Pluck on the Long Trail

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

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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.

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