Pluck on the Long Trail

E >> Edwin L. Sabin >> Pluck on the Long Trail

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

"No, sir, we'll take you along if we have to carry you on our backs," we
said; and we started in, all to talk at once. But he made us quit.

"Say, do I have to sit here all night while you chew the rag?" grumbled
the beaver man. But we didn't pay attention to _him_.

"It doesn't matter about me, whether I go or not, as long as we get that
message through," answered the general, to us. "I can't travel, and I'd
only hold you back and delay things. I'll quit, and the rest of you
hustle and make up for lost time."

"I'll stay with you. This is Scout custom: two by two," spoke up little
Jed Smith. He was the general's mate.

"Nobody stays with me. You all go right on under Corporal Henry."

"It'll be plumb dark before we get to that cabin," grumbled the beaver
man. "This ain't any way to treat a fellow who's been stuck and then
burnt. I'm tired o' sittin' on this hoss with my toes out."

"Well, you can get off and let this other man ride. I'll hobble you and
he can lead you," said the Ranger.

"What's the matter with the burro?" growled the beaver man. He wasn't
so anxious to walk, after all.

Sure! We knew that the Ranger was waiting, so while some of us led up
Apache, others bandaged the general's ankle tighter, to make it ride
easier and not hurt so much if it dangled. Then we lifted the general,
Scout fashion, on our hands, and set him on Apache.

Now something else happened. Red Fox Scout Ward stepped forward and took
the lead rope.

"I'm going," he announced quietly. "I'm feeling fine and you other
fellows are tired. Somebody must bring the burro back, and the general
may need a hand."

"No, I won't," corrected the general.

"But the burro must come back."

"It's up to us Elk Scouts to do that," protested Major Henry. "Some of
us will go. You stay. It's dark."

"No, sir. You Elk men have been traveling on short rations and Van Sant
and I have been fed up. It's either Van or I, and I'll go." And he did.
He was bound to. But it was a long extra tramp.

We shook hands with the general, and gave him the Scouts' cheer; and a
cheer for the Ranger.

"Ain't we ever goin' to move on?" grumbled the beaver man.

"I may stay all night and be back early in the morning," called Ward.

"Of course."

They trailed away, in the dimness--the Ranger ahead leading the beaver
man, Red Fox Scout Ward leading Apache. And we were sorry to see them
go. We should miss the plucky Ashley, our captain.

CHAPTER XVI

A BURRO IN BED

When I woke in the morning Fitz was already up, building the fire,
according to routine, and Red Fox Scout Van Sant was helping him. So I
rolled out at once, and here came Red Fox Scout Ward with the burro,
across the mesa, for the camp.

He brought a little flour and a few potatoes and a big hunk of meat, and
a fry-pan. He brought a map of the country, too, that he had sketched
from information from the Ranger. That crack beside Pilot Peak, where
the sun had set, was a pass through, which we could take for Green
Valley. It was a pass used by the Indians and buffalo, once, and an old
Indian trail crossed it still. The general sent word that if we took
that trail, he would get the goods we had left cached.

"Now," reported Major Henry, when we had filled for a long day's march,
"I'll put it to vote. We can either find that cache ourselves, and take
the trail from there, as first planned, or we can head straight across
the mountain. It's a short cut for the other side of the range, but it
may be rough traveling. The other way, beyond the cache, looked pretty
rough, too. But we'd have our traps and supplies,--as much as we could
pack on Apache, anyhow."

"I vote we go straight ahead, over the mountain, this way," said Fitz.
"We'll get through. We've got to. We've been out seven days, and we
aren't over, yet."

We counted. That was so. Whew! We must hurry. Kit and Jed and I voted
with Fitz.

"All right. Break camp," ordered Major Henry.

He didn't have to speak twice.

"That Ranger says we can strike the railroad, over on the other side,
Van, and make our connections there," said Red Fox Scout Ward to his
partner. "Let's go with the Elks and see them through that far."

That was great. They had come off their trail a long way already,
helping me, it seemed to us--but if they wanted to keep us company
further, hurrah! Only, we wouldn't sponge off of them, just because they
had the better outfit, now.

We policed the camp, and put out the fire, through force of habit, and
with the burro packed with the squaw hitch (Note 55), and the Red
Foxes packed, forth we started, as the sun was rising, to follow the Ute
trail, over Pilot Peak. The Red Fox Scouts carried their own stuff; they
wouldn't let us put any of it on Apache, for they were independent, too.

Travel wasn't hard. After we crossed the gorge the top of the mesa or
plateau was flat and gravelly, with some sage and grass, and we made
good time. We missed the general, and we were sorry to leave that cache,
but we had cut loose and were taking the message on once more. Thus we
began our second week out.

The forest fire was about done. Just a little smoke drifted up, in the
distance behind and below. But from our march we could see where the
fire had passed through the timber, yonder across; and that blackened
swath was a melancholy sight. We didn't stop for nooning, and when we
made an early camp the crack had opened out, and was a pass, sure
enough.

Red Fox Scout Van Sant and I were detailed to take the two rifles and
hunt for rabbits. We got three--two cottontails and a jack--among the
willows where a stream flowed down from the pass. The stream was
swarming here with little trout, and Jed Smith and Kit Carson caught
twenty-four in an hour. So we lived high again.

Those Red Fox Scouts had a fine outfit. They had a water-proof silk
tent, with jointed poles. It folded to pocket size, and didn't weigh
anything at all; but when set up it was large enough for them both to
sleep in. Then they had a double sleeping bag, and blankets that were
light and warm both, and a lot of condensed foods and that little
alcohol stove, and a complete kit of aluminum cooking and eating ware
that closed together--and everything went into those two packs.

They used the packs instead of burros or pack-horses. I believe that
animals are better in the mountains where a fellow climbs at ten and
twelve thousand feet, and where the nights are cold so he needs more
bedding than lower down. Man-packs are all right in the flat timber and
in the hills out East, I suppose. But all styles have their good points,
maybe; and a Scout must adapt himself to the country. We all can't be
the same.

Because the Red Fox Scouts were Easterners, clear from New Jersey, and
we were Westerners, of Colorado, we sort of eyed them sideways, at
first. They had such a swell outfit, you know, and their uniform was
smack to the minute, while ours was rough and ready. They set up their
tent, and we let them--but our way was to sleep out, under tarps (when
we had tarps), in the open. We didn't know but what, on the march, they
might want to keep their own mess--they had so many things that we
didn't. But right away a good thing happened again.

"How did Fitzpatrick lose his arm?" asked Scout Van Sant of me, when we
were out hunting and Fitz couldn't hear.

"In the April Day mine," I said.

"Where?"

"Back home."

He studied. "I _thought_ the name of that town sounded awfully familiar
to me," he said.

When we came into camp with our rabbits, he went straight up to Fitz.

"I hear you hurt your arm in the April Day mine," he said.

"Yes. I was working there," answered Fitz. "Why?"

Van Sant stuck out his hand. "Shake," he said. "My father owns that
mine--or most of it. Ever hear of him?"

"No," said Fitz, flushing. "I'm just a mucker and a sorter. My father's
a miner."

"Well, shake," laughed Van Sant. "I never even mucked or sorted, and you
know more than I do about it. My father just owns--and if it wasn't for
the workers like you and your father, the mine wouldn't be worth owning.
See? I'm mighty sorry you got hurt there, though."

Fitz shook hands. "It was partly my own fault," he said. "I took a
chance. That was before your father bought the mine, anyway."

Then he went to cooking and we cleaned our game. But from that time on
we knew the Red Fox Scouts to be all right, and their being from the
East made no difference in them. So we and they used each other's
things, and we all mixed in together and were one party.

We had a good camp and a big rest, this night: the first time of real
peace since a long while back, it seemed to me. The next morning we
pushed on, following up along the creek, and a faint trail, for the
pass.

This day's march was a hard climb, every hour, and it took our wind,
afoot. But by evening old Pilot Peak wasn't far at all. His snow patches
were getting larger. When we camped in a little park we must have been
up about eleven thousand feet, and the breeze from the Divide ahead of
us blew cool.

The march now led through aspens and pines and wild flowers, with the
stream singing, and forming little waterfalls and pools and rapids, and
full of those native trout about as large as your two fingers. There was
the old Indian trail, to guide us. It didn't have a track except
deer-tracks, and we might have been the only white persons ever here.
That was fine. Another sign was the amount of game. Of course, some of
the game may have been driven here by the forest fire. But we saw lots
of grouse, which sat as we passed by, and rabbits and porcupines, and
out of the aspens we jumped deer.

We arrived where the pretty little stream, full of songs and pictures
and trout, came tumbling out of a canyon with bottom space for just it
alone. The old Indian trail obliqued off, up a slope, through the timber
on the right, and so did we.

It was very quiet, here. The lumber folks had not got in with their saws
and axes, and the trees were great spruces, so high and stately that we
felt like ants. Among the shaded, nice-smelling aisles the old trail
wound. Sometimes it was so covered with the fallen needles that we could
not see it; and it had been blazed, years ago, by trappers or somebody,
and where it crossed glades we came upon it again. It was an easy trail.

We reached the top of a little ridge, and before us we saw the pass.
'Twas a wide, open pass, with snow-banks showing on it, and the sun
swinging down to set behind it.

The trail forked, one branch making for the pass, the other making for
the right, where Pilot Peak loomed close at hand. There was some reason
why the trail forked, and as we surveyed we caught the glint of a lake,
over there.

Major Henry examined the sketch map. "That must be Medicine Lake," he
said. "I think we'd better go over there and camp, instead of trying the
pass. We're sure of wood and water, and it won't be so windy."

The trail took us safely to the brow of a little basin, and looking down
we saw the lake. It was lying at the base of Pilot Peak. Above it on one
side rose a steep slope of a gray slide-rock, like a railway cut, only
of course no railroad was around here; and all about, on the other
sides, were pointed pines.

I tell you, that was beautiful. And when we got to the lake we found it
to be black as ink--only upon looking into it you could see down, as if
you were looking through smoky crystal. The water was icy cold, and full
of specks dancing where the sun struck, and must have been terrifically
deep.

We camped beside an old log cabin, all in ruins. It was partly roofed
over with sod, but we spread our beds outside; these old cabins are
great places for pack-rats and skunks and other animals like those. Fish
were jumping in the lake, and the two Red Fox Scouts and I were detailed
to catch some. The Red Fox Scouts tried flies, but the water was as
smooth as glass, and you can't fool these mountain lake-trout, very
often, that way. Then we put on spinners and trolled from the shores by
casting. We could see the fish, gliding sluggishly about,--great big
fellows; but they never noticed our hooks, and we didn't have a single
strike. So we must quit, disgusted.

The night was grand. The moon was full, and came floating up over the
dark timber which we had left, to shine on us and on the black lake and
on the mountain. Resting there in our blankets, we Elk Scouts could see
all about us. The lake lay silent and glassy, except when now and then a
big old trout plashed. The slide-rock bank gleamed white, and above it
stretched the long rocky slope of Pilot, with the moon casting lights
and shadows clear to its top.

This was a mighty lonely spot, up here, by the queer lake, with timber
on one side and the mountain on the other; the air was frosty, because
ice would form any night, so high; not a sound could be heard, save the
plash of trout, or the sighs of Apache as he fidgeted and dozed and
grazed; but the Red Fox Scouts were snug under their tent, and under our
bedding we Elks were cuddled warm, in two pairs and with Major Henry
sleeping single.

We did not need to hobble or picket Apache. (Note 56.) He had come so
far that he followed like a dog and stayed around us like a dog. When
you get a burro out into the timber or desert wilds and have cut him
loose from his regular stamping ground, then he won't be separated from
you. He's afraid. Burros are awfully funny animals. They like company.
So when we camped we just turned Apache out, and he hung about pretty
close, expecting scraps of bread and stuff and enjoying our
conversation.

To-night he kept snorting and fussing, and edging in on us, and before
we went to sleep we had to throw sticks at him and shoo him off. It
seemed too lonesome for him, up here. Then we dropped to sleep, under
the moon--and then, the first thing Fitz and I knew, Apache was trying
to crawl into bed with us!

That waked us. Nobody can sleep with a burro under the same blanket.
Apache was right astraddle of us and was shaking like an aspen leaf; his
long ears were pricked, he was glaring about, and how he snorted! I sat
up; so did Fitz. We were afraid that Apache might step on our faces.

"Get out, Apache!" we begged. But he wouldn't "get." He didn't budge,
and we had to push him aside, with our hands against his stomach.

Now the whole camp was astir, grumbling and turning. Apache ran and
tried to bunk with Kit and Jed. "Get out!" scolded Kit; and repulsed
here, poor Apache stuck his nose in between the flaps of the silk tent
and began to shove inside.

Something crackled amidst the brush along the lake, and there sounded a
snort from that direction, also. It was a peculiar snort. It was a
grunty, blowy snort. And beside me Fitz stiffened and lifted his head
further.

"Bear!" he whispered.

"Whoof!" it answered.

"Bear! Look out! There's a bear around!" said the camp, from bed to bed.

Down came the silk tent on top of Apache, and out from under wriggled
the Red Fox Scouts, as fast as they could move. Their hair was rumpled
up, they were pale in the moonlight, and Van Sant had his twenty-two
rifle ready. That must have startled them, to be waked by a big thing
like Apache forcing a way into their tent.

"Who said bear? Where is it?" demanded Van Sant.

"Don't shoot!" ordered Major Henry, sharply, sitting up. "Don't anybody
shoot. That will make things worse. Tumble out, everybody, and raise a
noise. Give a yell. We can scare him."

"I see it!" cried Ward. "Look! In that clear spot yonder--up along the
lake, about thirty yards."

Right! A blackish thing as big as a cow was standing out in the
moonlight, facing us, its head high. We could almost see its nostrils as
it sniffed.

Up we sprang, and whooped and shouted and waved and threw sticks and
stones into the brush. With another tremendous "Whoof!" the bear
wheeled, and went crashing through the brush as if it had a tin can tied
to its tail. We all cheered and laughed.

"Jiminy! I ought to have tried a flashlight of it," exclaimed Fitz,
excited. "If we see another bear I'm sure going to get its picture. I
need some bear pictures. Don't let's be in such a hurry, next time."

"That depends on the bear," said little Jed Smith. "Sometimes you can't
help being in a hurry, with a bear."

"Guess we'd better dig the burro out of our tent," remarked Scout Ward.
"He smelled that bear, didn't he?"

He certainly did. If there's one thing a burro is afraid of, it's a
bear. No wonder poor Apache tried to crawl in with us. We hauled him
loose of the tent, and helped the Red Fox Scouts set the tent up again.
Apache snorted and stared about; and finally he quieted a little and
went to browsing, close by, and we Scouts turned in to sleep again.

When I woke the next time it was morning and the bear had not come back,
for Apache was standing fast asleep in the first rays of the sun, at the
edge of the camp.

We could catch no fish for breakfast. They paid no attention to any
bait. So we had the last of the meat, and some condensed sausage that
the Red Fox Scouts contributed to the pot. During breakfast we held a
council; old Pilot Peak stuck up so near and inviting.

"I've been thinking, boys, that maybe we ought to climb Pilot, for a
record, now we've got a good chance," proposed Major Henry. "What do you
say. Shall we vote on it?"

"How high is it?" asked Red Fox Scout Ward.

Major Henry looked at the map of the state. "Fourteen thousand, two
hundred and ten feet."

"Whew!" Scout Ward eyed it. "We'd certainly like to make it. That would
be a chance for an honor, eh, Van?"

"You bet," agreed Van Sant.

"He's sure some mountain," we said.

"We haven't any time to spare from the trail," went on Major Henry, "and
it would kill a day, to the top and back. So we ought to double up by
traveling by night, some. But that wouldn't hurt any; it would be fun,
by moonlight. Now, if you're ready, all who vote to take the Red Fox
Scouts and climb old Pilot Peak for a record hold up their right hands."

"We won't vote. Don't make the climb on our account," cried the Red Fox
Scouts.

"Let's do it. I've never been fourteen thousand feet, myself," declared
Fitz.

And we all held up our right hands.

"Bueno," quoth Major Henry. "Then we go. We'll climb Pilot and put in
extra time on the trail. Cache the stuff, police the camp, put out the
fire, take what grub we can in our pockets, and the sooner we start the
better."

Maybe we ought not to have done this. Our business was the message. We
weren't out for fun or for honors. We were out to carry that message
through in the shortest time possible. The climb was not necessary--and
I for one had a sneaking hunch that we were making a mistake. But I had
voted yes, and so had we all. If anybody had felt dubious, he ought to
have voted no.

In the next chapter you will read what we got, by fooling with a side
issue.

CHAPTER XVII

VAN SANT'S LAST CARTRIDGE

The way to climb a mountain is not to tackle it by the short, steep way,
but to go up by zigzags, through little gulches and passes. You arrive
about as quick and you arrive easier.

Now from camp we eyed Old Pilot, calculating. Major Henry pointed.

"We'll follow up that draw, first," he said. "Then we can cross over to
that ledge, and wind around and hit the long stretch, where the snow
patches are. After that, I believe, we can go right on up."

We had just rounded the lower end of the lake, and were obliquing off
and up for the draw, when we heard a funny bawly screech behind us, and
a clattering, and along at a gallop came Apache, much excited, and at a
trot joined our rear. He did not propose to be left alone! We were glad
enough to have him, if he wanted to make the climb, too. He followed us
all the way, eating things, and gained a Scout mountain honor.

We were traveling light, of course. Fitz had his camera slung over his
shoulder, Red Fox Scout Van Sant had his twenty-two rifle, because we
thought we might run into some grouse, and the law on grouse was out at
last and we needed meat. Nobody bothered with staffs. They're no good
when you must use hands and knees all at once, as you do on some of the
Rocky Mountains. They're a bother.

We struck into the draw. It was shallow and bushy, with sarvice-berries
and squaw-berries and gooseberries; but we didn't stop to eat. We let
Apache do the eating. Our thought was to reach the very tip-top of
Pilot.

The sun shone hot, making us sweat as we followed up through the draw,
in single file, Major Henry leading, Fitz next, then the Red Fox Scouts,
and we three others strung out behind, with Apache closing the rear. The
draw brought us out, as we had planned, opposite the ledge, and we swung
off to this.

Now we were up quite high. We halted to take breath and puff. The ledge
was broad and flat and grassy, with rimrock behind it; and from it we
could look down upon the lake, far below, and the place of our camp, and
the big timber through which we had trailed, and away in the distance
was the mesa or plateau that we had crossed after the forest fire. We
were above timber-line, and all around us were only sunshine and
bareness, and warmth and nice clean smells.

"Whew!" sighed Red Fox Scout Ward. "It's fine, fellows."

That was enough. We knew how he felt. We felt the same.

But of course we weren't at the top, not by any means. Major Henry
started again, on the upward trail. We followed along the ledge around
the rimrock until we came to a little pass through. That brought us into
a regular maze of big rocks, lying as if a chunk as big as a city block
had dropped and smashed, scattering pieces all about. This spot didn't
show from below. That is the way with mountains. They look smooth, but
when you get up close they break out into hills and holes and rocks and
all kinds of unexpected places, worse than measles.

But among these jagged chunks we threaded, back and forth, always trying
to push ahead, until suddenly Red Fox Scout Ward called, "I'm out!" and
we went to him. So he was.

That long, bare slope lay beyond, blotched with snow. The snow had not
seemed much, from below; but now it was in large patches, with drifts so
hard that we could walk on them. One drift was forty feet thick; it was
lodged against a brow, and down its face was trickling black water,
streaking it. This snow-bank away up here was the beginning of a river,
and helped make the lake.

We had spread out, with Apache still behind. Suddenly little Jed
called. "See the chickens?" he said.

We went over. Chirps were to be heard, and there among the drifts, on
the gravelly slope, were running and pecking and squatting a lot of
birds about like gray speckled Brahmas. They were as tame as speckled
Brahmas, too. They had red eyes and whitish tails.

"Ptarmigan!" exclaimed Fitz, and he began to take pictures. He got some
first-class ones.

Red Fox Scout Van Sant never made a move to shoot any of them. They were
so tame and barn-yardy. We were glad enough to let them live, away up
here among the snowdrifts, where they seemed to like to be. It was their
country, not ours--and they were plucky, to choose it. So we passed on.

The slope brought us up to a wide moraine, I guess you'd call it, where
great bowlders were heaped as thick as pebbles--bowlders and blocks as
large as cottages. These had not looked to be much, either, from below.

On the edge of them we halted, to look down and behind again. Now we
were much higher. The ledge was small and far, and the timber was small
and farther, and the world was beginning to lie flat like a map. On the
level with us were only a few other peaks, in the snowy Medicine Range.
The pass itself was so low that we could scarcely make it out.

To cross that bowlder moraine was a terrific job. We climbed and
sprawled, and were now up, now down. It was a go-as-you-please.
Everywhere among the bowlders were whistling rock-rabbits, or conies.
They were about the size of small guinea-pigs, and had short tails and
round, flat bat ears plastered close to their heads. They had their
mouths crammed full of dried grass, which they carried into their nests
through crannies--putting away hay for the winter! It was mighty
cheerful to have them so busy and greeting us, away up in these lonely
heights, and Fitz got some more good animal pictures.

Apache was in great distress. He couldn't navigate those bowlders. We
could hear him "hee-hawing" on the lower edge, and could see him staring
after us and racing frantically back and forth. But we must go on; we
would pick him up on our way down.

Well, we got over the bowlder field--Fitz as spryly as any of us. Having
only one good arm made no difference to him, and he never would accept
help. He was independent, and we only kept an eye on him and let him
alone. The bowlders petered out; and now ahead was another slope, with
more snow patches, and short dead grass in little bunches; and it ended
in a bare outcrop: the top!

Our feet weighed twenty-five pounds each, our knees were wobbly, we
could hear each other pant, and my heart thumped so that the beats all
ran together. But with a cheer we toiled hard for the summit, before
resting. We didn't race--not at fourteen thousand feet; we weren't so
foolish--and I don't know who reached it first. Anyway, soon we all were
there.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17