VAN SANT'S LAST CARTRIDGE
The way to climb a mountain is not to tackle it by the short, steep way,
but to go up by zigzags, through little gulches and passes. You arrive
about as quick and you arrive easier.
Now from camp we eyed Old Pilot, calculating. Major Henry pointed.
"We'll follow up that draw, first," he said. "Then we can cross over to
that ledge, and wind around and hit the long stretch, where the snow
patches are. After that, I believe, we can go right on up."
We had just rounded the lower end of the lake, and were obliquing off
and up for the draw, when we heard a funny bawly screech behind us, and
a clattering, and along at a gallop came Apache, much excited, and at a
trot joined our rear. He did not propose to be left alone! We were glad
enough to have him, if he wanted to make the climb, too. He followed us
all the way, eating things, and gained a Scout mountain honor.
We were traveling light, of course. Fitz had his camera slung over his
shoulder, Red Fox Scout Van Sant had his twenty-two rifle, because we
thought we might run into some grouse, and the law on grouse was out at
last and we needed meat. Nobody bothered with staffs. They're no good
when you must use hands and knees all at once, as you do on some of the
Rocky Mountains. They're a bother.
We struck into the draw. It was shallow and bushy, with sarvice-berries
and squaw-berries and gooseberries; but we didn't stop to eat. We let
Apache do the eating. Our thought was to reach the very tip-top of
Pilot.
The sun shone hot, making us sweat as we followed up through the draw,
in single file, Major Henry leading, Fitz next, then the Red Fox Scouts,
and we three others strung out behind, with Apache closing the rear. The
draw brought us out, as we had planned, opposite the ledge, and we swung
off to this.
Now we were up quite high. We halted to take breath and puff. The ledge
was broad and flat and grassy, with rimrock behind it; and from it we
could look down upon the lake, far below, and the place of our camp, and
the big timber through which we had trailed, and away in the distance
was the mesa or plateau that we had crossed after the forest fire. We
were above timber-line, and all around us were only sunshine and
bareness, and warmth and nice clean smells.
"Whew!" sighed Red Fox Scout Ward. "It's fine, fellows."
That was enough. We knew how he felt. We felt the same.
But of course we weren't at the top, not by any means. Major Henry
started again, on the upward trail. We followed along the ledge around
the rimrock until we came to a little pass through. That brought us into
a regular maze of big rocks, lying as if a chunk as big as a city block
had dropped and smashed, scattering pieces all about. This spot didn't
show from below. That is the way with mountains. They look smooth, but
when you get up close they break out into hills and holes and rocks and
all kinds of unexpected places, worse than measles.
But among these jagged chunks we threaded, back and forth, always trying
to push ahead, until suddenly Red Fox Scout Ward called, "I'm out!" and
we went to him. So he was.
That long, bare slope lay beyond, blotched with snow. The snow had not
seemed much, from below; but now it was in large patches, with drifts so
hard that we could walk on them. One drift was forty feet thick; it was
lodged against a brow, and down its face was trickling black water,
streaking it. This snow-bank away up here was the beginning of a river,
and helped make the lake.
We had spread out, with Apache still behind. Suddenly little Jed
called. "See the chickens?" he said.
We went over. Chirps were to be heard, and there among the drifts, on
the gravelly slope, were running and pecking and squatting a lot of
birds about like gray speckled Brahmas. They were as tame as speckled
Brahmas, too. They had red eyes and whitish tails.
"Ptarmigan!" exclaimed Fitz, and he began to take pictures. He got some
first-class ones.
Red Fox Scout Van Sant never made a move to shoot any of them. They were
so tame and barn-yardy. We were glad enough to let them live, away up
here among the snowdrifts, where they seemed to like to be. It was their
country, not ours--and they were plucky, to choose it. So we passed on.
The slope brought us up to a wide moraine, I guess you'd call it, where
great bowlders were heaped as thick as pebbles--bowlders and blocks as
large as cottages. These had not looked to be much, either, from below.
On the edge of them we halted, to look down and behind again. Now we
were much higher. The ledge was small and far, and the timber was small
and farther, and the world was beginning to lie flat like a map. On the
level with us were only a few other peaks, in the snowy Medicine Range.
The pass itself was so low that we could scarcely make it out.
To cross that bowlder moraine was a terrific job. We climbed and
sprawled, and were now up, now down. It was a go-as-you-please.
Everywhere among the bowlders were whistling rock-rabbits, or conies.
They were about the size of small guinea-pigs, and had short tails and
round, flat bat ears plastered close to their heads. They had their
mouths crammed full of dried grass, which they carried into their nests
through crannies--putting away hay for the winter! It was mighty
cheerful to have them so busy and greeting us, away up in these lonely
heights, and Fitz got some more good animal pictures.
Apache was in great distress. He couldn't navigate those bowlders. We
could hear him "hee-hawing" on the lower edge, and could see him staring
after us and racing frantically back and forth. But we must go on; we
would pick him up on our way down.
Well, we got over the bowlder field--Fitz as spryly as any of us. Having
only one good arm made no difference to him, and he never would accept
help. He was independent, and we only kept an eye on him and let him
alone. The bowlders petered out; and now ahead was another slope, with
more snow patches, and short dead grass in little bunches; and it ended
in a bare outcrop: the top!
Our feet weighed twenty-five pounds each, our knees were wobbly, we
could hear each other pant, and my heart thumped so that the beats all
ran together. But with a cheer we toiled hard for the summit, before
resting. We didn't race--not at fourteen thousand feet; we weren't so
foolish--and I don't know who reached it first. Anyway, soon we all were
there.
We had climbed old Pilot Peak! The top was flat and warm and dry, so we
could sit. The sky was close above; around about was nothing but the
clear air. East, west, north and south, below us, were hills and valleys
and timber and parks and streams, with the cloud-shadows drifting
across. We didn't say one word. The right words didn't exist, somehow,
and what was the use in exclaiming when we all felt alike, and could
look and see for ourselves? You don't seem to amount to much when you
are up, like this, on a mountain, near the sky, with the world spread
out below and not missing you; and a boy's voice, or a man's, is about
the size of a cricket's chirp. The silence is one of the best things you
find. So we sat and looked and thought.
But on a sudden we did hear a noise--a rattling and "Hee-haw!" And here,
from a different side, came Apache again. He had got past those
bowlders, somehow. With another "Hee-haw!" he trotted right up on top,
in amidst us, where he stood, with a big sigh, looking around, too.
This was the chance for us to map out the country ahead, on the other
side of the pass. So we took a good long survey. It was a rough country,
as bad as that which we had left; with much timber and many hills and
valleys. Down in some of the valleys were yellow patches, like hay
ranches, and forty or fifty miles away seemed to be a little haze of
smoke, which must be a town: Green Valley, where we were bound! Hurrah!
But we hadn't got there, yet.
Major Henry made a rough sketch of the country, with Pilot Peak as base
point and a jagged, reddish tip, over toward the smoke, as another
landmark. Our course ought to be due west from Pilot, keeping to the
south of that reddish tip.
We had a little lunch, and after cleaning up after ourselves we saluted
the old peak with the Scouts' cheer, saying good-by to it; and then we
started down. We discovered that we could go around the bowlder-field,
as Apache had done. When we struck the snow-patch slope we obliqued over
to our trail up, and began to back track. Back-tracking was the safe
way, because we knew that this would bring us out. Down we went, with
long steps, almost flying, and leaving behind us the busy conies and the
tame ptarmigans, to inhabit the peak until we should come again. We
even tried not to tramp on the flowers. (Note 57.)
Through the maze of rock masses we threaded, and along the grassy ledge,
and entered the bush draw. By the sun it was noon, but we had plenty of
time, and we spread out in the draw, taking things easy and picking
berries. We didn't know but what we might come upon some grouse, in
here, too, for the trickle from that snow-bank drained through and there
was a bunch of aspens toward the bottom. But instead we came upon a
bear!
I heard Red Fox Scout Ward call, sharp and excited: "Look out, fellows!
Here's another bear!"
That stopped us short.
"Where?"
"Right in front of me! He's eating berries. And I see another,
too--sitting, looking at me."
"Wait!" called back Fitz, excited. "Let 'em alone. I'll get a picture."
That was just like Fitzpatrick. He wanted to take pictures of everything
alive.
"Yes; let 'em alone," warned Major Henry, shouting.
For that's all a bear in a berry-patch asks; to be let alone. He's
satisfied with the berries. In fact, all a bear asks, anyway, is to be
let alone, and up here on the mountain these bears weren't doing any
harm.
"Where are you?" called Fitz.
"On this rock."
Now we could see Scout Ward, with hand up; and over hustled Fitz, and
over we all hustled, from different directions.
They were not large bears. They looked like the little brown or black
bears, it was hard to tell which; but the small kind isn't dangerous.
They were across on the edge of a clearing, and were stripping the
bushes. Once in a while they would sit up and eye us, while slobbering
down the berries; then they would go to eating again.
Fitz had his camera unslung and taken down. He walked right out, toward
them, and snapped, but it wouldn't be a very good picture. They were too
far to show up plainly.
"I'll sneak around behind and drive them out," volunteered little Jed
Smith; and without waiting for orders he and Kit started, and we all
except Fitz spread out to help in the surround. Fitz made ready to take
them on the run. Nobody is afraid of the little brown or black bear.
Jed and Kit were just entering the bushes to make the circuit on their
side, when we heard Apache snorting and galloping, and a roar and a
"Whoof!" and out from the brush over there burst the burro, with another
bear chasing him. This was no little bear. It was a great big bear--an
old she cinnamon, and these others weren't the small brown or black
bears, either: they were half-grown cinnamon cubs!
How she came! Kit Carson and Jed Smith were right in her path.
"Look out!" we yelled.
Kit and little Jed leaped to dodge. She struck like a cat as she passed,
and head over heels went poor little Jed, sprawling in the brush, and
she passed on, straight to her cubs. They met her, and she smelled them
for a moment. She lifted her broad, short head, and snarled.
"Don't do a thing," ordered Major Henry. "She'll leave."
So we stood stock-still. That was all we _could_ do. We knew that poor
little Jed was lying perhaps badly wounded, off there in the brush, but
it wouldn't help to call the old bear's attention to him again. In the
open place Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand stood; he was right in front of the
old bear, and he was _taking pictures_!
The old bear saw him, and he and the camera seemed to make her mad.
Maybe she took it for a weapon. She lowered her head, swung it to and
fro, her bristles rose still higher, and across the open space she
started.
"Fitz!" we shrieked. And I said to myself, sort of crying: "Oh, jiminy!"
We all set up a tremendous yell, but that didn't turn her. Major Henry
jumped forward, and tugged to pull loose a stone. I looked for a stone
to throw. Of course I couldn't find one. Then out of the corner of my
eye, while I was watching Fitz, too, I glimpsed Red Fox Scout Van Sant
coming running, and shooting with his twenty-two. The bullets spatted
into the bear's hide, and stung her.
"Run, Fitz!" called Van Sant. "I'll stop her."
But he didn't, yet. Hardly! That Fitz had just been winding his film. He
took the camera from between his knees, where he had held it while he
used his one hand, and he leveled it like lightning, on the old
bear--and took her picture again. That picture won a prize, after we got
back to civilization. But the old bear kept coming.
We all were shouting, in vain,--shouting all kinds of things. Red Fox
Scout Van Sant sprang to Fitz's side, and again we heard him say: "Run,
Fitz! Over here. Make for the rock. I'll stop her."
It was the outcrop where Ward had been. Fitz jumped to make for it. He
hugged his camera as he ran. We thought that Van Sant would make for it,
too. But he let Fitz pass him, and he stood. The old bear was coming,
crazy. She only halted to scratch where a twenty-two pellet had stung
her hide. Van Sant waited, steady as a rock. He lifted his little rifle
slowly and held on her, and just as she was about to reach him he
fired.
"Crack!"
Headfirst she plunged. She kicked and ripped the ground, and didn't get
up again. She lay still, amidst a silence, we all watching, breathless.
Beyond, Fitzpatrick had closed his precious camera as he ran, and now at
the rock had turned.
"Shoot her again, Van!" begged Scout Ward.
"I can't," he answered. "That was my last cartridge. But she's dead. I
hit her in the eye." And he lowered his rifle.
Then we gave a great cheer, and rushed for the spot--except Major Henry;
he was the first to think and he rushed to see to little Jed Smith.
Fitzpatrick shook hands hard with Red Fox Scout Van Sant and followed
the major.
Yes, the old bear was stone dead. Van Sant had shot her through the eye,
into the brain. That was enough. Ward and I shook hands with him, too.
He had shown true Scouts' nerve, to sail in in that way, and to meet the
danger and to be steady under fire.
"Oh, well, I was the only one who could do anything," he explained. "I
knew it was my last cartridge and I had to make it count. That's all."
Then we hurried down to where the Major and Fitz and Kit Carson were
gathered about little Jed. Jed wasn't dead. No; we could see him move.
And Fitz called: "He's all right. But his shoulder's out and his leg is
torn."
Little Jed was pale but game. His right arm hung dangling and useless,
and his right calf was bloody. The whole arm hung dangling because the
shoulder was hurt; but it was not a fractured collarbone, for when we
had laid open Jed's shirt we could feel and see. The shoulder was out of
shape, and commencing to swell, and the arm hung lower than the well
arm. (Note 58.)
We let the wound of the calf go, for we must get at this dislocation,
before the shoulder was too sore and rigid. We knew what to do. Jed was
stretched on his back, Red Fox Scout Ward sat at his head, steadying him
around the body, and with his stockinged heel under Jed's armpit Major
Henry pulled down on the arm and shoved up against it with his heel at
the same time. That hurt. Jed turned very white, and let out a big
grunt--but we heard a fine snap, and we knew that the head of the
arm-bone had chucked back into the shoulder-socket where it belonged.
So that was over; and we were glad,--Jed especially. We bound his arm
with a handkerchief sling across to the other shoulder, to keep the
joint in place for a while, and we went at his leg.
The old bear's paw had cuffed him on the shoulder and then must have
slipped down and landed on his calf as he sprawled. The boot-top had
been ripped open and the claws had cut through into the flesh, tearing a
set of furrows. It was a bad-looking wound and was bleeding like
everything. But the blood was just the ordinary oozy kind, and so we let
it come, to clean the wound well. Then we laid some sterilized gauze
from our first-aid outfit upon it, to help clot the blood, and sifted
borax over, and bound it tight with adhesive plaster, holding the edges
of the furrows together. Over that we bound on loosely a dry pack of
other gauze.
We left Jed (who was pale but thankful) with Red Fox Scout Ward and went
up to the bear. Kit Carson wanted to see her. She was still dead, and
off on the edge of the brush her two cubs were sniffing in her
direction, wondering and trying to find out.
Yes, that had been a nervy stand made by Scout Van Sant, and a good
shot. Fitzpatrick reached across and shook his hand again.
"I don't know whether I stopped to thank you, but it's worth doing
twice. I'm much obliged."
"Don't mention it," laughed Van Sant.
Then we all laughed. That was better. There isn't much that can be said,
when you feel a whole lot. But you _know_, just the same. And we all
were Scouts.
Somehow, the big limp body of the old mother bear now made us sober. We
hadn't intended to kill her, and of course she was only protecting her
cubs. It wasn't our mountain; and it wasn't our berry-patch. She had
discovered it first. We had intruded on her, not she on us. It all was
a misunderstanding.
So we didn't gloat over her, or kick her, or sit upon her, now that she
could not defend herself. But we must do some quick thinking.
"Kit Carson, you and Bridger catch Apache," ordered Major Henry. "Fitz
and I will help Scout Van Sant skin his bear."
"She's not my bear," said Scout Van Sant. "I won't take her. She belongs
to all of us."
"Well," continued Major Henry, "it's a pity just to let her lie and to
waste her. We can use the meat."
"The pelt's no good, is it?" asked Fitz.
"Not much, in the summer. But we'll take it off, and put the meat in it,
to carry."
They set to work. Kit Carson and I started after the burro. He had run
off, up the mountain again, and we couldn't catch him. He was too
nervous. We'd get close to him, and with a snort and a toss of his ears
he would jump away and fool us. That was very aggravating.
"If we only had a rope we could rope him," said Kit. But we didn't.
There was no profit in chasing a burro all over a mountain, and so, hot
and tired, we went back and reported.
The old bear had been skinned and butchered, after a fashion. The head
was left on the hide, for the brains. At first Major Henry talked of
sending down to camp for a blanket and making a litter out of it. We
would have hard work to carry Jed in our arms. But Jed was weak and sick
and didn't want to wait for the blanket. Apache would have been a big
help, only he was so foolish. But we had a scheme. Scouts always manage.
(Note 59.)
We made a litter of the bear-pelt! Down we scurried to the aspens and
found two dead sticks. We stuck one through holes in the pelt's fore
legs, and one through holes in the pelt's hind legs, and tied the legs
about with cord. We set little Jed in the hair side, facing the bear's
head, turned back over; the Major, the two Red Fox Scouts, and Kit
Carson took each an end of the sticks; Fitzpatrick and I carried the
meat, stuck on sticks, over our shoulders; and in a procession like
cave-men or trappers returning from a hunt we descended the mountain,
leaving death and blood where we had intended to leave only peace as we
had found it.
Apache made a big circuit to follow us. The two cubs sneaked forward, to
sniff at the bones where their mother had been cut up--and began to eat
her. We were glad to know that they did not feel badly yet, and that
they were old enough to take care of themselves.
But as we stumbled and tugged, carrying wounded Jed down the draw, we
knew plainly that we ought to have let that mountain alone.
[Illustration: "LIKE CAVE-MEN OR TRAPPERS RETURNING FROM A HUNT WE
DESCENDED."]