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.
"He must be left-handed," said Fitz.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, see?" and then he told me.
Sure enough. That was smart of Fitz, I thought. But he's splendid to
read sign.
Now we followed the tracks back. The man had come down and had returned
by the same route. And up in the timber about fifty yards he had had a
horse. We read how he had been riding through, and had stopped, and got
off and walked down to the pond, and stood, and walked back and mounted
again and ridden on. All that was easy for Fitz, and I could read most
of it myself.
We trailed the horse until the tracks surely went away from the pond
into the timber country; then we let it go, and met General Ashley, to
report. General Ashley and Kit Carson also examined the prints in the
sand, and we all agreed that the man probably was left-handed.
Now, why had he come down to the edge of the pond, on purpose, and
looked at it and at us, and then turned up at a trot into the timber? It
would seem as if he might have been afraid that we had seen him, and he
didn't want to be seen. But all our guesses here and after we reached
camp again didn't amount to much, of course.
We decided to stay for the night. It was a good camp place, and we
wouldn't gain anything, maybe, by starting on, near night, and getting
caught in the timber in the dark. And this would give the burros a good
rest and a fill-up before their climb.
The burned stretch where we were was plumb full of live things--striped
chipmunks, and pine squirrels, and woodpecker families. Fitzpatrick
started in to take chipmunk pictures--and you ought to see how he can
manage a camera with one hand. He holds it between his knees or else
under his left arm, to draw the bellows out, and the rest is easy.
He scouted about and got some pictures of chipmunks real close, by
waiting, and a picture of a woodpecker feeding young ones, at a hole in
a dead pine stump. This was a good place for bear to come, after the
berries; and we were hoping that one would amble in while we were there
so that Fitz could take a picture of it, too. Bears don't hurt people
unless people try to hurt them; and a bear would sooner have raspberries
than have a man or boy, any day. Fitzpatrick thought that if he could
get a good picture of a bear, out in the open, that would bring him a
Scout's honor. Of course, chipmunk pictures help, too. But while we were
resting and fooling and taking pictures, and General Ashley was bringing
his diary and his map up to date, for record, we had another visitor.
(Note 20.)
A man came riding a dark bay horse, with white nose and white right fore
foot, along our side of the beaver pond, and halted at our camp. The
horse had left ear swallow-tailed and was branded with a Diamond Five on
the right shoulder. The man wasn't the man we had seen across the pond,
for he wore a sombrero, and was taller and had on overalls, and
cow-puncher boots.
[Illustration]
"Howdy?" he said.
"How are you?" we answered.
He sort of lazily dismounted, and yawned--but his sharp eyes were taking
us and our camp all in.
"Out fishing?" he asked.
"No, sir. Passing through," said General Ashley.
"Going far?"
"Over to Green Valley."
"Walking?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good place for beaver, isn't it?"
"A bad place."
"That so? Used to be some about here. Couldn't catch any, eh?"
"We aren't trying. But it seems a bad place for beaver because the only
one we have seen is a dead one in a trap."
The man waked up. "Whose trap?"
"We don't know." And the general went on to explain.
The man nodded. "I'm a deputy game warden," he said at last. "Somebody's
been trapping beaver in here, and it's got to stop. Haven't seen any one
pass through?"
We had. The general reported.
"Smallish man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Roan hoss branded quarter circle D on the left hip? Brass-bound
stirrups?"
"We didn't see the horse; but we think the man was left-handed," said
the general.
"Why?"
"He was left-footed, because there was a hole in the sole of the left
shoe, and that would look as though he used his left foot more than his
right. So we think he may be left-handed, too." (Note 21.)
The game warden grunted. He eyed our flag.
"You kids must be regular Boy Scouts."
"We are."
"Then I reckon you aren't catching any beaver. All right, I'll look for
a left-footed man, maybe left-handed. But it's this fellow on the roan
hoss I'm after. He's been trying to sell pelts. There's no use my
trailing him, to-day. But I'll send word ahead, and if you lads run
across him let somebody know. Where are you bound for?"
The general told him.
"By way of Pilot Peak?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll tell you a short cut. You see that strip of young timber
running up over the ridge? That's an old survey trail. It crosses to the
other side. Over beyond you'll strike Dixon's Park and a ruined
saw-mill. After that you can follow up Dixon's Creek."
We thanked him and he mounted and rode away.