Pluck on the Long Trail

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So I started on. The enemy was leading the general, who could just
hobble, and Fitz, back to the camp. Loyal old Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand,
who had helped his comrade instead of saving himself!

CHAPTER IX

JIM BRIDGER ON THE TRAIL

I turned, and climbed the hill. It was a long hill, and hot, but I
wanted to get up where I could see. The top was grassy and bare, and
here I stopped, to find out where things were.

Off in one direction (which was southwest, by the sun) rose Pilot Peak,
rocky and snowy, with the main range stretching on either side of it.
But between Pilot Peak and me there lay a big country of heavy timber.
Yes, in every direction was heavy timber. I had run without thinking,
and now it was pretty hard to tell exactly where I was.

I stood for a minute and tried to figure in what direction that beaver
man probably had ridden. He had come in on our left, as we sat, and had
probably gone along toward our right. I tried to remember which way the
shadows had fallen, in the sunset, and which way west had been, from our
right or left as we were sitting.

Finally I was quite certain that the shadows had fallen sort of
quartering, from right to left, and so the man probably had made toward
the west. It was a good thing that I had noticed the shadows, but to
notice little things is a Scout's training.

I stuffed the flags inside my shirt, and tied my coat about me; only one
arrow was left, out of six; the five others must have fallen when I was
running. And I was hungry and didn't have a thing to eat, because when
the gang had captured us they had taken our bread and chocolate, along
with our match-boxes and knives and other stuff. That was mean of them.
But with a look about for smoke signals I took my bow and started across
the top of the hill.

It was to be the lone trail and the hungry trail for Jim Bridger. But he
had slept on post, and he was paying for it. Now if he (that was I, you
know) only could get back that message, and thus make good, he wouldn't
mind lonesomeness or hunger or thirst or tiredness or wet or anything.

I wasn't afraid of the gang overtaking me or finding me, if I kept my
wits about me. And after I was over the brow of the hill I swung into
the west, at Scouts' pace of trot and walk mixed. This took me along the
top of the hill, to a draw or little valley that cut through. The draw
was thick with spruces and pines and was brushy at the bottom, so I went
around the head of it. That was easier than climbing down and up
again--and the draw would have been a bad place to be cornered in.

I watched out for trails, but I did not cross a thing, and I began to
edge down to strike that stream which passed the gang's camp. Often
trails follow along streams, where the cattle and horses travel. The man
who had our message might have used this trail but although I edged and
edged, keeping right according to the sun, I didn't strike that stream.
Up and down and up again, through the trees and through the open places
I toiled and sweated; and every time I came out upon a ridge, expecting
to be at the top of somewhere, another ridge waited; and every time I
reached the bottom of a draw or gulch, expecting that here was my stream
or a trail, or both, I found that I was fooled again.

This up and down country covered by timber is a mighty easy country to
be lost in. I wasn't lost--the stream was lost. No, I wasn't lost; but
when I came out upon a rocky ridge, and climbed to the top of a bunch of
granite there, the world was all turned around. Pilot Peak had changed
shape and was behind me when it ought to have been before. West was
west, because the sun was setting in it, but it seemed queer. You see, I
had been zigzagging about to make easy climbs out of draws and gulches,
and to dodge rocks and brush--and here I was. (Note 39.)

You may believe that now I was mighty hungry and thirsty, and I was
tired, too. This was a fine place to see from, and I sat on a ledge and
looked about, mapping the country. That was Pilot Peak, away off on the
left; and that was the Medicine Range, on either side of it. It was the
range that we Scouts must cross, if ever we got to it. But between me
and the range lay miles of rolling timber, and all about below me lay
the timber, with here and there bare rocky points sticking up like the
tips of breakers in an ocean and here and there little winding valleys,
like the oily streaks in the ocean. Away off in one valley seemed to be
a cleared field where grain had been cut; but no ranch house was there.
It was just a patch. In all this big country I was the only
inhabitant--I and the wild things.

Well, I must camp for the night. The sun was setting behind the
mountains. If I tried traveling blind by night I might get all tangled
up in the timber and brush and be in a bad fix. Up here it was dry and
open and the rocks would shelter me from the wind. I tried to be calm
and reasonable and use Scout sense; and I decided to stay right where I
was, till morning.

But jiminy, I was hungry and thirsty, and I wanted a fire, too. This was
pretty good experience, to be lost without food or drink or matches, or
even a knife--it was pretty good experience if I managed right.

There were plenty of dead dried branches scattered here among the
rocks, and pack-rats had made a nest of firewood. But first, as seemed
to me, I must get a drink and something for supper. I had only that one
arrow to depend on, for game, and if I waited much longer then I might
lose it in the dusk. Not an easy shot had shown itself, either, during
all the time I had been traveling.

Water was liable to be down there somewhere, in those valleys, and I
looked to see which was the greenest or which had any willows. To the
greenest it seemed a long way. Then I had a clue. I saw a flock of
grouse. They sailed out from the timber and across and slanted down into
a gulch. More followed. They acted as if they were bound somewhere on
purpose, and I remembered that grouse usually drink before they go to
bed.

These were so far away, below me, that I couldn't make out whether they
were sage grouse, or the blue grouse, or the fool grouse. If they were
sage grouse, I might not get near enough to them to shoot sure with my
one arrow. If they were blue grouse, that would be bad, too, for blue
grouse are sharp. If they were fool grouse, I ought to get one. I marked
exactly where they sailed for, and down I went, keeping my eye on the
spot. Now I must use Scoutcraft for water and food. If I couldn't manage
a fire, I could chew meat raw.

Yes, I remembered that it was against the law to kill grouse, yet. I
thought about it a minute; and decided that the law did not intend that
a starving person should not kill just enough for meat when he had
nothing else. I was willing to tell the first ranger or game warden, and
pay a fine--but I must eat. And I hoped that what I was trying to do was
all right. Motives count, in law, don't they?

Down I went, as fast as I could go. The sun was just sinking out of
sight. It was the lonesome time of day for a fellow without fire or food
or shelter, in the places where nobody lived, and I wouldn't have
objected much if I'd been home at the supper table.

I reached the bottom of the hill. It ended at the edge of some aspens.
Their white trunks were ghostly in the twilight. Across through the
aspens I hurried, straight as I could go; and I came out into a grassy,
boggy place--a basin where water from the hills around was seeping!
Hurrah! It was a regular spring, and the water ran trickling away, down
through a gulch.

Grasses grew high: wild timothy and wild oats and gama grass, mingled
with flowers. Along the trickle were willows, too. With the aspens and
the willows and the seed grasses and the water this was a fine place for
grouse. I looked for sign, on the edge of the wetness, and I saw where
birds had been scratching and taking dust baths, in a patch of sage.

Stepping slowly, and keeping sharp lookout, I reconnoitered about the
place; I was so excited that I didn't stop to drink. And
suddenly--whirr-rr-rr! With a tremendous noise up flew two grouse, and
three more, and lit in the willows right before me. I guess I was
nervous, I wanted them so bad; for I jumped back and stumbled and fell,
and broke the arrow square in two with my knee.

That made me sick. Here was my supper waiting for me, and I had spoiled
my chances. I wanted to cry.

Those acted like fool grouse. They sat with their heads and necks
stretched, watching me and everything else. I picked up the two pieces
of my arrow; and then I looked about for a straight reed or willow twig
that might do. Something rustled right before me, and there was another
grouse! It had been sitting near enough to bite me and I hadn't seen it.

By the feathers I knew it was a fool grouse. Was it going to fly, or
not? I stood perfectly still, and then I squatted gradually and gave it
time. After it had waggled its head around, it moved a little and began
to peck and cackle; and I could hear other cackles answering. If I only
could creep near enough to hit it with a stick.

I reached a dead willow stick, and squatting as I was I hitched forward,
inch by inch. Whenever the grouse raised its silly head I scarcely
breathed. The grass was clumpy, and once behind a clump I wriggled
forward faster. With the clump between me and the grouse I approached as
close as I dared. The grouse was only four or five feet away. It must be
now or never, for when once the grouse began to fly for their night's
roost mine would go, too.

Fool grouse you can knock off of limbs with a stone, or with a club when
they are low enough and when they happen to be feeling in the mood to be
knocked. Behind my clump I braced my toes, and out I sprang and swiped
hard, but the grouse fluttered up, just the same, squawking. I hit
again, hard and quick, and struck it down, and I pounced on it and had
it! Yes, sir, I had it! All around me grouse were flying and whirring
off, and those in the tree joined them; but I didn't care now.

I lay on my stomach and took a long drink of water, and back I hustled
for camp.

Down here the dark had gathered; but up on the hill the light stayed,
and of course the top of the hill, where my camp was, would be light
longest. Now if I only could manage a fire. I had an idea--a good Scout
idea.

First I picked out a place for the night. In one spot the faces of two
rocks met at an angle. The grass here was dead and softish, and the wind
blowing off the snowy range on the west didn't get in. I gathered a
bunch of the grass, and tore my handkerchief with my teeth and mixed
some ravelings of that in and tied a nest, with a handle to it. Then I
got some of the dry twigs lying about, and had them ready. Then I found
a piece of flinty rock--I think it was quartzite; and I took off a shoe
and struck the rock on the hob nails, over the nest of grass.

It worked! The sparks flew and landed in the loose knot, and I blew to
start them. After I had been trying, I saw a little smoke, and smelled
it; and so I grabbed the nest by its handle and swung it. It caught
fire, and in a jiffy I had it on the ground, with twigs across it--and I
was fixed. A fire makes a big difference. I wasn't lonesome any more.
This camp was home. (Note 40.)

I was so hungry that I didn't more than half cook the grouse by holding
pieces on a stick over the blaze, trapper style. While I gnawed I went
out around the rocks and watched the sunset. It was glorious, and the
pink and gold lasted, with the snowy range and old Pilot Peak showing
sharp and cold against it. Up here I was right in the twilight, while
below the timber and the valleys were dark.

I must collect wood while I could see, beginning with the pieces
furthest away. Down at the bottom of the hill I had marked a big branch;
and out I hiked and hauled it up. That camp looked grand when I came in
again; the bottom of the hill was gloomy, but here I had a fire.

The sunset was done; everything was dark; the stars were shining all
through the sky; from the timber below queer cries and calls floated up
to me, but there was nothing to be afraid of. I was minding my business,
and animals would be minding theirs. So I moved the fire forward a
little from the angle of the rocks, and sat in the angle myself. Wow,
but it was warm and nice! I couldn't make a big fire, because I didn't
want to run out of fuel; but the little fire was better, as long as it
was large enough to be cheerful and to warm me. I spliced my broken
arrow with string.

This was real Scout coziness. Of course, I sort of wished that Fitz or
little Jed Smith or somebody else was there, for company; but I'd done
pretty well. I tried to study the stars--but as I sat I kept nodding and
dozing off, and waking with a jerk, and so I pulled the thick part of
the branch across the fire and shoved in the scattered ends. Then I
wrapped the flags about my neck and over my head, and sitting flat with
my back against the rock I went to sleep. Indians say that they keep
warm best by covering their shoulders and head, even if they can't cover
their legs.

Something woke me with a start. I lay shivering and listening. The fire
flickered low, the sky was close above me, darkness was around about,
and behind me was a rustle, rustle, patter, patter. At first I was silly
and frightened; but with a jump I quit that and ordered, loud:

"Get out of there!"

Wild animals are especially afraid of the human voice; and whatever this
was it scampered away. Then I decided that it was only a pack-rat.
Anyhow, there would be nothing out here in these hills to attack a human
being while he slept. Even the smell of a human being will keep most
animals off. They're suspicious of him. And I thought of the hundreds of
old-time trappers and hunters, and of the prospectors and ranchers and
range-riders, who had slept right out in the timber, in a blanket, and
who never had been molested at all. So I didn't reckon that anything was
going to climb this hill to get _me_!

I stirred about and built the fire, and got warm. The Guardians of the
Pole had moved around a quarter of the clock, at least, and the moon was
away over in the west, so I knew that I must have slept quite a while.
(Note 41.)

The night was very quiet. Here on the hill I felt like a Robinson Crusoe
marooned on his island. I stood and peered about; everywhere below was
the dark timber; the moon was about to set behind the snowy range;
overhead were the stars--thousands of them in a black sky, which curved
down on all sides.

The Milky Way was plain. The Indians say that is the trail the dead
warriors take to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I could see the North Star,
of course, and I could see the Papoose on the Squaw's back, in the
handle of the Great Dipper; so I had Scout's eyesight. In the west was
the evening star--Jupiter, I guessed. Off south was the Scorpion, and
the big red star Antares. I wished that the Lost Children were dancing
in the sky, but they had not come yet. (Note 42.)

It made me calm, to get out this way and look at the stars. I'd been
lucky, so far, to have fire and supper and a good camp, and I decided
that I would get that message--or help get it. Somewhere down in that
world of timber were Major Henry and Kit Carson and little Jed Smith, on
the trail; and General Ashley and wise Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand,
planning to escape; and the man who had the message. And here was I, on
detail that seemed to have happened, and yet seemed to have been
ordered, too. And watchful and steady as the stars, above us was the
Great Commander, who knew just how things would come out, here in the
hills the same as in the cities. It's kind of comforting, when a fellow
realizes that he can't get lost entirely, and that Somebody knows where
he is and what he is doing, and what he wants to do.

In the morning I would strike off southwest, and keep going until I came
to a trail where the beaver man had traveled, or until I had some sight
of him or news of him.

By the Pointers it was midnight. So after thinking things over I fed the
fire and warmed my back; then I hunched into the angle and with the two
flags about my shoulders and over my head I started to snooze off. Some
animal kept rustling and pattering, but I let it rustle and patter.

Just as I was snoozing, I remembered that to-morrow--that _to-day_ was
Sunday! Yes; I counted, and we had left town on Monday and we had been
out six days. I supposed that I ought to rest on Sunday; but I didn't
see how I could, fixed as I was; and I hoped that if I took the trail I
would be understood. (Note 43.)

CHAPTER X

THE RED FOX PATROL

When I woke up I was safe and sound, but I had thrown off the flags and
I was stiff and cold. Now I could see all about me--see the rocks and
the grass and the ashes of the fire; so morning had come. That was good.

After I had yawned and stretched and straightened out, I gave a little
dance to start my circulation. Then I built the fire from the coals that
were left, and cooked the rest of the grouse, and had breakfast, chewing
well so as to get all the nourishment that I could. I climbed on a rock,
in the sun, like a ground-hog, to eat, and to look about at the same
time. And I saw smoke!

The smoke was lifting above the timber away off, below. This was a fine
morning; a Sunday morning, peaceful and calm, and the smoke rose in a
little curl, as if it were from a camp or a chimney. I took that as a
good omen. Down I sprang, to my own fire; and heaped on damp stuff and
dirt, and using my coat made the private smoke signal of the Elk Patrol:
one puff, three puffs, and one puff. (Note 44.) But the other smoke
didn't answer.

Then I thought of making the signal meaning "I am lost. Help"; but I
said to myself: "No, you don't. You're not calling for help, yet. You'd
be a weak kind of a Scout, to sit down and call for help. There's a sign
for you. Maybe that smoke is the beaver man. Sic him." And trampling out
my own fire, and stuffing the flags into my shirt and tying my jacket
around me, lining that other fire by a dead pine at the foot of the
hill, away I went.

When I got to the dead pine I drew another bee-line ahead as far as I
could see, with a stump as the end, and followed that. But this was an
awful rough, thick country. First I got into a mess of fallen timber,
where the dead trunks were criss-crossed like jackstraws; and they were
smooth and hard and slippery, and I had to climb over and crawl under
and straddle and slide, and turn back several times, and I lost my
bee-line. But I set my direction again by the sun on my face. Next I ran
into a stretch of those small black-jacks, so thick I could scarcely
squeeze between. And when I came out I was hot and tired, I tell you!

Now I was hungry, too, and thirsty; and I found that fire meant a whole
lot to me. If it didn't mean the man with the message, it meant food and
somebody to talk to, perhaps. The fallen timber and the black-jack
thicket had interfered with me so that I wasn't sure, any more, that I
was heading straight for the fire. Down into a deep gulch I must plunge,
and up I toiled, on the other side. It was about time that I climbed a
tree, or did something else, to locate that fire. When next I reached a
ridgy spot I chose a good pine and shinned it. From the top nothing was
visible except the same old sea of timber with island rocks spotting it
here and there, and with Pilot Peak and the snowy range in the wrong
quarter again.

Of course, by this time the breakfast smoke would have quit. That made
me desperate. I shinned down so fast that a branch broke and I partly
fell the rest of the way along the trunk, and tore my shirt and scraped
a big patch of skin from my chest. This hurt. When I landed in a heap I
wanted to bawl. But instead, I struck off along the ridge, keeping high
so that if there was smoke I would see it, yet.

The ridge ended in another gulch. I had begun to hate gulches. A
fellow's legs grow numb when he hasn't had much to eat. But into the
gulch I must go, and so down I plunged again. And when almost at the
bottom I _smelled_ smoke! I stopped short, and sniffed. It was wood
smoke--camp smoke. I must be near that camp-fire. And away off I could
hear water running. That was toward my left, so probably the smoke was
on my left, for a camp would be near water. It is hard to get direction
just by smell, but I turned and scouted along the side of the gulch,
halfway up, sniffing and looking.

The brush was bad. It was as thick as hay and full of stickers, but I
worked my way through. If the camp was the camp of the beaver man with
the message, I must reconnoiter and scheme; if it was the camp of
somebody else, I would go down; and if I didn't know whose camp it was,
I must wait and find out.

The brush held me and tripped me and tore my trousers and shirt, and was
wet and hot at the same time. Keeping high, I worked along listening and
sniffing and spying--_feeling_ for that camp, if it was a camp. Pretty
soon I heard voices. That was encouraging--unless the beaver man had
company. The brush thinned, and the gulch opened, and I was at the mouth
of it, with the water sounding louder. On my stomach I looked out and
down--and there was the place of the camp, at the mouth of the gulch,
where the pines and spruces met a creek, and two boys were just leaving
it. They had packs on their backs, and they were dressed in khaki and
were neat and trim.

Down I went, sliding and leaping, head first or feet first, I didn't
care which, as long as I got there in time. The boys heard and turned
and stared, wondering. With my hands and face scratched, and my chest
skinned and my shirt and trousers torn, bearing my bow and my broken
arrow, like a wild boy I burst out upon them. Then suddenly I saw on the
sleeves of their khaki shirts the Scout badge. My throat was too dry and
my breath was too short for me to say a word, but I stopped and made the
Scout sign. They answered it; and they must have thought that I was
worse than I really was, because they came running.

"The Elk Patrol, Colorado," I wheezed.

"The Red Fox Patrol, New Jersey," they replied. "What's the matter?"

"I'm glad to meet you," I said, silly after the run I had made on an
empty stomach; and we laughed and shook hands hard.

They were bound to hold me up or examine me for wounds or help me in
some way, but I sat down of my own accord, to get my breath.

They were First-class Scouts of the Red Fox Patrol of New Jersey, and
were traveling through this way on foot, from Denver, to meet the rest
of their party further on at the railroad, to do Salt Lake and then the
Yellowstone. They had had a late breakfast and a good clean-up, because
this was Sunday; and now they were starting on, for a walk while it was
cool, before they lay by again and waited till Monday morning. I had
reached them just in time; I think I'd have had tough work trailing
them. They looked as if they could travel some.

Their clothes were the regulation Scouts uniform. One of them had a
splendid little twenty-two rifle, and the other had a camera. The name
of the boy with the rifle was Edward Van Sant; the name of the Scout
with the camera was Horace Ward. They seemed fine fellows--as Scouts
usually are.

I don't know how they knew that I was hungry or faint, for I didn't say
that I was. But the first thing I did know Van Sant had unstrapped his
pack, and Ward had taken a little pan and had brought water from the
creek. Then a little alcohol stove appeared, and while we talked the
water was boiling, in a jiffy. Ward dropped into the water a cube, and
stirred--and there was a mess of soup, all ready!

They made me drink it, although I kept telling them I was all right. It
tasted mighty good. They got out some first-aid dope, and washed my
skinned chest with a carbolic smelling wash and shook some surgical
powder over it, and put a bandage around, in great shape. Then they
washed my scratches and even sewed the worst of the tears in my clothes.
(Note 45.)

By this time they knew my story.

"Was he a dark-complexioned man, with a small face and no whiskers or
mustache?"

"He was dark, but he had a mustache and fresh whiskers," I answered.

"On a bay horse?"

"On a bay, with a blazed forehead. Why?"

"A man rode by here, last evening, along the trail across the creek. He
was dark-complexioned, he wore a black hat, and he rode a bay with a
mark on its shoulders like this--" and Ward drew in the dirt a K+.

"That's a K Cross," I exclaimed. And I thought it was right smart of
them to notice even the brand. "He's the man, sure. He's shaved off his
mustache and whiskers, but he's riding the same horse." And I jumped up.
I felt strong and ready again. "Which way did he go?"

Scout Van Sant pointed up the creek. "There's a trail on the other
side," he said. "You'll find fresh hoof marks in it."

"Bueno," I said; and I extended my hand to shake with them, for I must
light right out. "I'm much obliged for everything, but I've got to catch
him. If you meet any of my crowd please tell 'em you saw me and I'm
O. K.; and if you're ever in Elk country don't fail to look us up. The
lodge door is always open."

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