Pluck on the Long Trail

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

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"Hold on," laughed Scout Ward. "You can't shoo us this way, unless
you'd rather travel alone. What's the matter with our going, too?"

"Sure," said Scout Van Sant.

"But your trail lies down creek, you said."

"Not now. As long as you're in trouble your trail is our trail."

Wasn't that fine! But--

"You'll miss your connections with the rest of your party," I objected.

"What if we do? We're on the Scout trail, now, for business,--and
pleasure can wait. You couldn't handle that man alone--could you?"

Well, I was going to try. But they wouldn't listen. And they wouldn't
let me carry anything. They slung their packs on their backs, we crossed
the creek on some stones, and taking the trail on the other side we
followed fast and steady, the horse's hoof-prints pointing up the creek.
One shoe had a bent nail-head.

The Red Fox Scouts stepped along without asking any odds, although I was
traveling light. They walked like Indians. Scout Van Sant took the lead,
Scout Ward came next, and I closed the rear. Pretty soon Scout Van Sant
dropped back, behind me, and let Ward have the lead. I surmised he did
this to watch how I was getting on; but I had that soup in me, and my
second wind, and I didn't ask any odds, either.

The hoof-prints were plain, and the trail was first rate; sometimes in
the timber and sometimes in little open patches, but always close to the
foaming creek.

After we had traveled for about two hours, or had gone seven miles, we
stopped and rested fifteen minutes and had a dish of soup. The creek
branched, and one part entered a narrow, high valley, lined with much
timber. The other part, which was the main part, continued more in the
open.

The hoofs with the bent nail-head quit, here; and as they didn't turn
off to the left, into the open country, they must have crossed to take
the gulch branch. An old bridge had been washed out, but the water was
shallow, and Scout Van Sant was over in about three jumps. After a
minute of searching he beckoned, and we skipped over, too. A small trail
followed the branch up the gulch, and the hoof-prints showed in it.

Now we all smelled smoke again. It seemed to me that I had been smelling
it ever since that first time, but you know how a smell sometimes sticks
in the nose. Still, we all were smelling it, now, and we kept our eyes
and ears open for other sign of a camp.

The water made a big noise as it dashed down; the gulch turned and
twisted, and was timbered and rocky; it grew narrower; and as we
advanced with Scout caution, looking ahead each time as far as we could,
on rounding an angle suddenly we came out into a sunny little park,
with flowers and grass and aspens and bowlders, the stream dancing
through at one edge, and an old dug-out beside the stream.

It was an abandoned prospect claim, because on the hill-slope were some
old prospect holes and a dump. By the looks, nobody had been working
these holes for a year or two; but from the chimney of the dug-out a
thin smoke was floating. We instantly sat down, motionless, to
reconnoiter.

CHAPTER XI

THE MAN AT THE DUG-OUT

We couldn't see any sign, except those hoof-marks, and that fire. Nobody
was stirring, the sun shone and the chipmunks scampered and the aspens
quivered and the stream tinkled, and the place seemed all uninhabited by
anything except nature. We grew tired of waiting.

"I'll go on to that dug-out," whispered Scout Ward. "If the man sees me
he won't know me, especially. I can find out if he's there, or who is
there."

That sounded good; so he dumped his pack and while Scout Van Sant and I
stayed back he walked out, up the trail. We saw him turn in at the
dug-out and rap on the door. Nobody came. He hung about and eyed the
trail and the ground, and rapped again.

"There's plenty of sign," he called to us; "and there's a loose horse
over across the creek."

"Well, what of it?" growled a voice; and he looked, and we looked, and
we saw a man sitting beside a bowlder on the little slope behind the
dug-out.

The man must have been watching, half hid, without moving. It was the
beaver man. He had an automatic pistol in his hand. This was my
business, now. So, just saying, "There he is!" I stood up and went right
forward. But Scout Van Sant followed.

"I want that message," I said, as soon as I could.

"What message?" he growled back, from over his gun.

"That Scouts' message you took from the fellow who took it from us."

"Oh, hello!" he grinned. "Were you there? They let you go, did they?"

"No; I got away to follow you. I want that message."

"Why, sure," he said. "If that's all you want." And he seemed relieved.
"Come and get it." He stuck his free hand behind him and fumbled, and
then he held up the package.

I started right up, but Scout Ward sprang ahead of me. "I'll get it. You
and Van stay behind," he bade.

He didn't wait for us to say yes, but walked for the rock; and just as
he reached it, and was stretching to take the package, the man, with a
big oath, jumped for him.

Jumped for him, and grabbed for him, sprawling out like a black cougar.
Van Sant and I yelled, sharp; Ward dodged and tripped and went rolling;
and as the man jumped for him again I shot my arrow at him. I couldn't
help it, I was so mad. The arrow was crooked, where it had been mended
(I really didn't try to hurt him), and maybe it _went_ crooked; but
anyway it hit him in the calf of the leg and stayed there. I didn't
think I had shot so hard.

The man uttered a quick word, and sat down. His face was screwed and he
glared about at us, with his pistol muzzle wavering and sweeping like a
snake's tongue. That arrow probably hurt. It hadn't gone in very far,
but it was stuck.

"I'll kill one of you for that," he snarled.

"No, you won't," answered Scout Ward, scrambling up and facing him. "If
you killed one you'd have to kill all three, and then you'd be hanged
anyway."

"You got just what was coming to you for acting so mean," added Scout
Van Sant. "You grabbed for Ward and we had to protect him."

They weren't afraid, a particle, either of them; but I was the one who
had shot the arrow, and all I could say was: "It isn't barbed. You can
pull it out."

"Yes, and I'll get blood poisonin', mebbe," snarled the man. He kept us
covered with his revolver muzzle. "You git!" he ordered.

With his other hand he worked at the arrow and pulled it out easily.
The point was red, but not very far up.

"You'd better cut your trousers open, over that wound," called Scout Van
Sant. "Did you have on colored underdrawers?"

"None o' your business," snarled the man. "You git, all of you."

"Wait a minute. Don't use that old handkerchief," spoke Scout Ward. And
away he ran for the packs. They were very busy Scouts, those two, and
right up to snuff. The arrow wound seemed to interest them. He came
back, and I saw what he had. "Here," he called; "if you'll promise not
to grab me I'll come and dress that in first-class shape. You're liable
to have an infection, from dirt."

"I'll infect _you_, if I ketch you," snarled the man, fingering his
wounded leg and dividing his glances between it and us.

"Well, if you won't promise, I'll lay this on this rock," continued
Scout Ward, as cool as you please. "You ought to cut the cloth away from
that wound; then you dissolve this bichloride of mercury tablet in a
quart of water, and flush that hole out thoroughly; then you moisten a
pad of this cloth in the water and bind it on the hole with this
surgical bandage. See?" (Note 46.)

"I'll bind you on a hole, if I ketch you," snarled the man. That hole
ached, I reckon.

But Scout Ward advanced and laid the first-aid stuff on a stone about
ten feet from the man, so that he could crawl and get it.

"Now hadn't you better give us that message? It's no good to you, and
it's done you harm enough," said Scout Van Sant.

"Give you nothin', except a dose of lead, if you don't git out pronto,"
snarled the man. "You git! Hear me? GIT! If you weren't kids, you'd git
something else beside jes' git. But I'm not goin' to tell you many more
times. GIT!"

The Red Fox Patrol Scouts looked at me and I looked at them, and we
agreed--for the man was growing angrier and angrier. There was no sense
in badgering him. A fellow must use discretion, you know.

"All right; we'll 'git,'" answered Scout Ward. "But we'll keep on your
trail till you turn over that message. You've no business with it."

The man just growled, and as we turned away he began to pull his
trouser-leg up further and to fuss with his dirty sock and his pink
underdrawers there. Those were no things to have about an open wound.

"You'd better use that first-aid wash and bandage," called back Scout
Ward.

We went to the packs and the Red Fox Patrol Scouts slung them on. They
wouldn't let me carry one. We didn't know exactly what to do, now:
whether to go on and wait, or wait here, while we watched. Only--

"You Scouts take the trail for your rendezvous," I said. Rendezvous, you
know, is the place where Scouts come together; and these two boys were
on their way to meet the rest of their party, for Salt Lake and the
Yellowstone, when I had come in on them.

"No," they said; "your trail is our trail. Scouts help each other. We
can meet our party somewhere later, and still be in time."

Scouts mean what they say, so I didn't argue, and I was mighty glad to
have them along. We decided to follow the trail we were on for a little
way, and then to climb the side of the gulch and make Sunday camp where
we could watch the man's movements.

We passed the dug-out; up back of it the beaver man was tying his
bandanna handkerchief around his leg! He didn't look at us, and he
hadn't touched the first-aid stuff on the rock.

As we hiked on, I kept noticing that smell of smoke--a piny smoke; and
it did not come from the dug-out, surely. Now I remembered that I had
been smelling that piny smoke all day, and I laid it to the two
camp-fires, but I must have been mistaken. Or else there was another
fire, still--or I had the smell in my nose and couldn't get it out. When
you are in the habit of smelling for something, you keep thinking that
it is there, all the time. A Scout must watch his imagination, and not
be fooled by it.

We climbed the side of the gulch, through the trees; the Red Fox boys
carried their packs right along, without resting any more than I did.
They were toughened to the long trail. The sun began to be clouded and
hazy. When we halted halfway up, and looked back and down, at the
dug-out, the man had hobbled across from the dug-out and was leading
back his horse.

Just then Scout Ward spoke up. "It is smoke!" he exclaimed, puffing and
sniffing. "Boys, it's a forest fire somewhere."

So they had been smelling it, too.

I looked at the sun. The haze clouding it was the smoke!

"Climb on top, so we can see," I said; and away we went.

The timber was thick with spruces and pines. Up we went, among them, for
the top of the ridge. We came out into an open space; beyond, the ridge
fell away in a long slope of the timber, for the snowy range; and old
Pilot Peak was right before us, to the west. The sun was getting low,
and was veiled by smoke drifting across it. And on the right, distant a
couple of miles, up welled a great brownish-black mass from the fire
itself.

A forest fire, and a big one! The smell was very strong.

The Red Fox Scouts looked at me. "What ought we to do?" asked Scout Van
Sant. "Maybe you know more about these forest fires than we do."

Maybe I did. The Rockies are places for big forest fires, all right, and
I'd heard the Guards and Rangers talk, in our town. The timber was dry
as a bone, at this time of year. The smoke certainly was drifting our
way. And fire travels up-hill faster than it travels down-hill. So this
ridge, surrounded by the timber, was a bad spot to be caught in,
especially if that fire should split and come along both sides. No
timber ridge for us!

"Turn back and make for the creek; shall we?" proposed Scout Ward.

That didn't sound good to me, somehow. The creek was beginning to pinch
out, this high up the gulch, and a fire would jump it in a twinkling.
And if anything should happen to us, down there,--one of us hurt
himself, you know, in hurrying,--we should be in a trap as the fire
swept across. Out of the timber was the place for us.

But away across, an opposite slope rose to bareness, where were just
grass and rocks; and between was a long patch of aspens or willows, down
in the hollow. If we couldn't make the bareness, those aspens or willows
would be better than the pines and evergreens. They wouldn't burn so;
and if they were willows, they might be growing in a bog.

"No," I said. "Let's strike across," and I explained.

"But the man. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn't know," said Scout Van
Sant; and away he raced, down and back for the dug-out.

We followed, for of course we wouldn't let him go alone. As we ran we
all shouted, and at the dug-out we shouted, looking; but all that we saw
was the beaver man far off across the creek, riding through the timber.
He did not glance back; he kept on, riding slowly, headed for the fire.
That seemed bad. He was so angry that perhaps his judgment wasn't
working right, and he didn't pay much attention to the smell of smoke.
So all we could do was to race up the ridge again, get the packs, and
plunge down over for sanctuary.

The wind was blowing toward the fire, as if sucked in. But I knew that
this would not hold the fire, because there would be another breeze,
low, carrying it along. With a big fire there always is a wind, sucked
in from all sides, as the hot air rises.

Those Red Fox Scouts hiked well, loaded with their packs. I set the
pace, in a bee-line for the willows and aspens, and I was traveling
light, but they hung close behind. The altitude made them puff; they
fairly wheezed as we zigzagged down, among the trees; but we must get
out of this brush into the open.

"Will we make it?" puffed Ward.

"Sure," I said. But I was mighty anxious. It seemed to me that the
distance lengthened and lengthened and that I could feel the air getting
warm in puffs. This was imagination.

"Look!" cried Van Sant. "What's that?" He stopped and panted and
pointed.

"Bunch of deer!" cried Ward.

It was. Not a bunch, exactly, but two does and three fawns, scampering
through the timber below, fleeing from the fire. They were bounding over
brush and over logs, their tails lifted showing the white--and next they
were out of sight in a hollow. They made a pretty sight, but--

"Frightened by the fire, aren't they?" asked Scout Van Sant, quietly, as
we jogged on.

"Yes," I had to say.

This looked serious. The fire might not be coming, and again it might.
Animals are wise.

The smoke certainly was worse. The air certainly was warmer. The breeze
was changing, or else we were down into another breeze. Next I saw a
black, shaggy creature lumbering past, before, and I pointed without
stopping. They nodded.

"Bear?" panted Ward.

I nodded. The bear was getting out of the way, too.

"Will we make it?" again asked Ward.

"Sure," I answered. We _had_ to.

On we plowed. We were almost at the bottom of the slope and we ought to
be reaching those willows and aspens. The brush was not so bad, now; but
the brush does not figure much in a forest fire when the flames leap
from tree-top to tree-top and make a crown fire. That is the worst of
all. This was hot enough to be a crown fire, if a breeze helped it.

We saw lots of animals--rabbits and squirrels and porcupines and more
deer, and the birds were calling and fluttering. The smoke rasped our
throats; the air was thick with it and with the smell of burning pine.
And how we sweat.

Then, hurrah! We were into the aspens. I tell you, their white trunks
and their green leaves looked good to me; but ahead of us was that other
slope to climb, before we were into the bareness.

"Shall we go on?" asked Scout Van Sant.

He coughed; we all coughed, as we wheezed. That had been a hard hike.
The air was hot, we could _feel_ the fire as the wind came in strong
puffs; everywhere animals were running and flying, and the aspens were
full of wild things, panicky. We had to decide quickly, for the fire was
much closer.

"Are you good for another pull?" I asked.

They grinned, out of streaming faces and white lips.

"We'll make it if you can."

But I didn't believe that we could. Up I went into an aspen, to
reconnoiter.

"Be looking for wetness, or willows," I called down. They dropped their
packs and scurried.

CHAPTER XII

FOILING THE FIRE

I don't know what a record I made in climbing that tree--an aspen's bark
is slick--but in a jiffy I was at the top and could peer out. (Note
47.) All the sky was smoke, veiling the upper end of the valley and of
the ridge. The ridge must be afire; the fire was spreading along our
side; and if we tried for the opposite slope and the bare spot we might
be caught halfway! Something whisked through the trees under me. It was
a coyote. And as I slid down like lightning, thinking hard as to what we
must do and do at once, I heard a calling and Van Sant and Ward came
rushing back.

"We've found a place!" they cried huskily. "A boggy place, with willows.
Let's get in it."

We grabbed the packs. I carried one, at last. Scout Ward led straight
for the place. Willows began to appear, clustering thick. That was a
good sign. The ground grew wet and soft, and slushed about our feet. I
tell you, it felt fine!

"Will it do?" gasped Scout Ward, back.

"Great!" I said.

"It's occupied, but I guess we can squeeze in," added Van Sant.

And sure enough. Animals had got here first; all kinds--coyotes,
rabbits, squirrels, skunks, porcupines, a big gray wolf, and a brown
bear, and one or two things whose names I didn't know. But we didn't
care. We forced right in, to the very middle; nothing paid much
attention to us, except to step aside and give us room. Of course the
coyotes snarled and so did the wolf; but the bear simply lay panting, he
was so fat. And we lay panting, too.

We weren't any too soon. The air was gusty hot and gusty coolish, and
the smoke came driving down. We dug holes, so that the water would
collect, and so that we could dash it over each other if necessary. I
could reach with my hand and pet a rabbit, but I didn't. Nothing
bothered anything else. Even the coyotes and the wolf let the rabbits
alone. This was a sanctuary. There was a tremendous crashing, and a big
doe elk bolted into the midst of us. She was thin and quivery, and her
tongue was hanging out and her eyes staring. But she didn't stay; with
another great bound she was off, outrunning the fire. She probably knew
where she was going.

We others lay around, flat, waiting.

"Wish we were on her back," gasped Van Sant.

"We're all right," I said.

"Think so?"

"Sure," I answered.

They were game, those Red Fox Scouts. They never whimpered. We had done
the best we could, and after you've done the best you can there is
nothing left except to take what comes. And take it without kicking. As
for me, I was full of thought. I never had been in a forest fire,
before, but it seemed to me our chances were good. Only, I wondered
about General Ashley and Fitzpatrick, in the hands of that careless
gang; and about Major Henry and Jed Smith and Kit Carson, and about the
beaver man with the wounded leg. He'd have the hardest time of all.

Now the smoke was so heavy and sharp that we coughed and choked. The air
was scorching. We could hear a great crackling and snapping and the
breeze withered the leaves about us. We burrowed. The animals around us
cringed and burrowed. The fire was upon us--and a forest fire in the
evergreen country is terrible.

There was a constant dull roar; our willows swayed and writhed; the
rabbit crept right against me and lay shivering, and the coyotes
whimpered. I flattened myself, and so did the Red Fox Scouts; and with
my face in the ooze I tried to find cool air.

The roaring was steady; and the crackling and snapping was worse than
any Fourth of July. Sparks came whisking down through the willows and
sizzled in the wetness. One lit on a coyote and I smelled burning hair;
and then one lit on me and I had to turn over and wallow on my back to
put it out. "Ouch!" exclaimed Van Sant; and one must have lit on him,
too.

But that was not bad. If we could stand the heat, and not swallow it and
burn our lungs, we needn't mind the sparks; and maybe in ten or fifteen
minutes the worst would be over, when the branches and the brush had
burned.

Of course the first few moments were the ticklish ones. We didn't know
what might happen. But we never said a word. Like the animals we just
waited, and hoped for the best. When I found that we weren't being
burned, and that the roaring and the crackling weren't harming us, I
lifted my head. I sat up; and the Red Fox Scouts sat up, cautiously. We
were still all right. The air was smoky, but the _fire_ hadn't got at
us--and now it probably wouldn't. But this was not at all like Sunday!

The Red Fox Scouts were pale, under their mud; and so was I, I suppose.
I felt pale, and I felt weak and shaky--and I felt thankful. That had
been a mighty narrow escape for us. If we had not found the willows and
the wet, we would have died, it seemed to me.

"How about it?" asked Scout Ward, huskily, and his voice trembled, but
I didn't blame him for that. "It's gone past, hasn't it?"

"Yes," said I. And--

"We're still here," said Scout Van Sant.

"Well," said Ward, soberly--and smiling, too, with cracked lips, "I know
how I feel, and I guess you fellows feel the same way. God was good to
us, and I want to thank Him."

And we kept silent a moment, and did.

The roaring had about quit and the crackling was not nearly so bad. The
air was not fiery hot, any more; it was merely warm. The attack had
passed, and we were safe. The rabbit beside me hopped a few feet and
squatted again, and the fat bear sat up and blinked about him with his
piggish eyes. It seemed to me that the animals were growing uneasy and
that perhaps the truce was over with. In that case, unpleasant things
were likely to happen, so we had better move out.

"Shall we try it?" asked Van Sant.

We picked up the packs and sticking close together moved on--dodging
another gray wolf and a coyote, and an animal that looked like a
carcajou or wolverine, which snarled at us and wouldn't budge.

Of course, it was a little doubtful whether we could travel through
burned timber so soon after the fire had swept it. The ground would be
thick with coals and hot ashes, and trees would still be blazing. But
when we came out at the opposite edge of the willows and could see
through the aspens, the timber beyond did not look bad, after all. There
were a few burned places, but the fire had skirted the aspens on this
side only in spots, where cinders had lodged.

So if we had kept going instead of having stopped in the willows we
might have reached the place beyond all right; but it would have been
taking an awful risk, and we decided that we had done the correct thing.

Smoke still hung heavy and the smell of burning pine was strong, as we
threaded our way among the hot spots, making for the ridge beyond. That
bare place would be a good lookout, and we rather hankered for it,
anyway. We had crossed the valley, and as we climbed the slope we could
look back. The fire had covered both sides of the first ridge, and the
top, and if we had stayed there we would have been goners, sure, the way
matters turned out. It was a dismal sight, and ought to make anybody
feel sorry. Thousands of acres of fine timber had been killed--just
wasted.

"What do you suppose started it?" asked Scout Ward.

A camp-fire, probably. Lots of people, camping in the timber, either
don't know anything or else are out-and-out careless, like that gang
from town, or those two recruits who had not made good. And I more than
half believed that the fire might have started from their camps.

All of a sudden we found that we were hungry. I had been hungry before
the fire, because I hadn't had much to eat for twenty-four hours; but
during the fire I had forgotten about it; and now we all were hungry.
However, after that fire we were nervous, in the timber, and we knew
that if we camped there we wouldn't sleep. So we pushed on through, to
camp on top, in the bare region, where we would be out of danger and
could see around. The Red Fox canteens would give us water enough.

We came out on the bare spot. Away off to the right, along the side of
the ridge, figures were moving. They were human figures, not more wild
animals: two men and a pack burro. They were moving toward us, so we
obliqued toward them, with our shadows cast long by the low sun. The
grass was short and the footing was hard gravel, so that we could hurry;
and soon I was certain that I knew who those three figures were. One was
riding.

The side of the ridge was cut by a deep gulch, like a canyon, with rocky
walls and stream rolling through along the bottom. We halted on our
edge, and the three figures came on and halted on their edge. They were
General Ashley and Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand, and Apache the black burro.
The general was riding Apache. I was glad to see them.

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