Sant spelled it out for me:
"R--e--d F--o--x."
And Fitz answered, like lightning:
"E--l--k."
"What shall I say?" asked Scout Ward of me, over his shoulder.
"Say we're all right, and ask them how they are."
He did. Scout Van Sant spelled the answer:
"O. K. B--u--t c--a--n--t c--r--o--s--s. C--a--m--p t--i--l--l
m--o--r--n--i--n--g. A--s--h h--u--r--t."
When we learned that General Ashley was hurt, and knew that he and
Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand were going to camp on the other side for the
night, the two Red Fox Scouts, packs and all, and I got through that
gulch somehow and up and out, where they were. It would have been a
shame to let a one-armed boy tend to the camp and to a wounded
companion, and do everything, if we could possibly help. Of course, Fitz
would have managed. He was that kind. He didn't ask for help.
They were waiting; Fitz had unpacked the burro and was making camp.
General Ashley was sitting with his back against a rock. He looked pale
and worn. He had sprained his ankle, back there when we had all tried to
escape, yesterday, and it was swollen horribly because he had had to
step on it some and hadn't been able to give it the proper treatment.
(Note 49.) Fitz looked worn, too, and of course we three others
(especially I) showed travel, ourselves.
After I had introduced the Red Fox Scouts to him and Fitz, then before
anything else was told I must report. So I did. But I hated to say it. I
saluted, and blurted it out:
"I followed the beaver man and sighted him, sir, but he got away again,
with the message."
The general did not frown, or show that he was disappointed or vexed. He
tried to smile, and he said: "Did he? That surely was hard luck then,
Jim. Where did he go?"
"We were with Bridger, and it seems to us that he did the best he could.
The fire interrupted," put in Red Fox Scout Van Sant, hesitatingly.
He spoke as if he knew that he had not been asked for an opinion, but as
a friend and as a First-class Scout he felt as though he ought to say
something.
"The best is all that any Scout can do," agreed the general. "Go ahead,
Jim, and tell what happened."
So I did. The general nodded. I hadn't made any excuses; I tried to tell
just the plain facts, and ended with our escape in the willows, from
that fire.
"The report is approved," he said. "We'll get that beaver man yet. We
must have that message. Now Fitz can tell what happened to us. But we'd
better be sending up smoke signals to call in the other squad, in case
they're where they can see. Make the council signal, Bridger."
Fitz had a fire almost ready; the Red Fox Scouts helped me, and gathered
smudge stuff while I proceeded to send up the council signal in the Elks
code. Fitz talked while he worked. The general looked on and winced as
his ankle throbbed. But he was busy, too, fighting pain.
Fitz told what had happened to them, after I had escaped. He and the
general had been taken back by the gang, and tied again, and camp was
broken in a hurry because the gang feared that now I would lead a
rescue. They were mean enough to make the general limp along, without
bandaging his foot, until he was so lame that he must be put on a horse.
The camp-fire was left burning and the bacon was forgotten. They climbed
a plateau and dropped into a flat, and following up very fast had curved
into the timber to cross another ridge into Lost Park and on for the
Divide by way of Glacier Lake. That is what the general and Fitz
guessed. That night they all camped on the other side of the timber
ridge, at the edge of Lost Park. They were in a hurry, still, and they
made their fire in the midst of trees where they had no business to make
it. They slept late, as they always did, and not having policed the camp
or put out their fire, scarcely had they plunged into Lost Park, the
next morning, when one of them looking back saw the trees afire where
they had been.
Lost Park is a mean place; the brush makes a regular jungle of it, and
fire would go through it as through a hayfield. That fact and their
guilty conscience made them panicky. It's a pretty serious thing, to
start a forest fire. So they didn't know what to do; some wanted to go
one way, and some another; the fire grew bigger and bigger, and the
cattle and game trails wound and twisted and divided so that the gang
were separated, in the brush, and it was every man for himself. The
general was riding Mike Delavan's horse, and Mike ordered him down and
climbed on himself and made off; and the first thing the general and
Fitz knew they were abandoned. That is what they would have maneuvered
for, from the beginning, and it would have been easy, as Scouts, to work
it, among those blind trails, but the general couldn't walk. Perhaps it
was by a mistake that they were abandoned; everybody may have thought
that somebody else was tending to them, and Mike didn't know what he was
doing, he was so excited. But there they were.
The general tried to hobble, and Fitz was bound that he would carry
him--good old Fitz, with the one arm! The bushes were high, the smoke
where the fire was mounted more and more and spread as if the park was
doomed, and the crashing and shouting and swearing of the gang faded and
died away in the distance. Then the general and Fitz heard something
coming, and down the trail they were on trotted Apache the burro! He
must have turned back or have entered by a cross trail. Whew, but they
were glad to see Apache! Fitz grabbed him by the neck rope. He had a
flat pack tied on with our rope, did Apache, and Fitz hoisted the
general aboard, and away they hiked, with the general hanging on and his
foot dangling.
Now that they could travel and head as they pleased, they worked right
back, out of the park, and by a big circuit so as not to run into the
gang they circled the fire and tried to strike the back trail somewhere
so as to meet Major Henry and Carson and Smith, who might be on it. But
they came out upon this plateau, and sighted us, and then we all met at
the edge of the gulch.
That was the report of Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand. He and the general
certainly had been through a great deal.
During the story the Red Fox Scouts and I had been making the smoke
signal over and over again. "Come to council," I sent up, while they
helped to keep the smudge thick. "Come to council," "Come to council,"
for Major Henry and Kit and Jed, wherever they might be. But we were so
interested in Fitz's story, how he and the general got away from the
gang and from the fire, that sometimes we omitted to scan the horizon.
The general didn't, though. He is a fine Scout.
"There's the answer!" he said suddenly. "They've seen! The fire didn't
get them. Hurrah!"
And "Hurrah!" we cheered.
CHAPTER XIII
ORDERS FROM THE PRESIDENT
(THE ADVENTURES OF THE MAJOR HENRY PARTY)
I am Tom Scott, or Major Andrew Henry, second in command of the Elk
Patrol Scouts which set out to take that message over the range. So now
I will make a report upon what happened to our detail after General
Ashley and Fitzpatrick and Bridger left, upon the trail of the two boys
who had stolen our flags and burros.
We waited as directed all day and all night, and as they did not come
back or make any signal, in the morning we prepared to follow them.
First we sent up another smoke for half an hour, and watched for an
answer; but nothing happened. Then we cached the camp stuff by rolling
in the bedding, with the tarpaulins on the outside, what we couldn't
carry, and stowing it under a red spruce. The branches came down clear
to the ground, in a circle around, and when we had crawled in and had
covered the bundle with other boughs and needles, it couldn't be seen
unless you looked mighty close.
We erased our tracks to the tree, and made two blazes, on other trees,
so that our cache was in the middle of a line from blaze to blaze. Then
we took sights, and wrote them down on paper, so that none of us would
forget how to find the place. (Note 50.)
We each had a blanket, rolled and slung in army style, with a string run
through and tied at the ends. I carried the twenty-two rifle, and we
stuffed away in our clothes what rations we could. In my blanket I
carried the other of our lariat ropes. We might need it.
So the time was about ten o'clock before we started. The trail was more
than twenty-four hours old, but our Scouts had made it plain on purpose,
and we followed right along. Of course, I am sixteen and Kit Carson is
thirteen and little Jed Smith is only twelve, so I set my pace to
theirs. A blanket roll weighs heavy after you have carried it a few
miles.
But we stopped only twice before we reached a sign marked in the ground:
"Look out!" The trail faltered, and an arrow showed which way to go, and
we came to the spot where the Scouts had peeped over into the draw and
had seen the enemy. Here another arrow pointed back, and we understood
exactly what had happened.
We took the new direction. The three Scouts had left as plain a trail as
they could by breaking branches and disturbing pebbles, and treading in
single file. Jed Smith was awful tired, by this time, for the sun was
hot and we hadn't halted to eat. But picking the trail we made the
circuit around the upper end of the draw and climbed the opposite ridge.
The trail was harder to read, here, among the grass and rocks.
By the sun it was the middle of the afternoon, now, and we must have
been on the trail five hours. We waited, and listened, and looked and
smelled, feeling for danger. We must not run into any ambuscade. A
little gulch, with timber, lay just ahead, and a haze of smoke floated
over it.
This spelled danger. It was not Scouts' smoke, because Scouts would not
be having a fire, at this time of day, smoking so as to betray their
position. When we made a smoke, we made it for a purpose. The place must
be reconnoitered.
We spread. I took the right, Kit Carson the left, and Jed Smith was put
in the middle because he was the littlest. It would have been good if we
could have left our blanket rolls, but we did not dare to. Of course, if
we were chased, we might have to drop them and let them be captured.
We crossed a cow-path, leading into the gulch. It held burro tracks,
pointing down; and it seemed to me that if there was any ambuscade down
there it would be along this trail. Naturally, the enemy would expect us
to follow the trail. Maybe the other Scouts had followed it and had
been surrounded. So we crossed the trail, and I signed to Carson and to
Smith to move out across the gulch and around by the other side.
We did. Cedars and spruces were scattered about, and gooseberry bushes
and other brush were screen enough; we swung down along the opposite
side, and the smoke grew stronger. But still we could not hear a sound.
We closed in, peering and listening--and then suddenly I wasn't afraid,
or at least, I didn't care. Through the stems of the trees was an open
park, at the foot of the gulch, and if there was a camp nobody was at
home, for the park was afire!
"Come on!" I shouted. "Fire!" and down I rushed. So did Carson and Jed
Smith.
We were just in time. The flames had spread from an old camp-fire and
had eaten along across the grass and pine needles and were among the
brush, getting a good start. Already a dry stump was blazing; and in
fifteen minutes more a tree somewhere would have caught. And then--whew!
But we sailed into it, stamping and kicking and driving it back from the
brush.
"Wet your blanket, Jed," I ordered, "while we fight."
A creek was near, luckily; Jed wet his blanket, and we each in turn wet
our blankets; and swiping with the rolls we smashed the line of fire
right and left, and had it out in just a few minutes.
Now a big blackened space was left, like a blot; and the burning and our
trampling about had destroyed most of the sign. But we must learn what
had happened. We got busy again.
We picked up the cow-path, back in the gulch, and found that the burros
had followed it this far. We found where the burros had been grazing and
standing, in the brush, near the burned area, and we found where horses
had been standing, too! We found fish-bones, and coffee-grounds dumped
from the little bag they had been boiled in, and a path had been worn to
the creek. We found in the timber and brush near by other sign, but we
missed the second warning sign. However, where the fire had not reached,
on the edge of the park, we found several pieces of rope, cut, lying
together, and in a soft spot of the turf here we found the hob-nail
prints of the Elk Patrol! By ashes we found where the main camp-fire had
been, and we found where a second smaller camp-fire had been, at the
edge of the park, and prints of shoes worn through in the left sole--the
shoes of the beaver man! We found a tin plate and fork, by the big
camp-fire, and wrapped in a piece of canvas in a spruce was a hunk of
bacon. By circling we found an out-going trail of horses and burros. We
found the out-going trail of the beaver man--or of a single horse,
anyway, but no shoe prints with it. But looking hard we found Scout
sole prints in the horse and burro trail.
By this time it was growing dusk, and Jed Smith was sick because he had
drunk too much water out of the creek, when he was tired and hot and
hungry. So we decided to stay here for the night. From the signs we
figured out what might have happened:
According to the tracks, the burro thieves had joined with this camp.
Our fellows had sighted the burro thieves, back where the "Look out"
sign had been made, and had circuited the draw so as to keep out of
sight themselves, and had taken the trail again on the ridge. They had
followed along that cow-path, and had been ambushed. The cut ropes
showed that they had been tied. This camp had been here for two or three
days, because of the path worn to the creek and because of the coffee
grounds and the fish bones and the other sign. It was a dirty camp, too,
and with its unsanitary arrangements and cigarette butts and tobacco
juice was such a camp as would be made by that town gang. The sign of
the cut ropes looked like the town gang, too. The camp must have broken
up in a hurry, and moved out quick, by the things that were forgotten.
Campers don't forget bacon, very often. The cut ropes would show haste,
and we might have thought that the Scout prisoners had escaped, if we
hadn't found their sole prints with the out-going trail. These prints
had been stepped on by burros, showing that the burros followed behind.
What the beaver man was doing here we could not tell.
So we guessed pretty near, I think.
Little Jed Smith had a splitting headache, from heat and work and
water-drinking. His tongue looked all right, so I decided it was just
tiredness and stomach. One of the blankets was dry; we wrapped him up
and let him lie quiet, with a wet handkerchief on his eyes, and I gave
him a dose of aconite, for fever. (Note 51.)
At this time, we know now, General Ashley and Thomas Fitzpatrick were
being hustled along one trail, captives to the gang; the beaver man was
on a second trail, with our message; and Jim Bridger was on his lone
scout in another direction, and just about to make a camp-fire with his
hob-nails and a flint.
The dusk was deepening, and Kit Carson and I went ahead settling camp
for the night. We built a fire, and spread the blankets, and were making
tea in a tin can when we heard hoof thuds on the cow-path. A man rode in
on us. He was a young man, with a short red mustache and a peaked hat,
and a greenish-shade Norfolk jacket with a badge on the left breast. A
Forest Ranger! Under his leg was a rifle in scabbard.
"Howdy?" he said, stopping and eying us.
Kit Carson and I saluted him, military way, because he represented the
Government, and answered: "Howdy, sir?"
He was cross, as he gazed about.
"What are you lads trying to do? Set the timber afire?" he scolded. He
saw the burned place, you know.
"We didn't do that," I answered. "It was afire when we came in and we
put it out."
He grunted.
"How did it start?"
"A camp-fire, we think."
He fairly snorted. He was pretty well disgusted and angered, we could
see.
"Of course. There are more blamed fools and down-right criminals loose
in these hills this summer than ever before. I've done nothing except
chase fires for a month, now. Who are you fellows?"
"We're a detail of the Elk Patrol, 14th Colorado Troop, Boy Scouts of
America."
"Well, I suppose you've been taught about the danger from camp-fires,
then?"
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"Bueno," he grunted. "Wish there were plenty more like you. Every person
who leaves a live camp-fire behind him, anywhere, ought to be made to
stay in a city all the rest of his life." (Note 52.)
He straightened in his saddle and lifted the lines to ride on. But his
horse looked mighty tired and so did he; and as a Scout it was up to me
to say: "Stop off and have supper. We're traveling light, but we can set
out bread and tea."
"Sure," added Kit Carson and Jed Smith.
"No, thanks," he replied. "I've got a few miles yet to ride, before I
quit. And to-morrow's Sunday, when I don't ride much if I can help it.
So long."
"So long," we called; and he passed on at a trot.
We had supper of bread and bacon and tea. The bread sopped in bacon
grease was fine. Jed felt better and drank some tea, himself, and ate a
little. It was partly a hunger headache. We pulled dead grass and cut
off spruce and pine tips, and spread a blanket on it all. The two other
blankets we used for covering. Our coats rolled up were pillows. We
didn't undress, except to take off our shoes. Then stretched out
together, on the one-blanket bed and under the two blankets, we slept
first-rate. Jed had the warm middle place, because he was the littlest.
As I was commander of the detail I woke up first in the morning, and
turned out. After a rub-off at the creek I took the twenty-two and went
hunting for breakfast. I saw a rabbit; but just as I drew a bead on him
I suddenly remembered that this was _Sunday morning_--and I quit.
Sunday ought to be different from other days. So I left him hopping and
happy, and I went back to camp. Jed and Kit had the fire going and the
water boiling; and we breakfasted on tea and bread and bacon.
Then we policed the camp, put out the fire, every spark, and took the
burro and horse trail, to the rescue again. We must pretend that this
was only a little Sunday walk, for exercise.
After a while the trail crossed the creek at a shallow place, and by a
cow-path climbed the side of a hill. Before exposing ourselves on top of
the hill we crawled and stuck just our heads up, Indian scouts fashion,
to reconnoiter. The top was clear of enemy. Sitting a minute, to look,
we could see old Pilot Peak and the snowy range where we Scouts ought to
be crossing, bearing the message. We believed that now the gang with
prisoners were traveling to cross the range, too. They had the message,
of course, and that was bad, unless we could head them off. So we sort
of hitched our belts another notch and traveled as fast as we could.
The hill we were on spread into a plateau of low cedars and scrubby
pines; the snowy range, with Pilot Peak sticking up, was before. After
we had been hiking for two or three hours, off diagonally to the left we
saw a forest fire. This was thick timber country, and the fire made a
tremendous smoke. It was likely to be a big fire, and we wondered if the
ranger was fighting it. As for us, we were on the trail and must hurry.
We watched the fire, but we were not afraid of it, yet. The plateau was
too bare for it, if it came our way. The smoke grew worse--a black,
rolling smoke; and we could almost see the great sheets of flame
leaping. We were glad we weren't in it, and that we didn't know of
anybody else who was in it. But whoever had set it had done a dreadful
thing.
The trail of the burros and of the horses, mixed, continued on, and left
the plateau and dipped down into a wide flat, getting nearer to the
timber on the slope opposite. Then out from our left, or on the fire
side, a man came riding hard. He shouted and waved at us, so we stopped.
He was the Ranger. I tell you, but he looked tired and angry. His eyes
were red-rimmed and his face was streaked with sweat and dirt, and holes
were burned in his clothes and his horse's hide.
"I want you boys," he panted, as soon as he drew up. "We've got to stop
that fire. See it?"
Of course we'd seen it. But--it wasn't any of our business, was it?
"I want you to hurry over there to a fire line and keep the fire from
crossing. Quick! Savvy?"
"I don't believe we can, sir," I said. "We're on the trail."
"What difference does that make?"
"We're after a gang who have three of our men and we want to stop them
before they cross the range."
"You follow me."
"I'm sorry," I said; "but we're trailing. We're obeying orders."
"Whose orders?"
"Our Patrol leader's."
"Who's he?"
"General Ashley--I mean, Roger Franklin. He's another boy. But he's been
captured and two of our partners. We're to follow and rescue them. We've
got to go."
"No, you haven't," answered the Ranger. "Not until after this fire is
under control. You'll be paid for your time."
"We don't care anything about the pay," said Kit Carson. "We've got to
go on."
"Well, I'm giving you higher orders from a higher officer, then,"
retorted the Ranger. "I'm giving you orders from the President of the
United States. This is Government work, and I'm representing the
Government. I reckon you Boy Scouts want to support the Government,
don't you?"
Sure we did.
"If that fire goes it will burn millions of dollars' worth of timber,
and may destroy ranches and people, too. It's your duty now to help the
Government and to put it out. Your duty to Uncle Sam is bigger than any
duty to private Scouts' affairs. And it is the law that anybody seeing a
forest fire near him shall r
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