A BURRO IN BED
When I woke in the morning Fitz was already up, building the fire,
according to routine, and Red Fox Scout Van Sant was helping him. So I
rolled out at once, and here came Red Fox Scout Ward with the burro,
across the mesa, for the camp.
He brought a little flour and a few potatoes and a big hunk of meat, and
a fry-pan. He brought a map of the country, too, that he had sketched
from information from the Ranger. That crack beside Pilot Peak, where
the sun had set, was a pass through, which we could take for Green
Valley. It was a pass used by the Indians and buffalo, once, and an old
Indian trail crossed it still. The general sent word that if we took
that trail, he would get the goods we had left cached.
"Now," reported Major Henry, when we had filled for a long day's march,
"I'll put it to vote. We can either find that cache ourselves, and take
the trail from there, as first planned, or we can head straight across
the mountain. It's a short cut for the other side of the range, but it
may be rough traveling. The other way, beyond the cache, looked pretty
rough, too. But we'd have our traps and supplies,--as much as we could
pack on Apache, anyhow."
"I vote we go straight ahead, over the mountain, this way," said Fitz.
"We'll get through. We've got to. We've been out seven days, and we
aren't over, yet."
We counted. That was so. Whew! We must hurry. Kit and Jed and I voted
with Fitz.
"All right. Break camp," ordered Major Henry.
He didn't have to speak twice.
"That Ranger says we can strike the railroad, over on the other side,
Van, and make our connections there," said Red Fox Scout Ward to his
partner. "Let's go with the Elks and see them through that far."
That was great. They had come off their trail a long way already,
helping me, it seemed to us--but if they wanted to keep us company
further, hurrah! Only, we wouldn't sponge off of them, just because they
had the better outfit, now.
We policed the camp, and put out the fire, through force of habit, and
with the burro packed with the squaw hitch (Note 55), and the Red
Foxes packed, forth we started, as the sun was rising, to follow the Ute
trail, over Pilot Peak. The Red Fox Scouts carried their own stuff; they
wouldn't let us put any of it on Apache, for they were independent, too.
Travel wasn't hard. After we crossed the gorge the top of the mesa or
plateau was flat and gravelly, with some sage and grass, and we made
good time. We missed the general, and we were sorry to leave that cache,
but we had cut loose and were taking the message on once more. Thus we
began our second week out.
The forest fire was about done. Just a little smoke drifted up, in the
distance behind and below. But from our march we could see where the
fire had passed through the timber, yonder across; and that blackened
swath was a melancholy sight. We didn't stop for nooning, and when we
made an early camp the crack had opened out, and was a pass, sure
enough.
Red Fox Scout Van Sant and I were detailed to take the two rifles and
hunt for rabbits. We got three--two cottontails and a jack--among the
willows where a stream flowed down from the pass. The stream was
swarming here with little trout, and Jed Smith and Kit Carson caught
twenty-four in an hour. So we lived high again.
Those Red Fox Scouts had a fine outfit. They had a water-proof silk
tent, with jointed poles. It folded to pocket size, and didn't weigh
anything at all; but when set up it was large enough for them both to
sleep in. Then they had a double sleeping bag, and blankets that were
light and warm both, and a lot of condensed foods and that little
alcohol stove, and a complete kit of aluminum cooking and eating ware
that closed together--and everything went into those two packs.
They used the packs instead of burros or pack-horses. I believe that
animals are better in the mountains where a fellow climbs at ten and
twelve thousand feet, and where the nights are cold so he needs more
bedding than lower down. Man-packs are all right in the flat timber and
in the hills out East, I suppose. But all styles have their good points,
maybe; and a Scout must adapt himself to the country. We all can't be
the same.
Because the Red Fox Scouts were Easterners, clear from New Jersey, and
we were Westerners, of Colorado, we sort of eyed them sideways, at
first. They had such a swell outfit, you know, and their uniform was
smack to the minute, while ours was rough and ready. They set up their
tent, and we let them--but our way was to sleep out, under tarps (when
we had tarps), in the open. We didn't know but what, on the march, they
might want to keep their own mess--they had so many things that we
didn't. But right away a good thing happened again.
"How did Fitzpatrick lose his arm?" asked Scout Van Sant of me, when we
were out hunting and Fitz couldn't hear.
"In the April Day mine," I said.
"Where?"
"Back home."
He studied. "I _thought_ the name of that town sounded awfully familiar
to me," he said.
When we came into camp with our rabbits, he went straight up to Fitz.
"I hear you hurt your arm in the April Day mine," he said.
"Yes. I was working there," answered Fitz. "Why?"
Van Sant stuck out his hand. "Shake," he said. "My father owns that
mine--or most of it. Ever hear of him?"
"No," said Fitz, flushing. "I'm just a mucker and a sorter. My father's
a miner."
"Well, shake," laughed Van Sant. "I never even mucked or sorted, and you
know more than I do about it. My father just owns--and if it wasn't for
the workers like you and your father, the mine wouldn't be worth owning.
See? I'm mighty sorry you got hurt there, though."
Fitz shook hands. "It was partly my own fault," he said. "I took a
chance. That was before your father bought the mine, anyway."
Then he went to cooking and we cleaned our game. But from that time on
we knew the Red Fox Scouts to be all right, and their being from the
East made no difference in them. So we and they used each other's
things, and we all mixed in together and were one party.
We had a good camp and a big rest, this night: the first time of real
peace since a long while back, it seemed to me. The next morning we
pushed on, following up along the creek, and a faint trail, for the
pass.
This day's march was a hard climb, every hour, and it took our wind,
afoot. But by evening old Pilot Peak wasn't far at all. His snow patches
were getting larger. When we camped in a little park we must have been
up about eleven thousand feet, and the breeze from the Divide ahead of
us blew cool.
The march now led through aspens and pines and wild flowers, with the
stream singing, and forming little waterfalls and pools and rapids, and
full of those native trout about as large as your two fingers. There was
the old Indian trail, to guide us. It didn't have a track except
deer-tracks, and we might have been the only white persons ever here.
That was fine. Another sign was the amount of game. Of course, some of
the game may have been driven here by the forest fire. But we saw lots
of grouse, which sat as we passed by, and rabbits and porcupines, and
out of the aspens we jumped deer.
We arrived where the pretty little stream, full of songs and pictures
and trout, came tumbling out of a canyon with bottom space for just it
alone. The old Indian trail obliqued off, up a slope, through the timber
on the right, and so did we.
It was very quiet, here. The lumber folks had not got in with their saws
and axes, and the trees were great spruces, so high and stately that we
felt like ants. Among the shaded, nice-smelling aisles the old trail
wound. Sometimes it was so covered with the fallen needles that we could
not see it; and it had been blazed, years ago, by trappers or somebody,
and where it crossed glades we came upon it again. It was an easy trail.
We reached the top of a little ridge, and before us we saw the pass.
'Twas a wide, open pass, with snow-banks showing on it, and the sun
swinging down to set behind it.
The trail forked, one branch making for the pass, the other making for
the right, where Pilot Peak loomed close at hand. There was some reason
why the trail forked, and as we surveyed we caught the glint of a lake,
over there.
Major Henry examined the sketch map. "That must be Medicine Lake," he
said. "I think we'd better go over there and camp, instead of trying the
pass. We're sure of wood and water, and it won't be so windy."
The trail took us safely to the brow of a little basin, and looking down
we saw the lake. It was lying at the base of Pilot Peak. Above it on one
side rose a steep slope of a gray slide-rock, like a railway cut, only
of course no railroad was around here; and all about, on the other
sides, were pointed pines.
I tell you, that was beautiful. And when we got to the lake we found it
to be black as ink--only upon looking into it you could see down, as if
you were looking through smoky crystal. The water was icy cold, and full
of specks dancing where the sun struck, and must have been terrifically
deep.
We camped beside an old log cabin, all in ruins. It was partly roofed
over with sod, but we spread our beds outside; these old cabins are
great places for pack-rats and skunks and other animals like those. Fish
were jumping in the lake, and the two Red Fox Scouts and I were detailed
to catch some. The Red Fox Scouts tried flies, but the water was as
smooth as glass, and you can't fool these mountain lake-trout, very
often, that way. Then we put on spinners and trolled from the shores by
casting. We could see the fish, gliding sluggishly about,--great big
fellows; but they never noticed our hooks, and we didn't have a single
strike. So we must quit, disgusted.
The night was grand. The moon was full, and came floating up over the
dark timber which we had left, to shine on us and on the black lake and
on the mountain. Resting there in our blankets, we Elk Scouts could see
all about us. The lake lay silent and glassy, except when now and then a
big old trout plashed. The slide-rock bank gleamed white, and above it
stretched the long rocky slope of Pilot, with the moon casting lights
and shadows clear to its top.
This was a mighty lonely spot, up here, by the queer lake, with timber
on one side and the mountain on the other; the air was frosty, because
ice would form any night, so high; not a sound could be heard, save the
plash of trout, or the sighs of Apache as he fidgeted and dozed and
grazed; but the Red Fox Scouts were snug under their tent, and under our
bedding we Elks were cuddled warm, in two pairs and with Major Henry
sleeping single.
We did not need to hobble or picket Apache. (Note 56.) He had come so
far that he followed like a dog and stayed around us like a dog. When
you get a burro out into the timber or desert wilds and have cut him
loose from his regular stamping ground, then he won't be separated from
you. He's afraid. Burros are awfully funny animals. They like company.
So when we camped we just turned Apache out, and he hung about pretty
close, expecting scraps of bread and stuff and enjoying our
conversation.
To-night he kept snorting and fussing, and edging in on us, and before
we went to sleep we had to throw sticks at him and shoo him off. It
seemed too lonesome for him, up here. Then we dropped to sleep, under
the moon--and then, the first thing Fitz and I knew, Apache was trying
to crawl into bed with us!
That waked us. Nobody can sleep with a burro under the same blanket.
Apache was right astraddle of us and was shaking like an aspen leaf; his
long ears were pricked, he was glaring about, and how he snorted! I sat
up; so did Fitz. We were afraid that Apache might step on our faces.
"Get out, Apache!" we begged. But he wouldn't "get." He didn't budge,
and we had to push him aside, with our hands against his stomach.
Now the whole camp was astir, grumbling and turning. Apache ran and
tried to bunk with Kit and Jed. "Get out!" scolded Kit; and repulsed
here, poor Apache stuck his nose in between the flaps of the silk tent
and began to shove inside.
Something crackled amidst the brush along the lake, and there sounded a
snort from that direction, also. It was a peculiar snort. It was a
grunty, blowy snort. And beside me Fitz stiffened and lifted his head
further.
"Bear!" he whispered.
"Whoof!" it answered.
"Bear! Look out! There's a bear around!" said the camp, from bed to bed.
Down came the silk tent on top of Apache, and out from under wriggled
the Red Fox Scouts, as fast as they could move. Their hair was rumpled
up, they were pale in the moonlight, and Van Sant had his twenty-two
rifle ready. That must have startled them, to be waked by a big thing
like Apache forcing a way into their tent.
"Who said bear? Where is it?" demanded Van Sant.
"Don't shoot!" ordered Major Henry, sharply, sitting up. "Don't anybody
shoot. That will make things worse. Tumble out, everybody, and raise a
noise. Give a yell. We can scare him."
"I see it!" cried Ward. "Look! In that clear spot yonder--up along the
lake, about thirty yards."
Right! A blackish thing as big as a cow was standing out in the
moonlight, facing us, its head high. We could almost see its nostrils as
it sniffed.
Up we sprang, and whooped and shouted and waved and threw sticks and
stones into the brush. With another tremendous "Whoof!" the bear
wheeled, and went crashing through the brush as if it had a tin can tied
to its tail. We all cheered and laughed.
"Jiminy! I ought to have tried a flashlight of it," exclaimed Fitz,
excited. "If we see another bear I'm sure going to get its picture. I
need some bear pictures. Don't let's be in such a hurry, next time."
"That depends on the bear," said little Jed Smith. "Sometimes you can't
help being in a hurry, with a bear."
"Guess we'd better dig the burro out of our tent," remarked Scout Ward.
"He smelled that bear, didn't he?"
He certainly did. If there's one thing a burro is afraid of, it's a
bear. No wonder poor Apache tried to crawl in with us. We hauled him
loose of the tent, and helped the Red Fox Scouts set the tent up again.
Apache snorted and stared about; and finally he quieted a little and
went to browsing, close by, and we Scouts turned in to sleep again.
When I woke the next time it was morning and the bear had not come back,
for Apache was standing fast asleep in the first rays of the sun, at the
edge of the camp.
We could catch no fish for breakfast. They paid no attention to any
bait. So we had the last of the meat, and some condensed sausage that
the Red Fox Scouts contributed to the pot. During breakfast we held a
council; old Pilot Peak stuck up so near and inviting.
"I've been thinking, boys, that maybe we ought to climb Pilot, for a
record, now we've got a good chance," proposed Major Henry. "What do you
say. Shall we vote on it?"
"How high is it?" asked Red Fox Scout Ward.
Major Henry looked at the map of the state. "Fourteen thousand, two
hundred and ten feet."
"Whew!" Scout Ward eyed it. "We'd certainly like to make it. That would
be a chance for an honor, eh, Van?"
"You bet," agreed Van Sant.
"He's sure some mountain," we said.
"We haven't any time to spare from the trail," went on Major Henry, "and
it would kill a day, to the top and back. So we ought to double up by
traveling by night, some. But that wouldn't hurt any; it would be fun,
by moonlight. Now, if you're ready, all who vote to take the Red Fox
Scouts and climb old Pilot Peak for a record hold up their right hands."
"We won't vote. Don't make the climb on our account," cried the Red Fox
Scouts.
"Let's do it. I've never been fourteen thousand feet, myself," declared
Fitz.
And we all held up our right hands.
"Bueno," quoth Major Henry. "Then we go. We'll climb Pilot and put in
extra time on the trail. Cache the stuff, police the camp, put out the
fire, take what grub we can in our pockets, and the sooner we start the
better."
Maybe we ought not to have done this. Our business was the message. We
weren't out for fun or for honors. We were out to carry that message
through in the shortest time possible. The climb was not necessary--and
I for one had a sneaking hunch that we were making a mistake. But I had
voted yes, and so had we all. If anybody had felt dubious, he ought to
have voted no.
In the next chapter you will read what we got, by fooling with a side
issue.