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

"All right. I've got it, major," I told him. "We'll carry it on. We can
make Green Valley easy, from here. We'll start as soon as we can.
To-morrow's Sunday, anyway. You go to sleep."

That half-satisfied him.

We found that we couldn't eat much. We drank some milk, and stuffed down
some bread and butter; and by that time Fitz and Scout Ward had the
horses led out. We heard the hoofs, and in came Ward, to tell us.

"Horses are ready," he announced.

Out we went. No time was to be lost. They even had saddled them--Fitz
working with his one hand! So all we must do was to climb on. The women
had told us the trail, and they had given us an old heavy coat apiece.
Nights are cold, in the mountains.

"You know how, do you?" queried Fitz of me.

"Yes."

"That gray horse is the easiest," called one of the women, from the
door.

"Let Jim take it, then," spoke Van.

But I had got ahead of him by grabbing the bay.

"Jim is used to riding," explained Fitz.

"So am I," answered Van.

"Not these saddles, Van," put in Ward. "They're different. The stirrups
of the gray are longer, a little. They'll fit you better than they'll
fit Jim."

Van had to keep the gray. It didn't matter to me which horse I rode, and
it might to him from the East; so I was glad if the gray was the easier.

We were ready.

"We'll take care of Tom till you bring the doctor," said Fitz.

"We'll bring him."

"So long. Be Scouts."

"So long."

A quick grip of the hand from Fitz and Ward, and we were off, out of the
light from the opened door where stood the two women, watching, and into
the dimness of the light. Now for a forty-mile night ride, over a
strange trail--twenty miles to the mines and twenty miles back. We would
do our part and we knew that Fitz and Ward would do theirs in keeping
the major safe.

That appeared a long ride. Twenty miles is a big stretch, at night, and
when you are so anxious.

We were to follow on the main trail for half a mile until we came to a
bridge. But before crossing the bridge there was a gate on the right,
and a hay road through a field. After we had crossed the field we would
pass out by another gate, and would take a trail that led up on top of
the mesa. Then it was nineteen miles across the mesa, to the mines. The
mines would have a light. They were running night and day.

We did not say much, at first. We went at fast walk and little trots, so
as not to wind the horses in the very beginning. We didn't dash away,
headlong, as you sometimes read about, or see in pictures. I knew
better. Scouts must understand how to treat a horse, as well as how to
treat themselves, on the march.

This was a dark night, because it was cloudy. There were no stars, and
the moon had not come up yet. So we must trust to the horses to keep the
trail. By looking close we could barely see it, in spots. Of course, the
darkness was not a deep black darkness. Except in a storm, the night of
the open always is thinnish, so you can see after your eyes are used to
it.

I had the lead. Up on the mesa we struck into a trot. A lope is easier
to ride, but the trot is the natural gait of a horse, and he can keep up
a trot longer than he can a lope. Horses prefer trotting to galloping.

Trot, trot, trot, we went.

"How you coming?" I asked, to encourage Van.

"All right," he grunted. "These stirrups are too long, though. I can't
get any purchase."

"Doesn't your instep touch, when you stand up in them?"

"If I straighten out my legs. I'm riding on my toes. That's the way I
was taught. I like to have my knees crooked so I can grip with them.
Don't you, yours?"

"Just to change off to, as a rest. But cowboys and other people who ride
all day stick their feet through the stirrup to the heel, and ride on
their instep. A crooked leg gives a fellow a cramp in the knee, after a
while. Out here we ride straight up and down, so we are almost standing
in the stirrups all the time. That's the cowboy way, and it's about the
cavalry way, too. Those men know."

"How do you grip, then?"

"With the thigh. Try it. But when you're trotting you'd better stand in
the stirrups and you can lean forward on the horn, for a rest."

Van grunted. He was experimenting.

"Should think it would make your back ache," he said.

"What?"

"To ride with such long stirrups."

"Uh uh," I answered. "Not when you sit up and balance in the saddle and
hold your spine straight. It always makes my back ache to hunch over. We
Elk Scouts try to ride with heel and shoulders in line. We can ride all
day."

"Humph!" grunted Van. "Let's lope."

"All right."

So we did lope, a little way. Then we walked another little way, and
then I pushed into the same old trot. That was hard on Van, but it was
what would cover the ground and get us through quickest to the doctor.
So we must keep at it.

Sometimes I stood in the stirrups and leaned on the horn; sometimes I
sat square and "took it."

We crossed the mesa, and first thing we knew, we were tilting down into a
gulch. The horses picked their way slowly; we let them. We didn't want
any tumbles or sprained legs. The bottom of the gulch held willows and
aspens and brush, and was dark, because shut in. We didn't trot. My old
horse just put his nose down close to the ground, and went along at an
amble, like a dog, smelling the trail. I let the lines hang and gave him
his head. Behind me followed Van and his gray. I could hear the gray
also sniffing. (Note 65.)

"Will we get through?" called Van, anxiously. "Think we're still on the
trail?"

"Sure," I answered.

Just then my horse snorted, and raised his head and snorted more, and
stood stock-still, trembling. I could feel that his ears were pricked.
He acted as if he was seeing something, in the trail.

"Gwan!" I said, digging him with my heels.

"What's the matter?" called Van.

His horse had stopped and was snorting.

"Don't know."

It was pitchy dark. I strained to see, but I couldn't. That is a creepy
thing, to have your horse act so, when you don't know why. Of course you
think bear and cougar. But we were not to be held up by any foolishness,
and I was not a bit afraid.

"Gwan!" I ordered again.

"Gwan!" repeated Van.

I heard a crackling in the brush, and my horse proceeded, sidling and
snorting past the spot. Van's gray followed, acting the same way. It
might have been a bear; we never knew.

On we went, winding through the black timber again. We were on the
trail, all right; for by looking at the tree-tops against the sky we
could just see them and could see that they were always opening out,
ahead. The trail on the ground was kind of reproduced on the sky.

It was a long way, through that dark gulch. But nothing hurt us and we
kept going.

The gulch widened; we rode through a park, and the horses turned sharply
and began to climb a hill--zigzagging back and forth. We couldn't see a
trail, and I got off and felt with my hands.

A trail was there.

We came out on top. Here it was lighter. The moon had risen, and some
light leaked through the clouds.

"Do you think we're on the right trail, still?" asked Van, dubiously.
"They didn't say anything about this other hill."

That was so. But they hadn't said anything about there being two trails,
either. They had said that when we struck the trail over the mesa, to
follow it to the mines.

"It must be the right trail," I said, back. "All we can do is to keep
following it."

Seemed to me that we had gone the twenty miles already. But of course we
hadn't.

"Maybe we've branched off, on to another trail," persisted Van. "The
horses turned, you remember. Maybe we ought to go back and find out."

"No, it's the right trail," I insisted, again. "There's only the one,
they said."

We must stick to that thought. We had been told by persons who knew. If
once we began to fuss and not believe, and experiment, then we both
would get muddled and we might lose ourselves completely. I remembered
what old Jerry the prospector once had said: "When you're on a trail,
and you've been told that it goes somewhere, keep it till you get there.
Nobody can describe a trail by inches."

We went on and on and on. It was down-hill and up-hill and across and
through; but we pegged along. Van was about discouraged; and it was a
horrible sensation, to suspect that after all we might have got upon a
wrong trail, and that we were not heading for the doctor but away from
him, while Fitz and Ward were doing their best to save Tom, thinking
that we would come back bringing the doctor.

We didn't talk much. Van was dubious, and I was afraid to discuss with
him, or I might be discouraged, too. I put all my attention to making
time at fast walk and at trot, and in hoping. Jiminy, how I did hope.
Every minute or two I was thinking that I saw a light ahead--the light
of the mines. But when it did appear, it appeared all of a sudden,
around a shoulder: a light, and several lights, clustered, in a hollow
before!

"There it is, Van!" I cried; and I was so glad that I choked up.

"Is that the mines?"

"Sure. Must be. Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!"

The sight changed everything. Now the night wasn't dark, the way hadn't
been so long after all, we weren't so tired, we had been silly to doubt
the trail; for we had arrived, and soon we would be talking with the
doctor.

The trail wound and wound, and suddenly, again, it entered in among
sheds, and the dumps of mines. At the first light I stopped. The door
was partly open. It was the hoisting house of a mine, and the engineer
was looking out, to see who we were.

"Is the doctor here?" I asked.

"Guess so. Want him?"

"Yes."

"He has a room over the store. Somebody hurt? Where you from?"

"Harden's ranch. Where is the store?"

"I'll show you. Here." He led the way. "Somebody hurt over there?"

"No. Sick."

We halted beside a platform of a dim building, and the engineer pounded
on the door.

"Oh, doc!" he called.

And when that doctor answered, through the window above, and we knew
that it was he, and that we had him at last, I wanted to laugh and
shout. But now we must get him back to the major.

"You're needed," explained the man. "Couple of kids." And he said to us:
"Go ahead and tell him. I'm due at the mine." And off he trudged. We
thanked him.

"What's the trouble?" asked the doctor.

"Appendicitis, we think. We're from the Harden ranch."

"Great Scott!" we heard the doctor mutter. Then he said. "All right,
I'll be down." And we waited.

He came out of a side door and around upon the porch. He was buttoning
his shirt.

"Who's got it? Not one of _you_?"

"No, another boy. He was sick on the trail and we took him to the ranch.
Then we rode over here."

"What makes you think your friend has appendicitis?"

We described how the major acted and what Fitz had found out by feeling,
and what we had done.

"Sounds suspicious," said the doctor, shortly. "You did the right thing,
anyway. Do you want to go back with me? I'll start right over. Expect
you're pretty tired."

"We'll go," we both exclaimed. We should say so! We wanted to be there,
on the spot.

"I'll just get my case, and saddle-up." And he disappeared.

He was a young doctor, smooth-faced; I guess he hadn't been out of
college very long; but he was prompt and ready. He came down in a moment
with a lantern, and put his case on the porch. He handed us a paper of
stuff.

"There's some lump sugar," he said. "Eat it. I always carry some about
with me, on long rides. It's fine for keeping up the strength."

He swung the lantern to get a look at us, then he went back toward the
stables, and saddled his horse. He was in the store a moment, too.

"I've got some cheese," he announced, when he came out again. "Cheese
and sugar don't sound good as a mixture, but they'll see us through. We
must keep our nerve, you know. All aboard?"

"All aboard," we answered.

That was another long ride, back; but it did not seem so long as the
ride in, because we knew that we were on the right trail. The doctor
talked and asked us all about our trip as Scouts, and told experiences
that he had had on trips, himself; and we tried to meet him at least
halfway. But all the time I was wondering about the major, and whether
we would reach him in time, and whether he would get well, and what was
happening now, there. But there was no use in saying this, or in asking
the doctor a lot of questions. He would know and he would do his best,
and so would we all.

Just at daylight we again entered the ranch yard. Fitz waved his one arm
from the ranch door. He came to meet us. His eyes were sticky and
swollen and his face pale and set, but he smiled just the same.

"Here's the doctor," we reported. "How is he?"

"Not so bad, as long as we keep the cold compress on. He's slept."

"Good," said the doctor. "We'll fix him up now, all right."

He swung off, with his case, and Fitz took him right in. Van and I sort
of tumbled off, and stumbled along after. Those forty miles at trot and
fast walk had put a crimp in our legs. But I tell you, we were thankful
that we had done it!

And here was our second Sunday.

CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST DASH

That young doctor was fine. He took things right into his own hands, and
Major Henry said all right. The major was weak but game. He was gamer
than any of us. Fitz and Red Fox Scout Ward had slept some by turns, and
the two women were ready to help, too; but the doctor gave Red Fox Scout
Van Sant and me the choice of going to sleep or going fishing.

It was Sunday and we didn't need the fish. We didn't intend to go to
sleep; we just let them show us a place, in the bunk-house, and we lay
down, for a minute. For we were ready to help, as well as the rest of
them. A Scout must not be afraid of blood or wounds. We only lay down
with a blanket over us, instead of going fishing--and when I opened my
eyes again the sun was bright and Fitz and Ward were peeking in on us.

They were pale, but they looked happy.

Van and I tried to sit up.

"Is it over with?" we asked.

"Sure."

"Did he take it out? Was that what was the matter?"

"Yes. Want to see it?"

No, we didn't. I didn't, anyway.

"How is he? Can we see him?"

"The doctor says he'll be all right. Maybe you can see him. He's out
from under. It's one o'clock."

One o'clock! Phew! We were regular deserters--but we hadn't intended to
be.

We tumbled out, now, and hurried to wash and fix up, so that we would
look good to the major. Sick people are finicky. The daughter was in the
kitchen, but the mother and the doctor were eating. There was a funny
sweetish smell, still; smell of chloroform. It is a serious smell, too.

The doctor smiled at us. "I ought to have taken yours out, while you
were asleep," he joked. "I've been thinking of it."

"Is he all right?" we asked; Fitz and Ward behind us, ready to hear
again.

"Bully, so far."

"Indeed he is," added the mother.

"Can we see him?"

"You can stand on the threshold and say one word: 'Hello.'"

We tiptoed through. The bed was clean and white, with a sheet outside
instead of the colored spread; and the major was in it. The Elks' flag
was spread out, draped over the dresser, where he could see it. His eyes
opened at us. He didn't look so very terrible, and he tried to grin.

"How?" he said.

"Hello," said we; and we gave him the Scouts' sign.

"Didn't even make me sick," he croaked. "But I can't get up. Don't you
fellows wait. You go ahead."

"We will," we said, to soothe him. Then we gave him the Scouts' sign
again, and the silence sign, and the wolf sign (for bravery) (Note
66), and we drew back. The doctor had told us that we could say one
word, and we had been made to say three!

We had seen that the major was alive and up and coming (not really up;
only going to be, you know); but this was another anxious day, I tell
you! Having an appendix cut out is no light matter, ever--and besides,
here was the fourteenth day on the trail! The major would not be able to
stir for a week and a half, maybe; yet Green Valley, our goal, was only
twenty-one miles away!

"It's all a question of the nursing that he has now, boys," said the
doctor, in council with us. "I'm going to trust that to you Scouts;
these women have all they can do, anyway. We got the appendix out just
in time--but if it hadn't been for your first-aid treatment in the
beginning we might have been too late. That old appendix was swollen
and ready to burst if given half a chance. His pure Scout's blood and
his Scout's vitality will pull him through O. K. That's what he gets,
from living right, following out Scouts' rules. But he must have
attention night and day according to hygiene. We don't want any microbes
monkeying with that wound I made."

"No, you bet," we said.

"I'll leave you complete directions and then I'm going back to the
mines; but I'll ride over again to-morrow morning. Can't you keep him
from fussing about that message?"

"We'll try," we said.

"If you can't, then one of you can jump on a horse and take it over, so
as to satisfy him. You can make the round trip in five hours."

Well, we were pledged not to do _that_; horse or other help was
forbidden. But we did not say so. What was the use? And it didn't seem
now as though either Fitz or I could stand it to leave the major even
for five hours. The Red Fox Scouts of course must skip on, to the
railroad, or they'd miss their big Yellowstone trip, and we two Elks
would be on night and day duty, with the major. The doctor said that he
would be out of danger in five days. By that time the message would be
long overdue. It was too bad. We had tried so hard.

The doctor left us written directions, until he should come back; and
he rode off for the mines.

Fitz and I took over the nursing, and let the two women go on about
their ranch work. They were mighty nice to us, and we didn't mean to
bother them any more than was absolutely necessary. The two Red Foxes
stayed a while longer. They said that they would light out early in the
morning, if the major had a good night, in time to catch the train all
right. But they didn't; we might have smelled a mouse, if we hadn't been
so anxious about the major. They were good as gold, those two Red Foxes.

You see, the major kept fussing. He was worried over the failure of the
message. He had it on his mind all the time. To-morrow was the fifteenth
day--and here we were, laid up because of him. We told him no matter; we
all had done our Scouts' best, and no fellows could have done more. But
we would stick by him. That was our Scouts' duty, now.

He kept fussing. When we took his temperature, as the doctor had
ordered, it had gone up two degrees. That was bad. We could not find any
other special symptoms. His cut didn't hurt him, and he had not a thing
to complain of--except that we wouldn't carry the message through in
time.

"You'll have to do it," said Red Fox Scout Van Sant to Fitz and me.

"But we can't."

"Why not?"

That was a silly question for a Scout to ask.

"We can't leave Tom."

"Yes, you can. Hal and I are here."

"You've got to make that train, right away."

"No, we haven't."

"But you'll miss the Yellowstone trip!"

"We can take it later."

"No, sir! That won't do. The major and we, and the general, too, if he
knew, won't have it that way at all. You fellows have been true Scouts.
Now you go ahead."

Scout Van flushed and fidgeted.

"Well, to tell the truth," he blurted, "I guess we've missed connections
a little anyway. But we don't care. We sent a telegram in this afternoon
by the doctor to our crowd, telling them to go ahead themselves and not
to expect us until we cut their trail. The doctor will telephone it to
the operator."

We gasped.

"You see," continued Van, "we two Red Foxes can take care of the major
while you're gone, like a brick. We're first-aid nurses, and the doctor
has told us what to do; and he's coming back to-morrow and the next day
you'll be back, maybe. He said that if the major fussed you'd better do
what's wanted."

"But look here--!" began Fitz. "The major'll feel worse if he knows
you're missing your trip than if the message is delayed a day or two."

"No, he won't," argued Van. "We'll explain to him. We won't miss our
trip. We'll catch the crowd somewhere. Besides, that's only pleasure.
This other is business. You're on the trail, in real Scouts' service, to
show what Scouts can do, so we want to help."

It seemed to me that they were showing what Scouts can do, too! They
were splendid, those Red Foxes.

"The major'll just fuss and fret, you know," finished Van. "That's what
has sent his temperature up, already."

"Well," said Fitz, slowly, "we'll see. We Elks appreciate how you other
Scouts have stuck and helped. Don't we, Jim?"

"We sure do," I agreed. "But we don't want to ride a free horse to
death."

"Bosh!" laughed Van. "We're all Scouts. That's enough."

Red Fox Scout Ward beckoned to us.

"The major wants you," he said.

We went in. The major did not look good to me. His cheeks were getting
flushed and his eyes were large and rabbity.

"I can't quiet him," claimed Ward, low, as we entered.

"Do you know this is the fourteenth day?" piped the major. "I've been
counting up and it is. I'm sure it is."

"That's all right, old boy," soothed Fitz. "You let us do the counting.
All you need do is get well."

"But we have to put that message through, don't we?" answered the major.
"Just because I'm laid up is no reason why the rest of you must be laid
up, too. Darn it! Can't you do something?"

He was excited. That was bad.

"I've been thinking," proceeded the major. "The general was hurt, and
dropped out, but we others went on. Then little Jed Smith was hurt, and
he and Kit Carson dropped out, but we others went on. And now I'm hurt,
and I've dropped out, and none of you others will go on. That seems
mighty mean. I don't see why you're trying to make me responsible.
Everybody'll blame me."

"Of course they won't," I said.

He was wriggling his feet and moving his arms, and he was almost crying.

"Would you get well quick if we leave you and take the message through,
Tom?" asked Fitz, suddenly.

The major quit wriggling, and his face shone.

"Would I? I'd beat the record. I'd sleep all I'm told to, and eat soup,
and never peep. Will you, Fitz? Sure?"

"To-morrow morning. You lie quiet, and quit fussing, and sleep, and be
a model patient in the hospital, and then to-morrow morning early we'll
hike."

"Both of you?"

"Yep."

"One isn't enough, in case you meet trouble. It's two on the trail, for
us Scouts."

"I know it."

"And you'll take the flag? I want the Elks flag to go."

"We will," we said.

"To-morrow morning, then," and the major smiled a peaceful, happy little
smile. "Bueno. Now I'll go to sleep. You needn't give me any dope. I'll
see you off in the morning." And he sort of settled and closed his eyes.
"When are you Red Foxes off?" he asked drowsily.

"Oh, we've arranged to be around here a day yet," drawled Van Sant. "You
can't get rid of us. We want to hear that the message went through. Then
we'll skip. We ought to rest one day in seven. And there's a two-pound
trout in a hole here, Mrs. Harden says, and Hal thinks he can catch him
to-morrow before I do."

"You mustn't miss that trip," murmured the major. And when we tiptoed
out, leaving Fitz on guard, he was asleep already!

So it seemed that we had done the best thing.

Red Foxes Ward and Van Sant divided the night watch between them so
that we Elks should be fresh for the day's march. We were up early, and
got our own breakfast, so as not to bother the two women; but the report
came out from the major's room that he had had a bully night, and that
now he was awake and was bound to see us. So we went in.

He had the Elks flag in his hands.

"Who's got that message?" he asked.

I had, you know.

He passed the flag to Fitz.

"You take this, then. You're sure going, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. You can make it. Don't you worry about me. I'm fine. Be
Scouts. It's the last leg."

"You be a Scout, too. If we're to be Scouts, on the march, you ought to
be a Scout, in the hospital."

"I will." He knew what we meant. "But I wish I could go."

"So do we."

"All ready?"

"All ready."

He shook our hands.

"So long."

"So long."

We gave him the Scouts' salute, and out we went. We shook hands with
the Red Foxes; they saluted us, and we saluted them. We crossed the yard
for the trail; and when we looked back, the two women waved at us. We
waved back. And now we were carrying the message again, with only
twenty-one miles to go.

The trail was up grade, following beside the creek, and we knew that we
must allow at least eight hours for those twenty-one miles. It was not
to be a nice day, either. Mists were floating around among the hills,
which was a pretty certain sign of rain.

We hiked on. I had the message, hanging inside my shirt. It felt good. I
suspected that Fitz ought to be the one to carry it; he was my superior.
But he didn't ask for it, and I tried to believe that my carrying it
made no difference to him. I was thinking about offering it to him, but
I didn't. He had his camera, and the flag wrapped about his waist like a
sash. We'd left Sally and our other stuff at the ranch, and were
traveling light for this last spurt.

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