Pluck on the Long Trail

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

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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.

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